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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 2 months

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I don't know who needs to hear this, but you should make an OC.

You should make an OC. Specifically a Spider-Sona. Like now. Preferably yesterday. [A MEDIUM-LONG essay about OC's, fanfiction, and how to enrich and better your writing skills in literally every sector. Throughout this essay I reference my two characters Disco-Spider and Inca-Spider as examples of the way OCs can be used.]

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"But no one cares about OCs -"

OKKAYYYY??

IDK about ya'll but fandom is NOT my final destination no siree

I feel like a lot of the time we get so caught up in posting and notes we forget that for many artists and writers on this platform - fanfiction is not the true end goal.

Many of us write and draw fanart for years -

But the fact of the matter is if you want to be an author someday, if you want to be a graphic novelist, an animator, etc, etc - You're going to HAVE to make OCs.

If you want to study English in college or publish books - you're gonna have to write an OC at least once. If not hundreds of times.

If you want to study art - chances are at some point you're gonna have to fill a portfolio with original pieces, including some of OCs.

If you want to do something with your writing, if you want to get better - or make a career out of your art, you HAVE to make OCs at some point.

And this is especially true for fanfiction writers.

You can get very very very good at writing in your specific fandoms, you may have the emotions of the characters on point, and the ability to describe the scenery.

But if you don't know how to create and design a character - if you don't know how to worldbuild, or come up with scenarios without the help of characterai and ChatGPT - you won't be able to write a book.

If you're an artist and you don't know how to draw an original character from scratch, how to match colors, how to draw certain skin tones, certain hair, wheelchairs and mobility aids, how to design a character from looks, to clothing - it's going to be so hard to expand your art outside of fanart. You'll always be beholden to the notes and popularity of your particular fandom.

Do it - even if you've never written or never draw before. Even better.

That's why I CHAMPION Spider-sonas so much. They're basically OCs on easy mode.

Can't write backgrounds yet? Here's a bucket on canon events to pick from? Can't draw faces? Blank mask with eyes.

Hell, if you're really really new about it - just pick a character and make a slightly different variant. Make a Hobie of your own, make a Peter variant. Make a Mary Jane variant. Pick a something you like and turn that into a character.

Can't write? Just fill-in the 'My name is [blank], I was bitten by a [blank]' script that Miles does. Can't draw, just draw out a basic shape of a body and color-out the suit, no fancy pose needed. That still counts!!

Make a self-insert. Make yourself fit into the story, design your suit, write out how you fight crime, how you'd act at the Society, meeting Miguel or Miles.

That's still character design, that's still worldbuilding.

We always hear people say 'Make art for yourself' and yeah that sounds nice - but people also misinterpret it.

Make art for yourself doesn't just mean making art that you personally like.

Making art for yourself also means making art that develops your skills even if no one gives a fuck. It's about making art as practice without the intention of it being 'completed', making OCs that never get used, drawing locations you see or writing a random ass short story then shoving it into your Google Drive forever.

Making art for yourself means making art that invests in yourself.

It means making art that interests you, challenges you, or helps you develop.

And making OC's helps develop your fanfic writing skills.

In may fandoms we begin to fall into these routine 'tropes' between characters and their personalities. This is usually known as the 'fanon' characterization.

Because when you have a set amount of characters and people, there's also a set amount of interactions and relationships between those people.

Writing OCs and having those OCs interact with canon characters allows you to dig deeper into sides of the canon characters we'd never otherwise see.

That's why I wrote Disco-Spider Diane like I do. Often, we see Hobie characterized as the chaotic, rowdy, confident type - which is perfect characterization for him. But in almost all of his interactions - he's the wilder, bolder, extroverted one. I wanted to put him in a situation where for once, he was the calmer one. I wanted to explore more grounded and chill sides of Hobie, one where he's the one grounding the other, and thinking logically - because in canon, we're hinted at a side of Hobie who's way more methodical and slow-paced and willing to stop and wait it out and play it off. And I wanted to see that. I wanted to explore what he'd do if he was faced with someone just as chaotic, who put on a cheeky ironic act - just the same as him.

Because no other characters serve that purpose in canon.

If there are elements of a character or concept you think are interesting but outright ignored by canon and fanon, you can create an OC to explore those parts.

For Disco-Spider: I wanted to explore how someone like a militant Black Panther would handle being Spider-woman, when Spider-people are usually shown as pacifists - what that would look like or how it'd shape her morals based on era, etc. For Inca-Spider: I realized there were so many culture based Spider people like Pavitr and Spider-UK. But none for indigenous communities, and NONE from countries that only existed in other universes. So, I created an indigenous character from Tawanti - a country that's located where Peru would be for us.

You can give a canon character a sibling, to explore how they'd interact with family. Give them a partner that acts totally different than their canon partner, write how that'd change the way they show love.

OC's make your original writing better, AND your fanfiction writing too. They can help you understand canon characters on a deeper level.

And sure, nobody likes your OC. NOW.

But every single character you write about, is someones OC. Every character you write about was once treated that way. Once upon a time, Dean Winchester was just some rando character in the pilot script of a show that hadn't picked up yet. Probably no one gave a fuck until CW picked it up.

The writers had to not only make him and develop him - they had to BELIEVE in him enough to pitch him to a TV show channel to make people care.

That's always the first step. Believing your character's story is worthy enough of being told and presenting it as such.

ESPECIALLY if your OC represents a demographic you don't see represented. Cause yes if there isn't any black women in canon then I'll Thanos this shit and do it myself.

Make OCs.

Write them. Draw them. Even if it's bad. Who the hell cares. Big Mouth is on Netflix with multiple seasons, have you seen that show?? 'Ugly' art is not a crime.

Make piccrews, fill out OCforms or take quiz's as them. Write little blurbs of them hanging with canon characters then post it in the tag.

You don't need a huge Spidersona sheet or a long long fic explaining their backstory. They can just be there.

MAKE OCs.

Make them to explore more in your fanfiction, make them so future you can write that novel or draw or that comic or sell those prints or whatever it is you plan to do.

Make it so your fanfiction AND original writing can grow stronger. It isn't just about notes and content and follows.

Make an OC. Make a Spidersona. Literally you have nothing to lose but your chains.

"Nobody cares-"

Oh they'll care when you pop out with that 6-book publishing deal. They'll care when you're designing big characters for movies. Cause that's how it happens. Watch.

ANYWