#I was like ‘so I deserve to be bombarded with hate comments for my art style?’ and they told me to get a different style.

[poppyseed799]

Just remembered I technically have a Reddit account, cuz one time someone posted an art I made onto r/fnafcringe and I got a lot of hate for it, so I felt the need to make a throwaway account to defend myself cuz I was like 14 or something. idk if anyone responded to whatever I said cuz I never touched the account again after posting my response. I don’t remember the username or password.

#that was a very interesting event in my life that taught me a lot about hate #wanna know what I drew that was soo bad it had to be put on r/fnafcringe? shadow freddy with some disappearing purple glue sticks. #because I saw disappearing purple glue sticks and said ‘disappearing and purple? like shadow freddy!’ #and the caption the redditor put for it? ‘because EVERYTHING has to be about fnaf’ (sarcastic) #it was so stupid that I was getting bombarded with hate comments for it. to the point I started calling haters Glue Lovers. bc they can’t #stand fnaf fans ruining their precious glue sticks. #anyways! here’s what I noticed about all of this which I took as a lesson that u should never listen to haters! #almost every single person that left a hate comment on it thx to that Reddit post had nazi stuff on their profile #whether it was the pfp or username or the bio. every. single. one. was a nazi. #EXCEPT ONE PERSON #who was a real fnaf fan and didn’t have anything sus on their profile. so I asked them genuinely with sad eyes why they were so offended by #my art of shadow Freddy with some glue. they seemed to stumble on everything a bit cuz it was genuinely really harmless what I was doing and #you wanna know how they eventually decided to justify themselves for the hate? (cuz yes they couldn’t just accept that I didn’t deserve it) #by saying ‘you have to admit the art was pretty bad’ #like bro. what. #I was like ‘so I deserve to be bombarded with hate comments for my art style?’ and they told me to get a different style. #I didn’t tho. blocky art 4 life. #another thing that happened during this experience was that I cried. #but what was important was that I never cried from what the haters said #but instead I cried from what my FANS said. every time I saw someone defend me I cried. #so what I learned from that whole experience is that haters are stupid and usually nazis and you shouldn’t listen to them and the people who #support you are far more important to listen to.

[sastrugie]

john entwistle biography review

ok so first: I didnt really like the biography because I thought it would focus on totally different aspects. John was a musical virtuoso and that hardly ever gets mentioned in the book. But we get exact axccounts on how much money he spent on what day and in which pub he bought which champagne. like wow thanks. The other personal stuff is basic who knowledge you can read in any other Who biography. His autobiographical bits were joy and fun! Maybe the only reason to buy the book in my opinion. He writes totally different than the author...

ANYWAYS: here my fav facts from the book that you probably didnt know before

this is the face of a man who -when his father gave him driving lessons for his 21st birthday as a present- decided driving wasnt really his thing and he spent the money on clothes and parties instead. He never had a drivers license ever and also never desired to have one 

the hospital he was born in, was bombarded and destructed one day after his birth

as a child he was really weak and thin and had basically every disease that existed

his family was poor af

his father left the family early and held contact with his son, but soon disappeared with a new family

his stepdad, Gordon, disliked John alot and would ignore him, hated everything John did or said and he let his bad moods out on Johns mother, which caused John to be very silent and observative around the house so that there wouldnt be any trouble

he did everything to please Queenie (his mom) so that there was no fighting, according to Alison

loved drawing and playing but usually alone since he had no friends apart from their dog

he heard a trumpet solo once from a trad jazz band when he was 6 or so and decided he wanted to learn the trumpet

my fav line of the book probably: “despite his own expectations, he passed the exams to go to grammar school” like same

at school he was bullied from the older boys but soon left alone by them because he would fight back with badass comments 

he applied for the school band for the trumpet but the tallest guy in the year was chosen (he was the 2nd tallest)  which made John mad, but he discovered the french horn

soon he found a friend, mickey brown, at last and he gave him the nickname “ent”

he was so terrible in P.E that he was dismissed with other pupils to play somehwere else, they were called “the hockey misfits” and guess who was among them: Pete Townshend.

yeah as you might know they became besties because they loved music and black humour.

he found himself a gf (alison) and Pete & a school gang (like 4 ppl) and his life seemed to finally get where it should.

his worst subjects were geography and german like wow (im a german geography student lmao)

once they played in a pub and johns stepdad was there and was super angry and gave john a list with his fav pubs and told him “these are the places I never want to hear your fucking music playing”.

after walking home pete decided to switch the guitar and john wanted to become a musician more than ever

Roger found him and John kind of convinced him (it took months apparently) to get Pete into the band and then it all started

he judged the beatles because John Lennons harmonica was “out of tune” in love me do, wow ok you nerd

john started smoking with 20 and was the last one to quit his job for the band and he was against drugs at first (bc he had a “civilized” job) but then decided to give a shit, dyed his hair black, bought cigarettes, smoked dope with pete and did speed too

he wanted to step out of himself and feel good about himself and he was always a fashionnerd so he started buying and trading and selling clothes (he once was dismissed from school bc he wore the school uniform incorrectly)

with 18 or so he was still living at home, had a toy soldier collection and a pet budgie

pete and his college friends made fun of john bc he wasnt a student and still lived at home, although john could have gone to college too and he wanted to, but his stepdad again said no and he had no choice.

he was very awkward and introverted but could open up with his music 

he was really into pop art (esp pop art clothes)

was a pseudo mod bc he only liked the fancy clothes and motown music

with the who he found a purpose in his life and finally could be different than ordinary ppl

hated when people touched his hair, he literally hated it

would fuss much about his hair in general

once after a concert they were starving and the room service was alreday home so they had to look on used plates and food wagons and John found a shrimp and said: “who wants to dine with me tonight?” (idk that really made me laugh)

keith moon was john entwistles soulmate and they were the cutest, most iconic and funniest duo ever end of discussion

his amps would soon be called little manhatten bc he had so many bc he wanted to be loud

he actually went to sing at church once when he was like 24 and the band made fun of him then he stopped

in the late 60s he bought a house with alison in a normal neighbourhood and went walking the dogs on sundays and stuff

but he was a party animal and always the last to go

he was really sensitive and cried often according to Alison but only in front of certain people

he would totally step out of his way to please people

when they played at the monterey pop festival they didnt bring their own amps along and john was furious bc he said the american amps are shit and kit was like “no” and john didnt talk to him for the whole festival until their perfomance was over and they had sounded like shit to tell kit “I TOLD YOU SO” thats how extra he was

when he got money he would spend it bc he was so used to being poor that he thought it wouldnt last long and he had to enjoy it NOW

he was always calm and everyone respected him and kit told a story where he entered the room and roger was at keiths throat and and pete was screaming something and john was sitting in the corner cleaning his nails. thats who energy

liked to dance at parties

his fav drink was rémy cognac with 40% and he would drink like 1 bottle alone everyday in his later years...wow dude

he was also gentlemanTM and once paid taxis for girls from london to brighton after a party

once at a wedding the free drinks were out and John just gave the barkeeper his creditcard and said he will pay for all the drinks of the night for everyone (it wasnt his wedding)

Roger once said: “John made smartass comments that deserved a punch in the face” sounds like him yes

he didnt really care about money and always wanted to pay and never told anyone how much things had cost and brought gifts for everyone

soon that ended in a shopping addiction tho and he bought ridiculous things for ridiculous amounts of money

when the who was inactive he sank into depression :(

held the band together during who by numbers & who are you

wrote and played all the quadrophenia horn parts himself

never lost his passion for art and always drawed alot, said Alison

cried when Christopher was born aww

once he saw their manager in an art museum and how he wanted to buy a painting but couldnt afford it, so John bought it secretly and shipped it to said managers home as a gift

We all know John was a huge collector. His most treasured collection was .. wait for it: teapots.

he tried to save Keith from being arrested once and ended up being arrested too lol

wanted to write a scifi concept album but desorted the idea and gave some songs to the who (905) or Pete

was a good cook apparently

When he gave a hug HE was the one who decided when to let go sdfghjk

hated confrontation and would hire other people to tell someone bad news

he spent so much money on dumb shit like wtf

but didnt really care either

probably the master in picking up and seducing girls

he let his stepdad live in the quarwood mansion when he wasnt there but Gordon was still an asshole wtf

the contact to his real dad was really sporadic

when the who ended, it hit him really hard and he didnt know what to do besides partying and buying stuff/hording stuff

was very insecure and selfconscious in the 80s according to Maxene :(

he actually took pete breaking up the who really personal and was sad 24/7

was that kind of guy that said bad stuff about the who but when you said bad stuff he would try to kill you on spot

with cocaine he felt really confident and still like the 60s/70s rockstar he once was but he didnt understand that these times were over and he needed to move on

sometimes went into random pubs with friends and made jam sessions for the guests

he still was generous and loving until he died and tried to play with other bands but it was not the same

he really liked Kenney and hung out with him more than with his wife at some point lmao

was a total giver and people who worked at quarwood would steal money from him but when someone pointed that out he got angry with that person for even suggesting that

was a real softieee (and a huge nerd)

all his friends said that he was shy at first but once you got to know him he would come totally out of himself, was very funny, loved to tell stories, was very very loyal and would try evertyhing to make you laugh aww

all in all a glorious story with a sad ending and he did destroy himself completely, but lets remember that Pete Townshend described old John still as "wonderful, mature and elegant” so lets cling on to that :)

#the who #John Entwistle #band #literature #the ox #mine #pete and rog didnt participate in the bio maybe thats why its hit #*shit #not hit #also you can see: no info about his musical inspiration or werdegang #can not recommend #althought this post might look fun these are the filtered cool stories from like 330 pages #classic rock

[zeciex]

Obsidian & Angelite Chapter 16 Part II

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, smut, penetrative sex, creampie 

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link

Oya had returned to the library the moment Gallant had finished his interview. As soon as he stepped in he was bombarded with endless questions to which he all explained the basic rules for the interview and some of the questions. Apparently, Michael had struck quite a nerve, Gallant seemed positively distort, unsure what to do with himself until he found the way to mask his exposed soul with what he did best. He began speaking of the sexual tension, how Michael had made a hit on his… ‘gay-dar’ or whatever he called it, to where Coco began to prompt that he couldn’t possibly be gay if anything he was bi.

By then Oya had lost interest in the direct conversation and instead seethered in her own sexual frustration and blatant jealousy. In this expiration she walked with intent through the halls, her purple skirts basking around her as she stormed up the steps, only to halt when she saw two hunched over shadows tip through the hall.

The anger evaporated and turned into curiosity. She stepped behind a pillar, hidden from the two teenagers clearly lurking eyes. They snuck into what she expected to be Michael's room, closing the door after them. So they were spying on him… It was laughable with the knowledge she held. If they found anything it wasn’t my mistake, it was with full intent.

He’d been here for a day and there was already anarchy in the air. Oya made a face between impressed and glee before continuing on her way, a little less angry than before. This was going to be fun.

The teens weren’t the only ones that had been up to mischief or so it would seem when the day after Oya watched Gallant be dragged away in his undies with a bothered expression upon his face that was slightly concerning given the severity of the action. Whatever he had done he looked pleased with himself and Oya could only imagine what’d he’d been up to. Which she did with a frown on her face.

Alas, she breathed out to calm herself and rolled her neck again before passing through the hall to her room.

It wasn’t before Oya was sitting in the library ignoring the stupid conversation between what Coco labelled the other team as the old people and her own team of ‘youths’ over who had it the hardest, that she was to see Gallant again. This time there was something unhinged in the way he held himself, eyes distant and still there with obscure anger. She leaned forward and sipped at the water waiting to watch the show unfold.

If she weren’t the goddess of the underworld she’d be the goddess of chaos, strife and mischief.

Evie stopped fanning herself, eyes widening at the sight of her grandson. The air shifted to one more tense and severe, with everyone but her holding their breaths waiting for what was to come. Gallant picked up a glass of sparkling water with a childish pout on his lips.

He breathed out harshly before speaking. “Surprised to see me breathing, Nana?” Now his eyes were set ablaze, his anger unquenchable. “They usually shoot people for fucking...or,” He made a face at his ‘Nana’ looking mildly manic. “Did you not remember that when you turned me in?”

Evie smiled at her grandson, though there was no love there, indifferently shaking her head. “No hard feelings, darling. I wanna live and the only way to achieve that is to get rid of these 10 little Indians who stand between me and the golden ticket out of here.”

“Umm, we’re sitting right here,” Coco intervened offended.

“I knew you were a bitch but I underestimated how big of a bitch you were…” Oya commented earning an agreeable ‘Yeah!’ from Coco and Dinah. In all honesty, she didn’t know whether to be impressed or not by how cunning Evie really was. She set her own grandson up, watched as he’d fall and find his death to be entirely justifiable. If it weren't for how much Oya hated Evie she’d think there’d be a slight chance of her joining the Sanctuary.

“It is not my fault you can’t control carnal urges,” Evie threw at her flesh and blood, trying to justify her behaviour. This was the signal, it was kill or be killed. This was battle royal, what would you do to survive?

“YOU have LIVED!” Gallant shouted pointing violently at his grandmother. “I haven't.”

“Oh yes, you have! You have crammed 10 lifetimes of failures and screw-ups into your 30 years!” Evie rose to challenge Gallant with her own raised voice. Call it a byproduct of having been locked up with them for a year but Oya felt a pang of sympathy for the man who was standing up to his bitch of a grandmother. She wondered if he’d smash the glass on the table and jab it into her wrinkly neck. Gallant wasn’t bad, he was lost and had always been.

Where Michael might have been cruel or indifferent, Oya could be much softer, it all depended on the person.

“Am I the only one who makes mistakes?” Gallant blatantly asked to the room, holding his hands up. “Hmm?”

“No, but I’m always the one that has to clean up after you. Let me see 3 expensive rehabs on my dime, fancy lawyers to keep you out of prison. When your grandfather rejected you because of your perverted lifestyle-,”

“Gay’s have been around much longer than you’re propaganda history books tell you so shove that ‘perverted lifestyle’ up your cobweb cunt,” Oya defended with deep annoyance. She always did hate how humans disenfranchised everything they didn’t perceive as natural and made it so it was permanent, especially when it came to sexuality when it is so clearly fluid and more nuanced than black and white. They did the same with cultures and skin colours, and she had seen it all with her own eyes.

“As I was saying,” Evie dismissed Oya’s comment with a scoff. “ your ‘perverted lifestyle’ I took you in! And what did I get back?” Gallant turned away from her attack, swallowing the water with clear discomfort. “Yes, you went and you bankrupted 2 salons and then you snorted the third one up your nose.”

Evie turned to the room not a hint of regret on her face. “I deserve to live. I am the bridge between the past and the future. I mean when those poor survivors arrive what do they know about culture and music, and art? And I will be there to tell them all about it.”

“You’re a rich old white hag 99% of your ‘culture’ is stolen,” Oya mumbled under her breath catching an approving glimpse of Dinah.

“One lifetime of me is worth 50 of yours! Humanity may be in a sorry state,” she stared Gallant up and down with a diminishing look. “It deserves better than you.”

With a shaky breath, Gallant drew in a breath before speaking. “I should have put you in that motion picture home years ago. The only thing I ever wanted from you was for you to love me and accept me. Why couldn’t you just give me that?”

“Sorry, darling, it’s just not in my nature,” she spoke without regret. It was like watching a painting fading, the colours drained out of Gallant with his last hope of love. Evie patted her grandson on the cheek before leaving, knowing she had devastated him.

What she didn’t think were that with every last hope of love stripped away, with the betrayal and disappointment she had caused her grandson, she had also made an adequate enemy. Gallant was now a hairpin trigger and she had a target on her back. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge and knowing Michael, he’d see to that it’d happen.

Disappointment and betrayal make the perfect enemy. In Evie's desperation for survival, she may very well have caused her own downfall.

“Well it's a good thing you convinced me to bring your nana,” Coco commented with no feel for the tension in the room. Either that or she didn’t care. Gallant ended up falling to the cushions between Oya and Coco who so rudely rose up biting that he should sit on the other couch. He sank until his head rested against the back of the couch, eyes empty and breath still.

“I didn’t know you were gay,” Coco spoke loudly and looked at Oya.

“I’m not,” she shrugged. “Sexuality is fluid. I’m not gay or straight, I’m just…” Oya made a hand gesture that was meant to mean ‘something’. A headache was forming just behind her eyes making her pinch the bridge of her nose frowning.

“That’s a shame,” Coco blabbers.

“Why?”

“Because that means you’d be willing to fuck your way into the Sanctuary.”

She isn't wrong on that one. Oya doubted that if it stood between fucking for survival and death that anyone would choose to fuck regardless of their preferences. It was just funny how Coco thought she’d stand a chance when Michael so clearly wasn’t interested in anything more than playing cat and mouse.

But the statement brought back the nib of jealousy and possessiveness both of which were irrational and if Michael were to know of it there’d be endless teasing.

“We can count Gallant out, he already tried it.”

“He’s right there and he still breathes,” Dinah commented at the distasteful words. “I’d say he’s ahead of all of us.”

“He’s the only one who’s been interviewed,” Coco barked in her usual tone of voice. “It’ll all change when the rest of us is called in. Gallant can’t be the only one Langdon chooses and he most definitely will not be on the radar if I get my chance.”

“We don’t know if it was Langdon he fucked,” Oya injected. Coco waved her hand dismissively before striking up a less intelligent conversation with Mallory. In sympathy, Oya patted Gallant on the head before leaving.

Whomever Gallant fucked remained a mystery, though Oya had her suspicions, much clearer than her co-inhabitants, but Gallant proved not to be the only one who let the desire run wild.

Through Mallory, she found out that Timothy and Emily had both been dragged away by Venables henchmen followed by the ruler herself. Their salvation came in the form of Michael who shaved them from the bullets that were going to be planted in between their eyes. Why Michael choose to save them remained a mystery but she had the suspicion that he was setting up something bigger and if anything he was just toying with them.

Soon others were called into Michael’s appointed office Oya awaited her call in the library sitting among the other residents awaiting the news of each person's interview.

There was an unease creeping under her skin, her heart beating faster each time a resident entered the room. Each had a different reaction to the interview, Mallory being the one that seemed the most jarred, while others came back sexually frustrated.

“Oya Jeon,” the voice travelled from behind the slide doors, sending a shiver down her spine and straining her heart. She drew in a deep breath and entered the room with her back held straight and head held high, hands calmly connected in front of her.

He was sitting behind the desk, eyes studying papers that couldn’t possibly be hers with disinterested eyes and waved his hand as he spoke to motion her towards the chairs. “Please take a seat.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Oya spoke cooly, feeling the wave of emotion collide with her body. The anger was the most prominent feeling and the one easiest explained. When it burned hot it burned blinding hot and at this moment she settled for anger and pushed any other feeling away.

Michael looked up through his lashes, blue eyes catching the orange flicker and darkening. Oya listened to the doors being closed behind her. The trap snapped shot. She masked herself perfectly with a cool expression one to rival his own. Then a Cheshire smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, eyes swallowed up by his pupils. Slowly he stood, body stretching out before her and suddenly it was as if she was seeing him for the first time in… well, a year. The hair had grown well past his collar, all the way down to his collarbone, with soft waves that fell down around his face. He looked older somehow, his features sharper and eyes more calculating. With a predatory stalk, he walked nonchalantly towards her.

“Stop.” Her voice was firm. She glanced towards the door with a lingering question.

“No,” Michael spoke with a charming drawl. “They can’t hear us.”

Her eyes turned towards him once more, eyes burning holes in him. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling fire, the orange flames licking at the air and sending waves of warmth out into the otherwise cold room. There wasn’t a way to be sure if the room would have frozen over or been set ablaze had it not been for her powers being locked away.

Michael raised a brow at her.

“You lied to me,” she broke the silence, voice stern and unflinching. “You left me here with these people! Do you have any clue as to how fucking excruciating it’s been? And for what? For spying on them?” Her voice began to waver and it broke towards the end when Michael took a single elaborate step towards her. She held her hand up and stepped back. “Stop.”

Michael’s head fell to the side, eyes eating up every micro-expression she made and caught on to when her voice wavered with emotion. He remained silent and she wasn’t really sure as to why.

“That old hag Evie is quite possibly the most insufferable person I’ve ever met, Coco is impossibly shallow and superficial and I’m not sure if the obnoxiousness is to hide something else. Then there’s Gallant whom I’m pretty sure you’ve got all figured out by now. Dinah is elusive but quite possibly the one candidate to put a bet on. Mallory is the only interesting grey solely because her whole character seems to make herself impossibly small all the while glimpses of something else shines through. Dinah’s son is just whiny and annoying. Then there’s your choice to lead this outpost!” Her voice grew louder as she was allowed to revel in the fire of her anger, letting it all out in angry sneers and elaborate arm movements ending in aggressive pointing. Michael allowed all of it. He didn’t stop her, never attempted to. “Mrs. Venable… Why do I continue? You already know all of this, you already made up your mind about them.”

Oya was breathing heavy, eyes wild and bitter. She could feel the confining embrace of the corset straining at her ribs and thereby her lungs. With each breath she took the shadows dug into the skin of her shoulders, edging out her collarbones that had become more prominent at the lack of proper food. The fire dimmed, if only a little, quenched by the feeling of hurt.

“You abandoned me here with them,” she expressed and swung her palm through the air, the sound of it smacking against skin ricocheting through the room before the stinging set in. There was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes, an entertained tug to the corner of his lips before he brushed it away with a swipe of his thumb. His cheek burned red and so did her hand. He pressed forward and Oya took another step back swinging the other hand only for it to get caught in a firm grip. Weakly she tried to pull it to her but Michael refused to let go, his grip as iron and yet without the promise of a nasty bruise. Oya spoke again with a wavering voice trying to retain the flicker of rage that had started to slip away. “I-I thought something had happened. I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Michael countered, eyes never leaving hers, ever-changing. At this she was speechless, gaping at him with wide eyes. No? What does he mean ‘no’?

“No? No?!” She pulled her arm to her and almost stumbled when he let go.

Her eyes caught the sight of his tongue darting out to wetten his lips before he spoke again. “If I were dead you’d know.” He began stalking towards her. With each step he took, she took one backwards.

She would have thrown poison at him, spoken with violence that maybe it would have been better if he were dead because then he had an excuse to abandon her here. Instead opened and closed her hand, palm still stinging from her attack but also with a need to be swung once more. With clenched jaws and a pointed glare she spoke. “Tell me, Michael, did you fuck him?”

His lips parted to draw in a breath, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in the most wicked way all the while his eyes drowned in mischief. His head tilted a little before he purred. “Would it bother you if I did?”

The question hummed inside her mind, tickled and grew. With another step backwards she felt the wall stop any attempt of retreat, efficiently trapping her between it and him. Michael only stopped when the tip of his pointed boots touched the skirt of her dress, all too close for her liking and not close enough. Oya realised something when she searched his eyes, read his face, almost leaned into his presence and the warmth he radiated. He was like a playful cat but far more dangerous.

The realisation was quick, the humming inside her mind stilled and soothed the sliver of jealousy that had set root within her by the lusting humans that wanted nothing more than to sink their teeth into him. It should be them that was afraid if Michael were to sink his fangs into them. But it wouldn’t of one very simple reason, it’d give them exactly what they want and there’d be no satisfaction in that. He wouldn’t just let anyone touch him. Even though Michael were the embodiment of sensuality he found no interest in sex, not with anyone but her. Sensuality was a weapon turned towards everyone else.

“No,” she drawled just like he so often did. He pursed his lips tilting his head to the other side. “You could fuck him -you could fuck any of them if you so desire.” Michael blinked at her intrigued. “But you won’t… and even if you did, I know I’m the only one you’d ever find ease with.”

“Have you thought about it a lot?” His voice was a low rumbling thunder that sends electricity throughout her system. Then she felt it, a tug at her skirt that ever so slowly hitched higher. Never did his eyes leave hers.

Her heart drummed against her fragile ribs, adrenaline spiking her system and enhancing her senses. His scent engulfed her, the familiar spice pricking at at her tongue that made her mouth water. Her red lips were parted, soft breaths filling her lungs. More than ever before were the restraints of the corset present, she felt that with each breath she filled out the confined only to feel it loosen when it left her again. She was wet, she’d lie if she said she wasn’t wet the moment she stepped into the room but now the ache became more prominent.

It had been 18 months since she was last touched, her body ached and longed for his touch, it would revel in it. For 18 months she had tried to subdue the growing want for him.

“Tell me, Love,” he purred, hitching her skirt up higher. Even though the Victorian knickers she felt the heat of his fingers burning through the fabric. The first touch was light as air, trailing up her thigh ever so slowly.

“I-I’ve been here for 18 months, of course, I’ve thought about it,” she stammered wrapping her fingers around his scorching wrist forcing him to stop. It was getting increasingly harder to think, to keep up all the pent up rage she had been building. The castle of anger she had built around herself came tumbling down with one blow from the big bad wolf.

“All those long nights,” he continued voice lowering. His hand began to move again and she felt herself weaken her grip. “Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathed licking her lips while his eyes darted to his.

“Did you think of me?”

“Yes.” Her knees felt weak as if they could give in any moment. Fire burned on her skin, his fingers leaving a trail up her thigh, slowly inching towards where she needed him the most. He was playing with her but unlike the other inhabitants, she was the only one to taste victory. He could leave her, just stop all of it and it would be entirely within his character, it’d be cruel and merciless, but it would also make for great sex later on.

But the thing was, she wasn’t the only one who had gone without the touch of someone else. She wasn’t the only one who felt the desire burn through her veins. And by far she wasn’t the only one affected by the presence of the other.

Michael’s pupils were dilated, blown out of proportions and swallowing up the blue of his gaze. Even though his breathing was normal he felt the air strain in his lungs. When she let him go completely he let his fingers travel to her mount and watched as her head fell back against the wall, lips parted in a silent breath and eyes fluttering. He marvelled at the sight of her, the shimmer of her lips, the flush colour building under her skin, her black eyes reflecting the fire. Under his touch she pushed her hips forward greedy for more, it made a chuckle form in the back of his throat.

“Did you miss me?” The question was light but it was like having thrown a bucket of water over you. Oya stilled, body tense and heart galloping all the while skipping beats. It felt as if she would surrender her anger to him, forfeit the grudge that had been building up in her, to give him her bitterness of being lied to and left for what felt like an eternity. Honestly, she’d have taken her little plot of land in Korea over this outpost any day.

“I can’t forgive you,” she began quietly. She reached for him, cubing his cheek and felt that he leaned into her touch just a little. “And I will make you pay for it.” She licked her lips before continuing, eyes softening with affection. “But I did miss you.”

“I’m sure you’ll make me pay in all sort of ways,” he rumbled pressing into her.

Their lips met briefly, her lips chasing his only to part in a low moan as his fingers circled her clit. The fabric stuck to her uncomfortably, cool everywhere but where his fingers touched. The ache pulsated between her legs, begging for her to just spread them right then and there so he could get between them.

“You’ve been playing a lot of games,” she purred, fingers hooking into the smooth fabric of his jacket, pulling him to her. “It’s been very entertaining to watch unfold.”

“There’s more to come,” he said, lips brushing over her jaw, nibbling at the skin of her neck. His fingers travelled downwards, pushing shallowly into her. She could have unravelled right then and there, it had been long since she came finding it difficult to bring herself to the edge and over.

Michael removed his hand, the skirt falling to the floor now that nothing was blocking it. Oya almost broke out in protest, no not protest more like sobs. A whine managed to escape her quickly shut lips. Michael merely grins at her, taking her hand and guided her through the room. With one tug she swung around, hands harshly placed on the wooden desk in an attempt not to fall straight on her face. Her nails scrapped over the wood when she balled her hands into fists, biting her lips as the skirts were thrown up over her ass, his hands gripping at her hips.

Michael knocked at her heels in a silent order, making her spread her legs more. Then she felt it, his large hand going from her hip to run down her ass, gripping it tightly. She held back a moan, melting further into the stance. Once, twice, thrice he ran his hand up and down her ass feeling her up before his fingers brushed against the wet cloth.

“Have you thought of me?” She found herself asking before she could stop the words from spilling out through her lips. With her back turned to him she didn’t see how his head fell back, bottom lip caught viciously between his teeth, but she did hear the ragged breath he took before answering.

“Yes.”

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No,” he answered. Confusion made its way onto her face, fisted hands turning into flat palms. She didn’t know whether to take offence or not. Or maybe she should be impressed by his restraint. She herself couldn’t exhibit the same level of it. He did have a lot to do after the end of the world, maybe the time wasn't there. But by god the vision of Michael’s firm and slender fingers wrapped around his cock with the look of desire plastered all over his face, with his perfect lips parted in soft gasps, eyes sultry and half-lidded.

“Oh?”

“I would much rather wait,” he drawled. The air hit her hot wet core as soon as the fabric was tugged down. In the candlelight, she must be glistening. He ran his palm over her mount, fingers wrapping around her swollen clit and pinched. A feeble weak sound escaped her throat, knees buckling a little. Michael dipped a finger into her and curled it, her walls beckoned him further, convulsing around him trying to get more stimulation. Then he added another finger and began to scissor them, each brush drawing out hitched breaths from her, arms beginning to tremble.

The other hand that remained placed on her hip pulled her backwards all the while bending her further over the table. If anyone walked in there would be no doubt as to what was going on with Oya lying bend over the desk, legs parted and ass bare to the world. When he moved his thumb to her clit she let out a moan, feeling just how slick she really was.

With little shame she pushed herself back onto his fingers, efficiently fucking herself. The feeling almost brought tears to her eyes. “Fuck,” she breathed.

For a moment Michael admired the view, the sight of his finger slipping in and out of her pussy with a frivolous need. He swallowed at the sight before adding a third finger, stretching her out further. “It’s almost pathetic your need to be fucked, it’s so human.”

“And you made me this way,” she bit back at him, eyes fluttering when he twisted his fingers while pushed at her clit almost too hard. “Fuck, Michael. Please, I’m ready.”

His fingers left her, her walls clenching around the emptiness. She imagined he’d use her juices to cover himself, pumping his fist a few times before gliding the head of his cock up and down her folds. The feeling was enough to make her mewl. In one upstroke, he caught on her opening and shallowly dipped in making both of them hitch their breaths in unison.

She couldn’t take the anticipation any longer and caved. “Please, Jagi-ya .”

Michael pressed into in one slow fluid motion. His fingers dug into her hips with steel and iron, without a doubt leaving bruises there for later inspection. Oya couldn’t withhold the moan that tore through her throat, nails digging into the wood as Michael pulled out and re-entered with a harder thrust. She could hear it, the low grumble from deep within his chest making its way up through his throat.

“If it wasn’t because you have to remain in the shadows, I’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk,” he grunted speeding up. With each thrust came a wave of pleasure. The feeling brought tears to her eyes, the delicious stretch and the full feeling better than she had imagined for months now. His words almost made her cum right then and there.

“I’m su-sure,” she agreed. For a moment she was afraid that cumming once would be enough after having repressed the aching need for weeks now. Not even when she was bound in Korea would there have gone as much time by before she had to satisfy herself. Then a savage smirk formed on her lips and she clenched around him as much as she possibly could, almost breaking her trail of thought. “But when all this is over it -it is you who won’t be able to walk. I’ll turn your b-bones into that gross jelly they feed us here. S-see what world you’d build when you’re bound to the f-ucking bed, Jagi-ya .” The last word was said in an extra sweet tone.

Michaels strong hand wrapped tightly around her throat, forcing her backwards to him. Her back was arched. The grip was tight enough to make her feel her own pulse but not tight enough to do any form of damage. His breath was in her ear, lips grazing over the shell of her ear. She could hear the smirk in his voice. “I could make you go out there with cum leaking out of you.” He snapped his hips to her making her eyes roll back in pleasure. “Or maybe have your breath smell of cum.” His grip tightened as he snapped his hips to hers, the lewd sound of flesh hitting flesh filling her ears with a low hum of her own pulse. “But I can be nice.” Now his voice was dripping with sweet sweet poison. “So very nice.” She could feel herself clench around him, the wave of hot white pleasure washing over her with vengeance. One hand found its way from the desk to Michael’s fine jacket, clutching the fabric violently as her breath was caught in her lungs. “I’ll let you choose.”

“C-come inside me,” she croaked out, voice dampened by his tight fingers. She heard him take a strained deep breath, she could almost feel him bite his lip and he tried to concentrate.

“How lascivious of you, Love,” Michael moaned thrusting into her one last time, burying himself deep before spreading his seed. The warmth was familiar, it was strangely obscene, but it felt… missed. She didn’t know whether it was him buried deep within her or the feeling of his seed she missed, most likely the former. Michael released his grip on her, Oya falling forward with a relieved breath, hands firmly planted on the desk’s cool surface. She felt him withdrawal, felt the movement of his seed.

Oya swallowed before letting out a breath, slowly beginning to redress herself, putting on the Victorian knickers that she’d have to wash herself to remove the cum stains guaranteed to happen. Cum stains she could handle, what she couldn’t handle was her breath smelling of it when she was to face the other inhabitants.

“You’re enjoying the humiliation of me going out there, asshole,” she said lightly with a faint smile on her face. Of course, he did, he enjoyed toying with people and she was no different, though with his way of toying with her were only between the two of them. The embarrassment came from both of them knowing.

Michael tugged up his pants, fixing the slick fabric to a point where it looked utterly perfect, while she fought with the barbaric ruffles of her dress to make it sit properly. He had the devil on his shoulder, that’s how he managed to look completely perfect while she lacked her own little devil. He was cheating . With a huff, she pulled of the purple fabric and swore that whenever she got out of here she’d never wear purple ever again. Fuck purple and fuck Venable for making them wear it.

Michal sank into the chair behind the desk, palms flat on the surface like hers had been. He watched her as she prepared to fall into the role of Oya Jeon once more. She brushed her tied up hair back in place, the loose strands fastened by tying them into the elaborate hairdo Gallant had managed to give her. Of course, Coco never allowed him to let Oya outshine herself.

Now that everything was in place, she let their eyes meet. “So, do I meet the requirements of the sanctuary?”

Michael tried to repress the smile on his lips, forcing it into seriousness. “You will know in time.”

“Did you miss me?” They looked at each other silently for a moment before Michael went to answer in a smooth drawl.

“Yes.” The answer made her heart flutter. The orange flames caught his blue eyes with warmth. Then the warmth seeped out and he fell back into the role of Michael Langdon, the one mean to pick and choose who to save and who to kill. Oya let herself find the mask she had worn, let his presence affect her negatively to a degree as a cover for what really happened. She brushed her hands over the material of her dress, collecting her hands there and waited.

“You may leave now,” Michael said with indifference, waving his hand towards the door and turned his attention to the papers in front of him. Oya rose from her chair, slipping out of the room and was met with curious stares that picked at every seam of her being to see if they could catch something beneath her blank expression. Oya decided to lean up of the others accounts of what questions he asked, how he had acted and made it convincing by the jaded tremor in her voice.

“Did you hear?” Coco asked after the endless questioning. Oya shook her head with a weary frown. The blond woman licked her lips and inched closer, a smile unmistakable smile on her lips. “The old hag died in her sleep! No more listening to her endless stories.”

This surprised Oya. She thought the bitch would never bite the dust… Unknowingly, her eyes travelled to Michael’s closed doors. Nothing happened in the bunker that he wasn't aware off, nothing happened without him pulling a string. For a moment Oya wondered just how intricate a web Michael had spun, just how deep the game was and if she were a mere piece or puppet.

“These past several months have been difficult for all of us. And perhaps in my efforts to keep us safe, punitive measures have been taken too far. I believe now what we need is a moment of celebration. Comradery. Which is why, this weekend, as a gesture of goodwill we will have a Halloween soiree,” Mrs Venable voiced out loud with a smile on her darkened lips. Coco and Gallant looked at each other in excitement, one seemingly shared with most inhabitants, if not with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

Oya was the ladder, finding the sudden need to celebrate perplexing, to say the least. For months it had been the same. No holiday celebrated, no birthdays, no celebration of any kind, just the same disgusting jelly, the same vitamin water, the same music over and over. The sudden change was worrying. Not only that but earlier the grounds had once more been breached and no word of what it was had yet been told. It all smelled fishy, or so the Americans tend to say. She couldn’t help but feel strings were being pulled, and she knew exactly who was the puppetmaster. This celebration was not the work of Mrs. Venable, though she might not know it.

“It will be in the style of a Victorian masquerade ball,” Mrs. Venable continued.

“If only my Nana were here to enjoy it with me,” Gallant muttered, the sudden excitement turned into something solemn and dark.

“We’ve all lost track of time a bit. And this festive occasion is the perfect opportunity to remedy this. And I encourage you all to use your imaginations,” Mrs. Venables voice rose with festiveness. “To create what I am sure will be exquisite costumes.” Now her voice fell into the same old track, stern and cold. “Attendance is mandatory.”

With that everyone was allowed to leave, most hurrying to make their costumes. Oya adopted the same vigilance and glee the others held while maintaining the slightest sliver of scepticism. Dinah held the same look in her eyes, the gleam of knowing something the others didn’t, knowing something similar to Oya’s own knowledge. The two women looked at each other, their masks off to reveal both of them being wary, before plastering a polite smile on their lips to maintain the mask once more.

“I know we’ve only just been told of this but do you have any idea what you’ll wear?” Dinah asked, taking Oya’s arm in her own as the two of them headed towards their quarters.

“No,” Oya answered frankly. “I have the six same dresses in my closet that I’ve always had and have no idea how to transform them into something new. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of wardrobe choice nor any excess material to work with.”

“I find it odd that they chose Halloween of all holidays, though I suppose it falls into Mrs. Venables taste,” Dinah shrugged and chuckled at her last sentence.

“Victorian masquerade! Couldn’t she just have called it Masquerade? We’re already in the Victorian,” Oya gestured to the tight garments with puffy skirts. She had lived through the times where victorian was the fashion, she had pale strangers come to her for her abilities, wishing remedies or blessings or curses. She had seen the fashion first hand even without leaving Korea and her plot of land. She had lived through many fashions, many invasions and occupations trying to take the land from the ones living there. Hell, she had seen kingdoms rise and fall, both her own and the in the world around her.

“True,” Dinah agreed. “Admittingly I do look forward to the celebration, we have to take what we can, right? And by the looks of it Mrs. Venable has something in store for us.”

“She sure does,” Oya grumbled, eyes flicking over the firepit in the middle of the room as they passed through the hall and up the stairs. The flames danced with gleeful abandon, the shadows following suit on the walls. Sometimes she had through to put her hand in the flames just to feel the pain but she didn’t.

“Do you think Mr. Langdon will join us?”

“Mr. Langdon?” Oya looked puzzled at Dinah who smiled kindly to her, her dark eyes catching the flames, lips thick and pretty. Dinah was a beauty but she was also that ever so positive talk show host through and through. Sometimes it was too much. Enough to make Oya want to strangle her. But there had always been something else, something hidden, a dark tint.

“Yes, the party would be the perfect time to tell us who’ll join him at the Sanctuary.” Dinah let go of Oya’s arm having reached her door. She brushed her fingers over her purple dress nervously, with hope and something else in her eyes.

“It is a possibility,” Oya commented meekly, not able to agree or disagree. It seemed to be enough for the darker woman, she smiled at Oya as she headed into her room and closed the door behind her. Now Oya was left alone in the hall, the cold creeping along the stone walls, nibbling at any exposed skin. She let out a breath and rolled her neck, heading towards her own room. The door closed and locked behind her with a soft click. Oya trotted to the bed, sinking down onto it with a huff before ripping the leather laces up from her boots, kicking the leather off with a sigh of relief. Those boots might look good but by the gods were they confining and painful. For a little while, she sat and massaged her feet dreaming of planting them on the soft soil, letting her toes dig into the ground as she walked through the garden. She missed it, having something to do, letting things grow and expand. She missed lifeunrestricted but knew it wouldn’t come for many years to come. There was also a bigger part of her that missed her powers, how they flowed through her, how they could twist and curl, how it was mischievous and playful. Michael had them, somewhere.

Oya took of the dress and kicked it across the floor with venom before attacking the corset hidden beneath, that which was thrown through the air and into the wall with just as much venom. “You better have tons of airy clothe in the Sanctuary and much prettier because if I’m forced to wear something like this again, every fucking day, I’ll castrate you.” She threatened the empty room, trotting through it and into the shower. The warm water relaxed the tension in her shoulders while she washed the sex off of her, fingers splashing water between her legs while the dirty imagery of her interview played in her head. He had looked better than ever, more mature and grown somehow, his edges refined and perfect. In the 13 months, she had been nothing but human he had grown to be the master in a lot of things, he had found himself, or rather, he rested in himself. The confidence had always been there but now it was matured. There was still a vulnerability to him but she hadn’t yet seen it fully, just caught glimpses. She supposed it was to keep level headed, being apart so long and with such difference in power and environment would have changed anyone.

But they were still connected, she felt it in that room. Oya had been herself for the first time in months and the relief of that was hard to hide. When she’d get her powers back she could finally breathe again, she knew it.

Oya turned off the water and exited the shower to find a note written on the foggy mirror. Come to my room. She wiped the surface clean, revealing her reflection beneath. Her features were sharper and more edged out due to the lack of food. Although she had always been on the thin side, visible collarbones and ribs, they were now edged into her like a crude statue, showing just how little they got. She couldn’t wait to soften her look, not feel so fragile and delicate. Oya dried her hair and braided it into a long thick braid, then twisting it into a bun held together with what once was a decorative letter opener, forced between the strands. She threw the towel over the side of the tub, one much smaller than what she had grown used to, before entering her room naked and clean. A dress had been neatly placed upon the covers of her bed, it’s look a mix between Victorian and something along the lines of traditional Korean hanbok. The fabric was much softer than the other dresses in her closet, it was without ruffles and strange textures that was nothing more than a terrible fashion choice. No, it was cut cleaner, with lone soft lines, a neck dipping an inch or two lower than what she was used to, with black see-through puffy sleeves.

She drew in a breath and began dressing, the Knicks, the underskirts, the corset and then finally the dress. It fitted her perfectly and she shouldn’t have expected anything less, it was after all Michael who had left the dress there. It was a plum purple that managed not to make her want to throw it in the pyre.

The door was unlocked, daring anyone to enter, with only a few brave or stupid enough to accept that challenge. Oya entered the room, locking the door behind her. She had made sure the shadows had hidden her form as she moved through the halls, no eyes catching sight of her.

The room was like any other, though it was a bit smaller. It had the same furniture, the same bedsheets, the same dark aesthetic. The candles flickered upon her entry, shadows dancing on the walls. Michael silently entered too, a towel wrapped around his lower body while his hair was tied up loosely to escape the water he had just exited.

Oya clenched her jaw at the sight, eyes following his every movement as he stalked through the room, throwing the damp towel he used to dry his upper body with onto the bed.

“If anyone were to have seen me...” She said calmly walking to the wardrobe to pull out one of his black shirts. By the time she turned around, Michael was hitching up his pants.

“They didn’t, although it would have made quite the tale,” he drawled, zipping up his pants. Oya nuzzled the soft fabric of his shirt between her fingers as she waited for Michael to be ready for it.

“What have you been planing? You’ve been puppeteering, I know you have.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, eyes bright blue with mischief. “Now, it wouldn’t be much fun if I told you.” With her help, he slit his arms into the shirt. Her hands trifled over his shoulders, fingers brushing against him as she came around to face him.

“You’ve made your decisions then?” Oya asked and began to button up his shirt, fingers working nimble.

“Yes, I will be making the final draft during the festivities,” he answered her with a slick smile. Oya pursed her lips at him, brows furrowing together in a frown. There was the slightest touch, a simple brush of his fingers against the fabric of her dress. She paid no mind and looked up at him, buttoning yet another button. “You will not be joining us?”

“As much fun that may entrail I still have work to do and I’m sure Mrs. Venable wouldn’t mind my lack of presence.”

“Paperwork even after the apocalypse,” Oya grumbled discontent with that matter. She was now half way up his chest. With a flash of her displeasure shining through her eyes Michael chuckled. “And the witches? They were the reason why we’re here after all, what of them?”

“A few survived the blast, that I’m sure of.” he breathed with a low voice, fingers dancing through the air to motion ‘somewhere out there’. Oya buttoned the last one, prushing her hands over the fabric and ran her eyes up and down to see if she had missed one or it the shirt was crooked.

“How so?”

Michael smiled entertained and began to fidget with the cufflinks. “Haven’t you felt them?”

“I’ve felt a lot of things, Michael, and most of it were pure and utter rage for you, ” she poked him right in the chest in the most childish manner. What was he expecting? That her hair would stand on the back of her neck? A tingle under her skin? Goosebumps? “I’m human, unless it’s in my face and obvious I won’t notice a thing.”

“Dinah Stevens was the voodoo queen of New Orleans before she became a talk show host and Mallory...Mallory is something ,” Michael informed with vague interest in what he was actually saying. Oya narrowed her eyes at him, folding her arms over her chest and made a displeased motion with her mouth. Voodoo queen? Dinah didn’t seem all that powerful and she certainly wasn’t a threat, but it did make sense why the mask of positivity sometimes cracked to reveal someone more clever and cunning underneath. But Mallory, she surprised her in a way Dinah didn’t, mostly because of the way Michael said her name.

“Is she something to be worried about?”

This seemed to draw attention from him, his eyes flashing up at hers. Michael breathed in between his teeth and tilted his head. “No, not that it mattered if she was.”

“Because you’re going to kill them.”

“Actually,” Michael began, a devilish smirk growing on his lips. “I’m not the one to kill them.”

“Venable is,” she finished with an eye roll of his dramatics. There was no reason to get blood on his hands when all he had to do was pull a few strings to watch the whole outpost unravel. And that’s what he wanted, he wanted the humans to be the cause of their own destruction, he simply laid out the tools and waited for them to choose. “I don’t know whether to think it’s going to be a dull party if everyone dies or if its ‘a total banger’ as Gallant would phrase it.”

Oya walked to the closet and picked out a black jacket, helping him in it with ease. Michael released his hair from the small bun, letting it wave down over his shoulders, perfect as always. She was fixing his collar when suddenly he pulled an apple out of thin air, the red fruit catching the light of the candles. Oya paused, eyes growing at the sight of something fresh, it’s sweet smell engulfing her and made her mouth water. Then she looked past it, to the mischievous smirk of her counterpart and withdrew from reach with narrowed eyes filled with suspicion.

“Is it poisoned?” Now she knew of the lure Snow White couldn’t resist, the lure Eve couldn’t resist.

“Not this one no,” Michael answered her, taking her hand and placing the fruit in her palm. He could clearly see the hunger in her, the starvation that had cast shadows over her form and edged out her bones. There were no doubt that he admired her, if she wasn’t so transfixed on whether to believe him and sink her teeth into the apple or to throw it at his head, she’d have seen the abortion shine through the cheeky smirk. He admired her persistence.

“But the rest is,” she concluded and fished out the knife hidden in Michaels jacket. The blade cut through the fruit with incredible ease and she quickly ate the piece  eyes fluttering at the taste. “I suppose this is a nod to the forbidden fruit.”

Michael took hold of her jaw lightly, bringing her sweetened lips to his only to find the touch of her fingers on his lips as she withdrew. Oya tsked and shook her head, rivaling his own playfulness. “I spend too long on this makeup for you to ruin before the party.”

“And I, who gave you a most precious gift! You wound me,” he fauxed hurt, hand on his heart as if to underline what he said. Oya chuckled at him, enjoying the playfulness she had missed so much, the ease of his presence.

“What of the rest of the witches?” The seriousness returned.

“They could have died in the blast although I’m sure they’re out there somewhere. They’re like cockroaches,” Michael said with such an ease it filled her with confidence. If it wasn’t for the makeup or the apple currently being enjoyed to the fullest, she’d have kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

When the apple was carved to the core, Michael took it from her thin fingers discarding the remainder in the fire. Oya placed the knife on the mantle before coming up behind Michael, wrapping her arms around him and pressed into his warmth. His scent was intoxicating.

“We’ll find them. One way or another we will find them and then destroy them,” she assured him and tightened her grip to emphasize. Although she couldn’t see him, a rumble tingled through his back and into her. He turned to her, her hands working around his movements and landing on his chest as he came to face her.

“I think it’s time you wear this,” he said and held up a stone black as obsidian framed by silver so that it hangs as a pendant from a chain. It was beautiful. Oya touched the stone and felt a tingle at her fingertips, warmth radiating off what should have been cold. She recognized it instantly.

Michael opened the chain and led the parts around her neck, the black stone standing out against her otherwise pale skin, lacking the touch of the sun and health of nourishment. It almost hummed against her chest. Was it as alive for him as it was for her? Michael’s hands came to rest against her neck, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin while he angled his head towards her. “You will know when it’s time to break it.”

“Thank you,” she breathed softly feeling closer to freedom than what she had felt in a long time.

Everyone had on their finest attire and masks placed upon faces. Oya watched as they were all drawn to the perfect red apples that had been rolled in like fine dining to be placed in the small tub of water. They had all drawn in a breath of the sweet smell, mouths watering. She had watched them with amusement and played her part as well. Gallant was right about the symbolism… Something that’d soon turn to irony.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt,” Mallory introduced from above in the most expanced way possible clearly tired of Coco’s bullshit. Coco stepped out onto the balcony, lips painted in a heart shape and hair rising so far up from her head it reminded her of the elaborate headpieces back in Korea once upon a time. She stood as Marie Antoinette, or a watered down version anyway. The hair was impressive, even she had to admit that.

“Mhm! Can we clap please, thank you!” Gallant implored for people to clap at his masterpiece, clapping his own hands in the face of others to push their own actions. Oya joined in, eyes following the girl down the stairs.

“You did that?” Mrs. Mead asked in astonishment.

“Without a blow dryer sometimes I even astonish myself,” Gallant beamed with confidence. Clack, clack, clack, the erie sound of Mrs. Venables cain beating against the tiles travelled through the hall and into the library. It was a clear indicator of what came next. The claps slowly died out but Coco didn’t realise the shadow that had fallen upon her, not before Mrs. Venable leaned in beside her ear and said ‘boo’. Coco jumped in chock, the light teasing air within the room now tense with the usual kind of cold that followed Venable everywhere. Intimidation was the perfume she wore.  

“Tonight is all hallows eve,” Mrs. Venable began after Coco had scuttered away like a small mouse, the longing for the spotlight already showing upon her face. Oya breathed in, quietly moving into the shadows.  “-Which marks the beginning of the dark half of the year, when the boundary between this world and the other thins, and lost souls pierce the firmament desperate to find their way home. It is a night to remember the dead and there have been far too many to mourn.” A chilled quiet formed within the room, the losses heavy on their souls. Oya couldn’t count herself a mourner, she had lost far too many and the people that had been alive not long ago, were all mere spectres, mere thoughts.

“But also to celebrate,” Mrs. Venable continued with a smile on her lips. “That we have yet to join them.” The tap of her cain began anwe, Venable passing through the room with the air of superiority surrounding her, shoulders almost razor sharp with the edge she had on them. “We delight in the small things, that were once taken for granted. To eat, to drink, music and dance. Everyone! -and I mean everyone, should savour this night as if it were their last.”

Oya wanted to burst out laughing or quite maybe just yell. Venables whole speech was littered with cues and indications, like any villainous speech. The idea of throwing one of the candles at the redhead crossed her mind, but she remained quiet, the itching in her fingers never subsiding. It was a speech Michael would have liked, just for the fact that he knew exactly what was going on. He’d love the irony, appreciate it even. In this instance, she didn’t.

The music began, a new song and slowly the room began to move, bodies dancing throughout the space. Oya herself began to sway, taking a glass of sparkling water that quite honestly tasted like ass. Timothy and Emily swayed together, eyes connected in loving gaze. It was nice, she had to admit that, regardless of the end in sight.

“It is bewildering is it not?” Mrs. Venable said approaching Oya, whom eyed her over the rim of her glass nothing how revived the woman before her had become by the decision to play god with her own garden of Eden. Venable would present herself as God and the snake lureing starved humans to their own ruin. Poetic. “What little it takes to change everything, something so simple as apples.”

“I believe the promise of hope is what brings this change,” Oya voiced, fingers tapping with the rhythm on the glass. Venables eyebrows rose slightly, dark eyes fiery.

“Hope?”

“Hope is the smallest of things, it’s almost impossible to get rid of and it brings the biggest of change with it. Hope, want, desire, they all set root and grow.”

“And Mr. Langdon brought all of this? Hope? Want? Desire ?” The way she says the word, like it burns her mouth and leaves nothing but ash. Venable had always been opposed to desire, it was so easy to see in the way she gripped at control that desire was the fundamental of which the world was brought to ruin. That desire was the thing that made everyone who possessed it no better than rats. They were beneath her, those who were controlled by it and she was so far above because she was in control.

“Mr. Langdon brought many things, didn’t he?” Oya asked, following Venable through the room. They walked slowly, with sure steps although Oya trailed a few inches behind letting Venable control the pace. There was no need to look at the taller woman, she already knew the look of loathing upon her face mixed with the knowledge that she was soon to be rid of the thing she found so displeasing. “There’s been desire.” Oya said looking out into the room. “There’s been want.” They passed Mrs. Mead by the radio. “There’s been hope…All of this brings chaos of course, and this unabided is what brought the world to its knees, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Venable looked slightly surprised halting. “The old world was built on desire and the constant need to fulfill it. There was no control. People just did whatever they wanted. They were without discipline and those who was supposed to be the authority disregarded rules and mismanaged entire countries.”

“The world was ended because of men like him.” Venable looked over Oya with contemplation the younger girl giving no nod to her own thoughts. She wasn’t sure if Oya was taunting her, if the girl had some sort of knowledge and was now just toying with her or if she revealed for the first time her true thoughts. To her Oya had always been dubious, her intentions had always been unclear, she was a mystery that presented herself as simply another body that inhabited the place and her file had revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

Then Oya continued. “So why should we follow him?”

“I am not sure what you are saying, Miss Jeon,” Venable said ambiguously. “Do you not believe in the Sanctuary? Or do you not believe you’ll get in?”

“I am as sure as my position as any,” Oya said. “But these days it’s hard to know who to trust.”

“Indeed, which is why it makes me question your intentions. You’ve never been interested in the politics of this place, while the others have thrown their childish fits you’ve remained quiet. Now, however, you’ve decided to voice your views. You say men like him were the cause of the apocalypse and yet you’re willing to put your life in his hands?” Venable shook her head, eyes dark with fiery teeth ready to sink into any weakness presented. It was admirable what she was willing to do to be the queen, paving the way to her kingdom with the corpses of those who got in her way.

“For survival, I’d do anything. Wouldn’t you ?” Oya answered with a tone Michael would have been proud of, the same nonchalant mocking he had mastered so well. Venables eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Oya send Venable a sweet innocent smile before turning around and joining Gallant and Coco on the dance floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Venable return to where Mrs. Mead was, the two clearly sharing a few unknown words. If Michael had been there he would have been proud.

Mrs. Venable was a fox in sheep's clothing but there were other bigger and more dangerous creatures mimicking sheep as well.

A dark tall figure entered and began dancing with Coco. It wasn’t Michael that she was sure of but it could be one of this tricks, Oya simply shrugged and joined Dinah by the fire, chatting together as the mood began to brighten even further. It wasn’t before Coco’s disappearance down dim lit hall that Oya excused herself, disappearing as well. She had done her part, she had shown her face and now was the time to withdraw into the shadows while the attention was elsewhere.

“Let’s begin the bobbing for apples!” Mrs. Mead voiced out loud, turning down the music and gathered with the others around the small body of water. Oya looked over her shoulder one last time before walking to her own room.

Death had been invited in with open arms, a feast was thrown as a welcome and now was the time kiss death on the lips and take his hand for the festivities were for a goodbye and another world awaited.

When the door opened and Mrs. Venable and Mrs. Mead entered, Oya stood by Michael, she had one hand that rested on his shoulder in a familiar touch. Already she could feel the hardened glare of Mrs. Venable, the eyes that cut like glass and pricked at her back. The cane tapped at the floor, one after another until it came to a rest and then the door clicked closed.

“Ladies I’m a little busy right now formulating my selections,” Michael voiced with a nonchalance Oya couldn’t match. She was after all human and her body reacted to the threat of these people by sending a spike of adrenaline through her body even though her mind knew that Michael wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

“This won’t take long,” Venable said with a cold venom. Oya turned to face her, mild entertainment showing on her face. Venable’s eyes cracked to her the hostility almost unnerving. Michael shut the laptop gently, turning towards the intruders with the same nonchalance that he had spoken with.

“What’s this?” Michael asked with faux obliviousness, one that tugged at the corners of Oya’s mouth as Venable narrowed her eyes at him. The cane clicked as she came closer, invading the space of the two.

With one last click of her cane Venable answered with a victorious smirk. “We’re making the selections now, Mr. Langdon.” Her eyes traveled to Oya with sharp accuracy, the anger towards the other woman apparent. “I see you really would do anything for survival, Miss Jeon. I will admit, I am a little disappointed by your choice, you were after all supposed to be the smart one…. But you’ve made your choice.”

“And so have you,” Oya responded in a tone equal to Venables.

Venable drew in an unbothered but still strained breath before speaking, her eyes once more on Michael, who remained in his mask of faux confusion and obviousness. It was so apparent that it was faked. “And I’m afraid neither of you made the cut.”

Oya and Michael looked at each other and burst into chuckles that was neither warm or friendly but rather mocking. It was hard to keep the chuckle in when faced with someone who thought they were the puppeteer when in reality they had as many strings as the ones they thought they controlled. Venables power had been as superficial as Michael’s confusion.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to let you have your moment but I just couldn’t hold it in,” Michael said carelessly. He could be looking down the barrel of a gun and know it’d not be enough to take him down. Venable thought herself superior in the face of a god. That was better entertainment than what she had seen the last year. Still the arrogant smirk remained on her dark lips.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think I’m impressed, Mrs. Venable,” Michael answered. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Stretching his body to the fullest of his height, Michael stood. He glanced at Oya before returning his eyes towards the enemy. “You passed the test. You’re perfect for the sanctuary.”

The woman behind him made a face of disagreement but remained silent. If Michael wanted her to go with them, then she’d accept it but that didn't mean she’d like it. Maybe he’d forgive her for killing Venable because that certainly would be the case if Oya had to live with that wretched woman for the rest of her human life. But of course, the woman she knew would never agree to fall in like under the heel of a man like Michael, any man actually.

“Mrs. Mead,” Venable breathed with annoyance. The smaller woman with ink hair and paper-pale skin fished a gun out from under her jacket, the sound of it clicking following quickly after. With her human body, Oya reacted to the sound, a wave of goosebumps washing over her. Unconsciously she stepped behind Michael, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, the motion of it without a doubt known to Michael. She knew he felt her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Michael warned and by doing so extending another chance for survival. He wouldn’t give another one. Venable’s smirk grew, the fire in her eyes burning bright by the victorious end in sight.

Michael tilted his head towards Mrs. Mead, brows rising in anticipation. By this show of what some would call carelessness but in reality a certainty, Oya felt a boost of confidence. It was strange to watch Mrs. Mead with her ghosty blank expressions as if a million thoughts were going through her head.

The delay became too much and Venable’s delight turned to impatience. “Mrs. Mead.” Venable turned to glare at her companion but found that the gun was now pointed at her. Before she could register it went off, the expression of her face changing to surprise and then betrayal. One Oya recognized all too well. The sound of the shot resonated through the room and ran a cold finger down her spine. The air smelled and tasted metallic, a small gush of blood exploded into it.

Oya couldn’t help but breathe relieved, the joy of seeing Venable fall from her pedestal to lie on the ground among all those she had killed. If she believed in karma this would be it. But there were also surprised bubbling within by the reveal that Mrs. Mead had been the one among all of them to protect her. That she hadn’t seen coming.

Mrs. Mead, however, looked as shocked as Venable, her actions a complete surprise to herself. She shook at it, body trembling while she watched the woman she had thought she was to protect now lying dying on the ground, gasping for air as she drowned in her own blood.”I don’t know why I did that. I was always so loyal to her.”

Oya felt sympathy for the woman but remained standing in silence while Michael crouched down to look Venable in the eyes as life left her. Rarely had she felt pleasure to watch life leave a person but a few occasions changed that.

“It’s alright,” Michael said with a calm voice. “You were obeying command. Like you’re programed to do. My commands.”

Oya stepped up to him, placing a hand on his back as he stood and looked at Mrs. Mead, satisfaction shining through his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned into a delighted smile. “Did you enjoy executing the poisonous apples plan as much as I enjoyed coming up with it?”

Mrs. Mead was at a loss of words for a moment. You could see everything going through her head, how disoriented her thoughts were. Her body was frozen in time, still pointing the gun as if Venable was still standing. “You wanted everyone dead?”

“I’ve never been a fan of getting my hands dirty,” Michael explained with a drawl. “Learned that from my father.”

Oya looked down at Venables dead body, the bullet torn through clothing and skin as if it were the same and left a bloody gaping wound in her chest. From the looks of it it had tron through her chest plate and into her lung. There were no blood splatter nor any bullet hole behind her, so the bullet was still inside of her. Either she drowned in her own blood or her heart gave in. By the time Oya looked up, Mrs. Mead was trembling even more, bottom lip quivering and tears streaking down her pale cheeks.

“-Always more fun to entice men and women to dirty deeds. Confirms what I’ve always believed.”

“W-wa-what do y-you believe?”

“That all people, if given the right pressures or stimulus are evil motherfuckers,” Michael continued. Oya made a face and pursed her lips. Whether there was a flaw in Michael’s belief or not, were not hers to dispute. To her humans was oblivious little creatures capable of great monstrosity or kindness, each holding their own value. Humanity was flawed and just maybe a new set of rules, a new world, could make up for that flaw. In chaos, there were always the greatest fun.

“I-I’m having trouble with this,” Mrs. Mead stammered. “I know, I’m just a machine-,”

“Never say that!” Michael broke, the tremor in his voice indicating how emotional he was in this moment. It cut into her, the sudden realisation that this woman was more important to him that she initially thought. “You’re not just a machine. Not to me. When I tasked the Cooperative’s R&D department to have you constructed…” Oya put a hand on the small of his back, coming up to stand beside him. Michael glanced at her and revealed the tears in his eyes, the pain and sadness in the blue. “I gave them a prototype to model.”

“A prototype?”

“Someone from my childhood,” Michael said gently. “This one very dear to me.”

It was like she was watching the sun rise for the first time. Pure and adulterated realisation shining through every ounce of her. It looked like a door had opened and all that was hidden behind it washed over her.  

Oya couldn’t help but feel a strange sadness at the bottom of her stomach. This woman was created in the image of someone else, someone human and she had been lost to him. This woman was made out of his pain and sorrow and loneliness to replace the one he had lost. But in the end, to Oya at least, a robot could never replace a human.

“The beautiful boy,” Mrs. Mead said calmly.

“That was me,” Michael said back, voice barely above a whisper and breaking. “But I had to keep the most important part of you hidden from your mind.”

“Why?”

“To protect you,” Michael answered. “And the plan. But now it’s time to remember it all. I lost you and I couldn’t bear it. I can’t imagine a new world without you by my side. One of two women who ever really understood me.”

There were no other way to explain it other than pure happiness showing upon her face. “Who ever really loved you.”

Michael embraced the woman, hugging her tightly. The sight moved Oya, her heart swelling in her chest. He looked like a child, a boy who was finally hugged by their absent parent that had returned to them. She had seen the boy in him before, seen the loneliness and heartbreak. If a simple thing like a rose or an embrace could bring this sort of happiness, belonging, she’d shower him in it. For all he had gone through he deserved better.

Michael sat Mrs. Mead down and told her about the woman in which image she was created. The conversation was intimate, between the two, mother and child, and Oya felt strangely out of place. She watched as the two were hunched together, the aura around them thick and warm. Standing back she wrapped her arms around herself and looked away while nibbling at her bottom lip.

“...Who better than the one person who I never stopped trusting,” Michael said with a gentle drawl. “Or loving.”

Mrs. Mead smiled, eyes sparkling with artificial life, with joy and prosperous love. Truly, it was like she was looking at her son, with the same proud eyes mothers had when their child achieved greatness. An oddly jealous ache settling in her heart. The woman stood and Michael with her, she took his hands with a gratified smile upon her lips.

“Mrs. Mead, I do believe you’re glowing,” Michael smiled at her.

“For the first time I feel like I know my place in the world,” she said. At this Oya smiled, knowing exactly what that felt like. She walked to Michael, wrapping her arm around his and smiled at the both of them.

“Oya,” Mrs. Mead said and looked at Oya who’s eyes widened a little unsure what to expect. The woman simply smiled and brushed a hand down her arm and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” She answered. Michael smiled down at Oya only for his smile to stifle, slowly turning into a frown as his eyes unfocused out into the room. The air changed, electricity filling it up making the hairs on her body stand. Not even the candles and fireplace managed to warm the air that seemed to be forever chilled.

“What is it?” Mrs. Mead asked.

“A powerful presence,” Michael answered.

“What do you mean everyone is dead.”

“Not anymore.”

#michael langdon #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #obsidian & angelite

[yestodaymvv]

Pas De Duex || Huang Renjun

a dance for two. you and renjun are partners for a dance showcase and are performing a dance duet.

word count: 2.4k

SM’s Elite School filled with students, all who which have a strong compassion for what they love. The school was very popular, known for being one of the most prestigious art schools in South Korea. Of course, the school was naturally filled with talented people; those who can sing the highest pitches of sounds to those who can act like their best friend has left and is absolutely heartbroken. It was an art school after all. Everyone had to audition to showcase their talent and prove that they belonged in the elite art school of SM. Thousands and thousands of applications were sent to SM’s Elite Art School every year and only a total of 300 students were accepted. The school is very strict with their numbers and only a total of 300 students could be accepted every year. Waitlists were usually long and never moving. After all, who would drop out of SM? There were, of course, those special, luck students who did not have to audition to get into. Huang Renjun, was one of them. Huang Renjun was scouted by one of SM’s dance teacher when he went to Renjun’s school talent show where he performed a dance to Lauv’s I Like Me Better.  Renjun was known for being one of the most talented dancers at school, along with his friends Jeno, Jisung, and Donghyuck. The four was always accompanied by three other students; two rappers and a vocalist. Renjun was not only known as a well coordinated dancer, but an excellent vocalist with the voice of an angel and as well as an outstanding student. He was also known for being a kind hearted person. He was loyal to his friends and he often was kind and smiled to anyone who deserves his kindness. He was also trying new things. 

 Which would explain why in came Renjun, into your fourth period ballet dance class at the beginning of the new semester. Everyone knows that Renjun was known for his performances with his friends, none of which consisted of ballet dances, so it came as a surprise to you as Renjun walked into class, the teacher introducing him as one of the new students of the class. Whereas Renjun was popular at school, you were not. You preferred to stay away from the crowd and stray away the spotlight. Not many knew who you were for you are the quiet girl who dances ballet and nothing more. As you were tying your shoes, Renjun came up and sat down next to you on the bench, also putting on his shoes. You made I contact with him and he gave you the sweetest smile. 

“Hello Y/N. I didn’t know you were in fourth period ballet.”

“You-You know my name?”

“Of course! You always perform modern dance and ballet throughout the schools showcases. I never really got the chance to tell you but you dance beautifully.”

The comment made your cheeks blush red as you murmured a soft,

“Thank you.”

Before Renjun could say anything else, your teacher, Ms. Kang, cleared her throat and called for the class’s attention. 

“Okay everyone! It’s the second semester and I hope you all had a wonderful break and that you all have the classes you wanted for this semester. I really don’t want to do this to you, but we are going to have a project this beginning of the new semester.”

A collection of sighs went around the room, along with groans and small complaints. You stayed quiet while Renjun helped quiet down the class to allow Ms. Kang to continue speaking. 

“I know, I know. I’m a horrible teacher. But, I wanted to be able to do three showcases this semester. One would be the spring dance showcase, the end of the year showcase, and this showcase. This showcase would just be mostly for your parents and other fellow students part of the ballet/modern/contemporary dance department. So, for this showcase, you and another student in this class will choreograph a dance to a song that I will assign. Go and find your partner.”

Most of the students went around and looked for partners, whereas you just stood there. You didn’t have any close friends in class and the people you usually talked with already had partners. Next to you, a majority of the students went up to Renjun asking him if they could be partners. 

“Uh, actually I already have an idea of who I want as my partner,” Renjun politely apologizes.  

“Hey Y/N. Want to be partners?” Renjun asked.

 You looked up and saw his soft smile. The girls that asked Renjun glared at you, hating the fact that Renjung wanted to be partners with you instead of them.

“Uhm, yea sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind! I was the one who asked to be partners silly,” Renjun laughs and ruffles your hair. 

Renjun was a pretty skinny boy, making him look very small. But, Renjun was still significantly taller than you. He was around 4 inches taller than you. 

“Okay, please stand with your partner so I can assign your song. This project is due in 5 weeks, a week before the showcase. You will have be performing at the showcase and I will be grading you then. This is worth 100 points. You all should know what I am looking for now and it really isn’t hard to fail this project, just get a dance ready. Okay? You can start once I assign your song.”

Ms. Kang walked around, assigning songs to the students. When she got to you and Renjun she looked at the both of you and said, “Ah, Renjun and Y/N! I was hoping the both of you would pair up. Okay, I want the both of you to dance to I.L.Y by The Rose. I expect great things from the both of you.”

With that, Ms. Kang walked away with a smile and worked on the next set of partners. 

“I’m free Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. There will probably be a lot of people wanting to use the dance studios at school so maybe we can go to the dance studio my dance team uses? Can we meet on those days there and work on our dance?”

You didn’t answer Renjun immediately. You knew who was part of Renjun’s dance team and you knew there were at least 11 people more in their entire team. Renjun and his friends were just part of a unit and the dance team was composed of all boys who basically grew up together. You thought you’d be invading if you were to go to their dance studio to work on the project when you and Renjun can just use the ones at school. 

“Uhm, I’m good with those days, but uhm. Is your dance team okay with me going into your dance studio?”

“Of course! A some of us are from school, we all know you. They would love for you to come.”

You looked at him in shock. How could they know you? Not once have you thought that people actually knew your name at school, so how could Renjun and his friends who were one of the most popular kids at school know you?

“Ah, okay.”

“Great! So, let’s start.”

❤︎

It’s been two weeks since you and Renjun started working on the project. You were happy to say that things were going well. You thought that Renjun wouldn’t want to hear about your ideas on the dances that the both of you could use, but it turns out he was very open minded and always asked for your opinion on everything. The boys, Donghyuck, Jeno and Jisung helped a lot with the choreography, mostly Donghyuck. Chenle, Mark, and Jaemin usually helped out as well, sometimes bringing the both of you food and water when you worked too hard. It was funny when you first entered the dance studio. You walked with Renjun after school on a Wednesday, staying after school for 2 hours to do homework together before heading to the studio. Renjun explained that the boys were probably working on a new project they started and so they were most likely going to be at the dance studio as well. When you both entered the dance studio, you were bombarded by the six boys.

“Ah, Y/N! You’re here!”

“Ah, hello Jisung. Hello everyone.”

“Wait, Y/N, did you actually agree to be partners with Renjun? Did he not force you into anything?”

“Be quiet Jeno.”

“Ah Y/N!” exclaimed Chenle. “My sincere apologies about Renjun, you’re probably going to have to carry him in this project. He’s not a very good dancer, unlike you. You’re very good! You move so smoothly, it’s incredible!”

“Th-thank you Chenle.”

“Wow, I’m surprised that Renjun actually had the guts to ask you. Didn’t think he’d do it.”

“Yea, Mark Hyung is right. Hey Renjun, isn’t Y/N yo-”

“OKAY Jisung! That’s enough! Get out, Y/N and I are going to work on our dance. Go on, get out.”

You never had the chance to ask Renjun what Jisung was talking about because Renjun started going over what the both of you talked about at school. It was a ballet dance made for two. Since it was a love song, Renjun thought it was a good idea to have a message behind your dance. It would speak of two lovers. It was tough for you, dancing with someone else. Renjun had feeling whenever he danced, and he would always channel the character beautifully. You had some getting used to, acting to be Renjun’s lover and dancing so close to him. You barely knew Renjun, so you weren’t very comfortable with it. However, throughout the 5 weeks, you and Renjun became really close. You started to hang out with him and his friends during lunch and you would always help him out with homework after school at a moomin cafe. You even started going to the dance studio daily, not just on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. You started to take part of the boys dances and started to help them come up with ideas. You’ve gotten very close with them and you were afraid that once the showcase was over, you wouldn’t get to hang out with them anymore and you would go back to be acquaintances. You were mostly afraid that you and Renjun wouldn’t get to spend as much as time as you do now. Mostly because you believe that you developed a small, tiny, little, crush on him. Whenever he would twirl you or come close to you in your dance, your heart would beat faster and you would get lost in his eyes, especially the ending pose. One of Renjun’s arms would be holding your waist while the other would spread out like yours. 

It was the day of the showcase, and you were backstage getting ready for your turn. You were wearing a red flowy costume, one that would help exaggerate your turns and dance moves. You had makeup on, of course, someone all dancers would wear, and your hair was slightly wavy. You were really nervous, as you usually are before a performance. You didn’t eat anything before going backstage and you were really regretting it because you were getting really hungry. Renjun comes up beside you, holding a smoothie and a muffin. 

“I remember you telling me you don’t like to eat before a performance because you’re afraid of throwing up, so I brought you a muffin in case you got hungry. A smoothie too in case you want something a bit sweeter or if you just want a drink.”

You smiled at him, “Thank you Renjun. You’re a lifesaver. I really hope we’ll do well in this. I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to mess up or anything.”

“You’ll do great, you always do. You’re on of the best dancers I know.”

Before you can say something back, the dancers before you finished and you can hear Ms. Kang announce both yours and Renjun’s names through the mic and your stomach turned. Renjun grabbed your shoulders and turned you, so you were both standing close, looking at each other eye to eye. 

“Don’t worry Y/N, you got this. Just breathe in and out. Just focus on me the entire time, yea?”

His words soothed you as you felt your nervousness go down. You gave him a small nod and a smile murmuring a small thank you. Before Renjun goes to the other side of the stage, he stops and looks at you and says, 

“You look really beautiful by the way.”

And right when you thought your nervousness was gone, it was back again. How could he announce something that made your heart race so casually? He said it as if it was nothing. Ignoring your heart, you went onto the stage, looking straight at Renjun. Before you knew it, the music started playing and you couldn’t think about anything else but the dance. You didn’t worry about having to fail, or messing up the choreography, you were lost in the music. You didn’t see anyone but Renjun, as he danced with you along with the music. It was just the both of you, dancing on the stage, the music filling your ears. Once the song was over, you and Renjun stared at each others eyes. You couldn’t hear the cheering, all you could hear was how loud your heart was beating. It was so loud, you knew Renjun could hear it as well. Before you could step away from Renjun’s hold, his hand comes up to cradle your face, and he presses his lips against yours. You didn’t react at first, shocked by the sudden action, but when you felt Renjun start to pull away, you kissed him back. The kiss was soft and sweet, also short lived as the both of you were on stage in public. When you pulled away, your eyes met a blushed Renjun. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“What? You’ve always wanted to kiss me?”

Renjun nods. “I always come to your performances and I’ve always wanted to compliment you. I never had the guts to tell you how amazing you were at dancing though. I joined ballet and modern dance because I knew I’d get the chance to dance with you. I guess you can say, I’ve had a small crush on you for a while now. I really like you Y/N, I really do.”

“Why thank you Renjun. I really like you as well.”

⎯

a/n: i hope you guys liked this small au! i’m sorry if it isn’t the best, i sort of rushed in making this? i remember renjun saying he started learning ballet and modern dance so i figured i would write a small au. i also have been listening i.l.y. by the rose on repeat. it’s such a good song, and the band is amazing. i might not write another au for a while because i’m going to be pretty busy with school? thank you for reading <3

#nct #nct dream #nct au #nct writings #nct scenarios #nct drabbles #nct dream au #nct dream writings #nct dream scenarios #huang renjun #nct renjun #renjun au #renjun scenario #renjun drabble #renjun writing

[meowmerson]

I LOVE YOUR TOMIONE AND ITS A LOWKEY DREAM TO HAVE YOU WRITE A ONESHOT WITH SASSY HERMIONE LIKE “if you were on fire and I had a glass of water, I’d drink the water.............. arsehole.”

(i turned this into a high school au and it somehow morphed into more or less pastel!tom and punk!hermione who AM I!!!????? lmao)

Hermione knew she was a bit of a cliche.

She had always been an abrasive child, too bossy and too loud and too rude to make many friends. What her parents had always brushed off as an intelligent precociousness that would serve her later in life was perceived as poor character by her peers at school. She thought maybe this was what cultivated her into what she was today, the conflict of what her parents had taught her–to be herself no matter what the cost–and what her teachers attempted to teach her–to censor herself in order to make herself more marketable to the public.

So as she grew up, left middle school and was separated from her only two friends in the world–Harry and Ron went to a high school nearer to the center of town, while Hermione’s high school was just up the road from her house–Hermione more-or-less accidentally crafted an image for herself that was so cliche she almost offended herself.

An outcast. A leather wearing, smoking, anti-social punk, more or less.

She had taken up smoking for purely practical reasons, those reasons being she didn’t like being amongst all those people in that new school and needed an excuse to stand outside by herself. She started smoking because it was the only explainable way to slip outside between classes or during her lunch period without looking as if she was running away from something. No other freshman smoked, and by the time a few select peers(not many) had taken up smoking, she had already crafted a place for herself as an outcast, and still no one approached her. 

Smoking in and of itself would be one irrelevant hobby if it weren’t for the fact that she had also taken to wearing her father’s old leather jacket that he had abandoned to the back of his closet thirty years ago. She wore old ripped jeans that she found in thrift stores and her shirts were mostly t-shirts that Harry or Ron had left at her house over the past years, and she wore the same pair of combat boots every day. If the image wasn’t cliche enough, she also made a habit of smarting off to her teachers and any fellow classmates that deigned her worthy of a glance or a comment.

She couldn’t help it. She just hated everyone in that school so much, and the teachers were idiots, and she had not at any point in her life cultivated the art of censoring herself for even a moment.

It leveled out her Junior year, people started to leave her alone, her teachers accepted that her presence in their class was a quiet one–Hermione had been kicked out of enough lectures that she learned some measure of restraint–and she had become a well-and-true outcast. 

But she loved school.

More accurately, she loved learning. She was always reading, always searching for answers, and if she ever seemed dismissive in class it was only because none of these teachers knew what the fuck they were talking about. She liked to think of herself as a stereotypical-punk-but-with-depth. If she wore leather and smoked cigarettes around the school and may-or-may-not have punched Draco Malfoy in the face Sophomore year , it was not because she was trying to perfect the image of some 1950′s greaser with parental issues. She was just being herself, unapologetically and without restraint.

Well, some restraint. She just didn’t like getting kicked out of class. She enjoyed the lectures too much.

But if she was a cliche, then Tom Riddle was a fucking fairytale.

Everyone knew who Tom Riddle was. He was the school president since his Sophomore year, he was head of the yearbook committee, took every AP class offered, headed school assemblies and pep rallies, worked as a tutor and even started up the student mentoring program, and he was friends with every fucking person in this entire school.

Hermione hated him.

It was mostly petty. He was intelligent enough that she felt a bit threatened by it, like he could challenge her own intelligence, and he closely monitored his own actions in a way that made him so like-able even Hermione found difficulty in disliking him, but she steadfastly continued, because Tom Riddle deserved at least one person on this earth who couldn’t stand him, and if it had to be her, then so be it. He wore pink polos, and slim-cut khaki pants rolled at the ankle, and sometimes he wore cardigans.

Fucking cardigans.

So what if he had broad shoulders and perfect hair and a fantastic ass? He had his ego fed enough as it was, Hermione wasn’t about to add to that.

They didn’t associate. He said something to her once, he ran some anti-smoking campaign his Junior year and invited her to attend and she had responded by pulling out a cigarette and lighting it right there in the hall and said nothing at all. When he didn’t say anything–perhaps he was shocked, or offended, too much to speak–she blew out a long breath of smoke into his face.

She remembered…a funny thing happened to his face, then. Nothing more than a twitch, a flash in his eyes, but she had seen it and it was…dark. It didn’t fit his cookie-cutter persona of all-around-good-boy, it had seemed angry and dangerous. And then it was gone, and he had donned a sad sort of smile and left without a word, and he never attempted to speak with her again.

For some reason, it had made her angry. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason, but something about his dismissal had made her feel like he had considered a reaction and decided not to for some unknown reason, and the simple fact that she didn’t know this reason was enough to infuriate her.

“I just don’t understand your fucking obsession with him,” Ron said once, on the first (and last) rant Hermione had ever allowed herself to go on about Tom Riddle. “And is that my Clash shirt?” He asked, gesturing to the shirt she was wearing.

“Yeah, it is,” Hermione answered shortly, then said, “He’s not this perfect whatever that he pretends to be, that’s all I’m saying, I’m not obsessed,”

“You don’t even listen to the Clash!” Ron argued, ignoring everything else she had said.

“You shouldn’t have left it at my house then.”

Harry had waited until Ron left to say anything about the Tom situation, and it had been an extremely uncomfortably conversation in which Harry assumed that her ‘obsession’–and it was not a fucking obsession–with him stemmed from some imaginary infatuation with him and Harry tried to give her some strange and contradictory speech along the lines of ‘I respect you and your decisions and whoever you decide to date is your business and I’m not trying to insult you when I say this but I’ll kick his pansy ass if he hurts you’ and Hermione had ended up incoherently screaming and shoving him out the door without responding.

He didn’t bring it up again.

And it didn’t matter, because Tom Riddle never spoke to her again, which was only odd because he made an attempt to speak to everyone, no matter what their social status. Hermione was surprised that her one bitchy response to a single question had struck him so deeply he then refused to ever associate with her, as he normally associated with a number of bitchy individuals–Draco Malfoy, for example–and he still remained Mr. Perfect in every social situation, but she didn’t question it. 

She thought of that look in his eyes a lot, though. She would have never imagined a boy who wore pink polos and cardigans and ran anti-smoking campaigns could ever look like that. 

It is by a very strange set of circumstances that Hermione ends up speaking to Tom Riddle again. 

It starts with a fight with Ron.

Hermione and Ron’s friendship was full of disagreements, some more explosive than others. She wouldn’t go so far as to call their friendship rocky, because they always made up afterward, and usually their arguments were over stupid, irrelevant things. However, no matter how stupid and irrelevant, it didn’t make Hermione any less angry. 

The current stupid and irrelevant topic to be angry about was mostly to do with Ron’s wardrobe, and Hermione’s insistence–Ron called it nagging–that he shop ethically. No more high-street fashions that profited on the suffering of others. It had been a long, long journey getting Ronald to shop ethically, and she was quite proud of him, to be honest.

Until she came to his house and he had, like, three huge bags from some family shopping trip to Oxford Street. She had exploded, perhaps unfairly, and he had reacted in kind.

“You’re a psychotic, controlling bitch and you are not my mom, and that is not your shirt, you don’t even listen to the Misfits, you bitch–”

Needless to say Hermione was still furious about it, as she never handled fights with Ron particularly well. She found solace in the knowledge that he was at school sulking just as much as she was, and Harry would likely bring them both together and make them apologize to each other that evening, but as it was, she was itching with the need to call Ron up and yell at him some more.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Tom Riddle’s anti-smoking campaign had volunteers around the outside of the school with pamphlets and fliers and nicotine patches so she couldn’t even slip outside for a cigarette without getting bombarded by those assholes, so–

So she slipped into the backroom of the gym during her lunch period. It was a storage room of sorts, where they kept all the PE supplies, and as gym wasn’t in session this period, no one should be in there, and there she knew for a fact that smoke alarm was broken, so she could smoke a cigarette in there without getting caught.

The door was heavy and huge and there was always a deflated basketball wedged up against the doorframe to stop it from swinging shut all the way because the door would automatically lock. Today the basketball wasn’t there, and instead there was a wooden doorstop wedged underneath the door itself to prop it open all the way. She frowned and peeked into the room, but couldn’t see anyone there. She un-wedged the doorstop from the door and set it against the door instead, so that it was closed except for a crack, so that she had a bit of privacy.

She pulled a cigarette from the pack in her backpack, along with the lighter. She already had the cigarette in her mouth and was lighting it when she turned the corner of the L-shaped storage closet and saw Tom Riddle standing at the shelves at the back wall. He was wearing a pink polo again, his signature slim-cut khaki’s rolled once at the ankle, and he had a cream cardigan tied around his waist. He turned when she approached, and his eyes went down to the cigarette in her mouth.

“What are you doing?”

She hesitated, “You’re followers are outside ready to pounce on me if I so much as step outside, so I have to find somewhere else to smoke.”

“So you choose an enclosed storage closet with a smoke alarm.” He said.

“The smoke alarm is broken,” She said, and then abruptly realized that she shouldn’t have said that. He would probably get someone to fix it now. “What are you doing in here?” She took a drag of her cigarette. If he was going to stop her or report her she at least wanted to get her fix of nicotine first.

“Organizing.”

“Organizing,” She echoed, “The storage closet.”

“I’m assisting in the front office, they asked me to oversee this.” He answered curtly. 

“Sounds fun, being the golden boy,” She quipped, and she was surprised–and absurdly delighted–to see him immediately glower at her. He sighed sharply through his nose, and his posture shifted. He put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight to one leg, looking down at the ground before looking back up at her. 

“What are you doing in here?” He asked again.

“I already told you,” She said.

“You need a cigarette so badly you hide in a storage room?” He asked.

“Before you lecture me about lung cancer,” She said, “Consider the fact that I don’t care about a single thing you have to say to me.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t.” He said.

“What?”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.”

There was an awkward silence, for a moment. “Oh,” She said, taking another drag. When she breathed out, she said, “Then why is your body language like a single father getting ready to tell his daughter she’s grounded?”

“You’re infuriating,” He told her.

“I assumed I was,” She said dismissively, “But I’ll gladly be infuriating if it dissuades you from speaking to me.”

“Did I offend you?” He continued, “When I invited you to the rally? Is that what makes you so hostile? I was inviting everyone.”

“Everything you do offends me,” She told him, “I find you repugnant.”

There was a very long, long, uncomfortable pause, because Tom looked actually shocked, like he hadn’t expected that. But it wasn’t just shock, he looked angry for a moment, and he shifted his posture again, taking a step toward her. Without meaning to, Hermione bristled, straightening up from where she was leaning against the cart full of basketballs as if getting ready for a confrontation. He noticed, if the way he stopped and his eyes roved over her body said anything, and she took another drag of her cigarette to try to appear nonplussed.

She didn’t know why she suddenly felt so nervous.

“Why?” He asked, quietly, as if he was trying to set her at ease, but that only made her more uncomfortable. 

“Is it surprising?” She asked, “Someone like me hating someone like you?”

“I think it’s more surprising,” He began, and he took another step toward her, this time keeping a close eye on her reaction. There had been a sudden shift in the atmosphere between them, one she had not expected and one that she couldn’t describe. All she knew is it made her heart race, “That you don’t hate me at all.”

She took another drag of her cigarette. Smoke was collecting at the ceiling, and he was close enough that when she breathed out he must’ve breathed it in, but he didn’t cough or choke. She watched his jaw clench, again, and wondered if he felt the same way she did; like this was all suddenly a bit out of their control. 

“That’s presumptuous,” She told him, but she didn’t move away as he neared her. Her cigarette dangled between her fingers, nearly forgotten, and he was so, so close.

“Am I wrong?” He asked her, quietly, intimately, and she realized with a shocked certainty that he was going to kiss her, and with an even more shocked uncertainty that she thought she might want him to.

He realized it at the same time she did, that she didn’t hate him as much as she liked to think she did–and she thought she did, with his perfect appearance and his perfect school record and his perfect, golden boy persona–and she saw his lips twitch up into a smile. 

She saw something in his smile, the same sort of something she had seen in his eyes so long ago. It didn’t fit what he presented himself to be, the smile wasn’t pleased or friendly or even intimate, it was–it was nasty. There was something in his smile that suddenly made her think this isn’t right, this isn’t him, he’s–

And then she suddenly realized what it was she hated about him so much. It wasn’t the threat of his intelligence or the fact that he tried to get her to stop smoking, it was the fact that it was all bullshit. He was fake, contrived, from his pastel polos and cardigans to his anti-smoking rally’s and speeches at school assemblies, everything he did was crafted meticulously to shape him as the golden boy, to secure his place at the top of the food chain. While people like Draco Malfoy did it through means of bullying and throwing his money around, Tom did it through nothing more than his own personal cunning. All of it was fake, all of it was fucking fake, and–

And so was this, she realized. He was angry with her for not responding to his golden boy bullshit so he was trying something new.

Abruptly furious and humiliated at being played, she lifted her cigarette and snuffed it out on his arm.

He hissed, but didn’t cry out or swear at her like she expected. He jerked back and away from her, his breath coming in quick, angry pants–or was it anger, she thought? His face looked different now, angry, but with something else.

“If you were on fire,” She told him, “And I had a glass of water, than I would drink that glass of water, you asshole.” She flicked the nearly burnt up cigarette at the floor by his foot. “That’s how much I hate you, and if you ever try to kiss me again, I will–”

The sound of the door shutting stopped her mid-sentence.

They shared a brief, panicked glance, and then both of them rushed toward the door. “Did you shut it?” He asked her.

“No,” She spat, because of course she didn’t, she wasn’t an idiot, “I just pulled it almost shut and put the doorstop there–”

“That’s what people do when there’s no one in here!” He snapped.

“I know!” She cried, “I was coming in here to smoke, asshole, of course I wanted people to think no one was in here!”

“Well, now they shut the fucking door because they thought we weren’t here, so good job–”

She started pounding on the door, “Hey!” She shouted, “Let us out, we’re still here!”

“Don’t bother,” He scoffed, “It was probably the gym teacher, and she always has her headphones in–”

Hermione kicked the door.

“Just get your phone out and call someone,” He told her, gesturing to her backpack. She scowled.

“Where is your phone?” She asked.

“In my locker,” He said, “Where it’s supposed to be–”

“Oh great, let’s start lecturing me about where my phone is supposed to be even though I’m the one who’s going to be saving our asses–” She stopped abruptly while she was digging through her backpack, then sighed, “Shit…”

“What?” He snapped.

“I left it at home.”

“Are you joking–”

“Yeah, I’m joking,” She scoffed, “This is all just one big fucking joke, as if I would voluntarily spend another moment in here with you–”

“What have I ever done to you?” He demanded, taking a threatening step toward her that had her springing to her feet immediately. 

“You’re fake, Tom Riddle,” She spat. She shoved his chest to make him step away from her, but immediately got carried away and punctuated her next sentence by repeatedly shoving him in the chest, “Everything about you is fake, I’m starting to think there isn’t anything original beneath all the bullshit, you’re a manipulative liar who–”

He reached for her, fisted his hand in the fabric of her t-shirt and shoved her up against the shelves behind her. A few items fell off the shelves and hit the floor with a clang. “You think you’re so smart,” He hissed, and she didn’t think that a boy who wore cardigans and ran anti-smoking campaigns could look so terrifying, but he could. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” He asked, his voice was soft but filled with fury, “You certainly think you know everything about me.”

“Get off of me,” She demanded, trying to wrestle his hand off of her shirt, but she couldn’t move him. He was stronger than she thought he’d be, since she knew for a fact he didn’t do any organized sports, but his arms were bare she she could see the way his bicep flexed as he held tight. “Let go of me now, Tom–”

“You think it matters?” He continued. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tried to pry his hand off, “Everyone in this fucking place is fake, you think it matters that you figured me out? You think anyone in this place gives a shit about you?”

She kneed him in the crotch, and when he grunted and his grip loosened she pushed him away as hard as he could. “I think you give a shit.” She told him, “I think it drives you crazy that I don’t suck your dick like the rest of this school.”

Absently, she considered she might need to stop hanging around Ron.

“I get it,” She continued, as he was just managing to stand up straight again, and he glared at her like he wanted to kill her. “I think you’re a cliche, dishonest, cardigan-wearing douchebag and a fuckboy, and I hate you for it, but I get it.” She could tell he was grinding his teeth. “It’s important to people like you, to be on top of the food chain.”

“And what about you?” He asked, “Let me take a guess,” He took a step closer to her again, and she pressed herself against the shelves to make some space between them, “Its important for people like you that everyone around you knows how little you care for them, how beyond all of this ‘petty high school bullshit’ you are, when in reality, you’re in survival mode, because you know there’s not a single person in this school who can stand to be around you–”

“Don’t pretend you want to be around these people,” She cut him off, “You can lecture me as much about survival mode as you want, you’re in it, too. You hate this place as much as I do, but you’re too chicken shit to admit it.”

“You’re pathetic and unlikeable,” He told her, taking another step toward her.

“You’re vapid and unremarkable,” She spat back. Her fingers found something on the shelf behind her, small bug heavy, and she planned on whacking him over the head with it if he came closer. He did, but there was nothing meticulous about the way he closed in on her, nothing that reeked of manipulation or any ill-planning. He still looked angry, but then something else, something she still couldn’t place, until she realized he wasn’t looking at her eyes–in fact, he hadn’t been for a while, and she hadn’t realized. 

He was looking at her lips.

It was shocking how quickly she lost all rational thought, the moment his lips met hers, and she suddenly realized what accompanied the anger when she infuriated him–it was lust. And maybe, she thought, maybe he found her infuriating not because she disliked him, but because he liked her. He kissed her too roughly at first, their lips meeting too harshly and their teeth clacking, but then her mouth opened against his and it was all wet heat and the smooth slide of their tongues and–

Yes, she thought, and she was convinced in that moment that she had never thought something so final before in her life. Yes, she thought, and thought again, no understandable thought except yes, yes, yes as his hands found her waist and he pressed her against the shelves. She hooked one leg around his hip and threaded her fingers through his hair, and when she curled her fingers into a fist and pulled, he groaned into her mouth.

“What would the student council think–” She said against his lips, but before she could get a proper thought out, he pulled her abruptly against his body and then just as abruptly slammed her into the shelf again. She grunted, muttered, “You asshole,” against his lips and wondered if she would bruise, then decided that she didn’t particularly mind a bruise or two if she got his tongue in her mouth as compensation. 

She pushed him away, so suddenly that he went easily and then tripped over her backpack which was strewn on the floor behind him. He went down, but she followed, and when he was on his back on the floor she straddled his hips and dove back in for another open mouthed kiss. His hands found her hips as hers slid under his head to thread through his hair again. 

“Still hate me?” He muttered against her lips, and she rolled her hips against his in retaliation for his mocking tone. He groaned through gritted teeth when she did.

“I still wouldn’t say I’m necessarily excited about your existence,” She said. His hands slid under her jacket and her shirt until he could dig his nails into the flesh of her back, and she sighed into his mouth.

The door unlocked, and started to open. Both of them looked up, Tom’s neck craning to look behind him at the opening door. She recognized some sense of panic in his eyes, and she wasn’t really thinking much about consequences when she reeled back her fist and punched him in the face just in time for the gym teacher to see them on the floor.

“What on–Miss Granger!” She cried as Tom let out an angry yell. Honestly, she hadn’t hit him that hard. The gym teacher hauled her off of him, and Hermione caught a shocked and somewhat awe-filled look from Tom before she was grabbing her backpack off the floor as the gym teacher hauled her out of the storage room.

She got a week’s detention, but it was kind of worth it to have the chance to punch Tom Riddle in the face.

Later, when she was finally headed home, mentally preparing herself for dealing with Ron when Harry inevitably dragged him to her house to make them make up, she walked past the school parking lot and saw Tom and his group of assholes all gathered around his car. He looked up, and even from this distance she could see the way his jaw clenched when he saw her. 

She bit back a smile, because something about the knowledge that her very existence unnerved him made her inordinately pleased.

She pulled out a cigarette, and as she lit it and took a drag he still watched her, until his friend–a girl, dark hair, Hermione thinks her name is Bella–grips the sleeve of his cardigan to get his attention. 

Hermione goes home, satisfied with the way red mark on his cheekbone from where she had hit him, the mussed state of his hair which he hadn’t seemed to bother to fix, and the knowledge that Tom Riddle does not kiss like someone who wears khakis and cardigans and pink polos.

She thought he might look good in a leather jacket, actually.

#meow writes #imagine in future hermione and tom shotgunning just saying #i wanted to write it now but it didn't fit in #btu just saying #Anonymous #what is thsi idfk lmaooooooooooooo #tomione #this is actually fun i want 2 write more cliche tom and hermione sneaking around making out in storage closets #also tom in pink polo and cardigans #and hermione in leather jackets #wow

[laughriotgrrrl]

Iliza is wrong. But it’s not her fault (kinda).

By Bobbie Oliver On Twitter: @TheBobbieOliver

Iliza Shlesinger begins her interview in Deadline Hollywood ok, “a big part of my comedy is wanting to speak to women and people that are my age in a funny and relatable way. I think the landscape of what’s available out there for women is not as extensive as it could be.” So far, so good (except the limiting it to people her age). But, then she goes on to say:

“I’m so glad you asked that [the way she portrays female comedy in her new project] because I put in those sketches and no one’s ever asked me about it because I think people were too busy laughing in agreement. As a comedian, I have a set of morals. I have a specific point of view. I think a lot of what I see out there, out in comedy clubs, watching contests, watching TV, watching movies—gathering data from these different matrixes…

When you’re a woman in comedy and you get a break, people get so excited about it, but while we have to work hard to get that attention, I do think many women think, “Oh if I just act like a guy, if I go for that low hanging fruit…” Everything’s about sex, or how weird I am. It all just kind of runs together.

I could walk into The Improv, close my eyes, and I can’t tell one girl’s act apart from another. That’s not saying that 30-something white guys don’t all sound the same sometimes, but I’m banging my head against the wall because women want to be treated as equals, and we want feminism to be a thing, but it’s really difficult when every woman makes the same point about her vagina, over and over. I think I’m the only woman out there that has a joke about World War II in my set. I think shock value works well for women, but beyond that, there’s no substance. I want to see what else there is with such complex, smart creatures.”

I included the quote so no one could say I misrepresented her words. Those were her exact words. Since this was released, Iliza has been bombarded with responses from female comics (myself included) because it turns out people weren’t just “laughing in agreement” and that she did not succeed at talking to women “in a relatable way.” Did Iliza look at those comments, think ‘hmm maybe I am missing something and should listen to these women’s collective experiences?’ Spoiler! Um, no. She doubled down; she attacked; she ranted and raved and blamed women with (since deleted) tweets to the effect of ‘women shouldn’t complain about what I said; women just need to get better; my experience is more valid than yours; I worked TEN WHOLE YEARS and nobody gave anything to me; everyone is just jealous; if it doesn’t fit you, don’t be offended...’

There is SO MUCH to unpack there, and I may be all over the place cause I’m pissed I have to sit down and blog about this shit AGAIN. I just got finished producing the 3rd Annual Laugh Riot Grrrl Festival, which features over 100 female comedians each year in a week’s worth of shows and activities. I was feeling pretty good about the state of women in comedy (rare for me) and thinking we just smashed the Patriarchy, even if it were just a little. And then, I turn on my computer to see yet another dick dissing women in comedy, setting us back instead of propelling us forward- and this time that dick was a fellow female comic. I am angry, yes, but mostly I am disappointed. But, Iliza said this is her experience and we have to take that as gold. Well, here is my experience...

I started doing comedy in college at 19 years old in 1988 (a little longer than TEN WHOLE YEARS). As a elder in the comedy community (I am 49, been doing comedy for 29 years, teaching comedy for 13 years, wrote a critically acclaimed book about comedy, own a comedy school, was on the road for years on the East Coast and moved to LA 20 years ago, etc), I feel like it is my OBLIGATION not only to create as many opportunities for women in comedy as possible (in addition to my women’s comedy fest, I produce women-only open mics, feminist comedy shows, etc), but to elevate other women as often as I can ESPECIALLY IN PUBLIC INTERVIEWS. No, I am not rich or famous. Probably never will be. But, I have made my entire living off comedy most of my adult life and my experience matters, too.

Saying women shouldn’t be offended by her lazy answer in an interview if it doesn’t apply to them is like Trump saying Mexicans are rapists and black people are criminals but don’t be offended if you aren’t those things. Nice try. And women just need to get better?? Seriously? Do you know how tired you sound? How many racists have said, in response to being confronted on lack of diversity in their school, business, organization, ‘black people just need to earn it like the rest of us.’ Yeah, cause Obama was the first black man to ever be qualified to be President? Not even close.

Iliza, your experiences are a lot more limited than you realize. Ten years is nothing in comedy and you know that. It is a well-known adage in comedy that it takes 10 years just to find your voice. Getting to your level of success in 10 years thanks to Last Comic Standing (and yes, I and many female comics voted for you, and don’t regret it) is a fast track to the top, bypassing decades of work that other women have put in. Did you deserve that? Sure, why not? You deserve it as much as anyone. But, don’t pretend it didn’t come fast and relatively easy. Because of that, you haven’t worked in as many low level rooms as most of us, so your experience is limited mostly to comedy clubs. Comedy clubs rarely book women, even more rare to have two or more on a single show. All the years I was on the road, I was only in a comedy condo with another woman TWICE. The comedy clubs that do book women are not booking a representation of the best female comedy. Just like Justin Bieber being mega rich and famous is not a representation of the best in music.  A more accurate comment would have been, ‘I walk into the Improv and they only book a few women and all the same kinds of female comics. Comedy clubs need more diversity.’

Iliza was right when she said that the “landscape of what’s available out there for women is not as extensive as it could be.” Therein lies the problem. But, you don’t begin by basing the state of female comedy on the “handful” of women you see around. For one thing, I know women who have been unbooked from shows with Iliza because her ‘people’ told them she doesn’t like to have too many women on a show (if those emails are false, she should take that up with her people). Also, most headliners, Iliza included (in my experience) don’t stay in the room and watch all the other comics. I am guilty of that, too. It’s easy to roll up in the club right before your set and leave the room right after. I mean, what comedian wants to watch every other comedian? But, that limits your ability to accurately report on the state of comedy. Because I produce so many events for female comics (and have to be in the room), I see hundreds of women perform yearly in open mics, standup shows, festivals, sketch groups, etc. By producing events like my yearly Women in Comedy Roundtable, I get to/choose to listen to women A LOT. Those women are trying to speak now, and we need to listen and really hear them.

Let’s also talk about smart comedy, low hanging fruit and using our comedy powers for good or evil. I have mutiple degrees, am extremely well-read and follow politics very closely. I don’t think I’m unusual. Most comics make it a point to have informed opinions. Iliza boasted that she’s the only female comic with a WWII joke. Well, she’s not. And, even if she were, what the fuck does that matter? I talk about politics, rape culture, feminism, homelessness, as well as marriage, kids, my Trump-supporting  dad, and occasionally, will make a pussy reference if I goddamn feel like it. Men are never policed on their dirty joke subjects, on their ‘bad language’ so I will not be, either. All the hateful rape jokes men tell, and we are worried that a women said, ‘pussy,’ really?? And my pussy does not hang low, thank you very much.

Iilza, like every person you ever hear say women aren’t funny enough, is a victim of the Entertainment Industrial Complex. Art is not TV. If you see a limited number of women and those women all make similar jokes (all jokes that Iliza herself has made), you are not seeing a fair representation of women. You are seeing the ones that made it past the gatekeepers in one way or another. Perhaps they are funny, but perhaps they are also hot, don’t rock the boat, know their place or were in the right place at the right time and got lucky. I have always rocked the boat, never accepted their idea of my place and have never been hot. I do feel lucky because I make a living performing standup and writing jokes for other comics. And I can tell you that I am AMAZED by the state of female comedy. Absolutely flabbergasted at the depth and talent and wit of the incredible women I get to (because I make it a point to) work with weekly. Right after the festival, I was quoted as saying that the only way I was able to get through 14 shows in one week is because every women was not only hilarious, but SO DIFFERENT from each other. My husband, comedian Chris Oliver, said the same. We also book tons of men and, frankly, some of them run together in my mind. Sometimes I can’t remember who made which shitting my pants in traffic joke and which ones told which rape jokes. I mean, let’s face it, MOST COMEDY IS HORRIBLE. It is. It’s painful. But, a lot of those comics get better and wiser and more likeable. Some are given regular spots at the Comedy Store (by some, I mean men, of course) and have an opportunity to grow and reflect and change and improve.

Feminism is already “a thing,” and we are equal, no matter who acknowledges it. As feminists, we need to use our comedy powers for good, to help a sister out. Iliza mentioned hiring women on her show and as openers for her. That’s great. Honestly. It is. Does it make you Feminist of the Year? No. In that major public platform, Iliza was given a chance to be heard by more people than most comics, especially women, ever get. She did not widen the landscape for women, she relied on tired old easily-disproven stereotypes that will not elevate us a profession, but will serve to help keep us as second class citizens in comedy. That statement validated every person who thinks women aren’t funny enough. I mean a famous female comic said it, so it must be true.

There is nothing wrong with misspeaking. We all fuck up. But, after the shock and anger wears off, it’s time to take a real look at our own misconceptions and the role we play in the fight as a whole. And did anyone ever figure out what that “one point” about the vagina is?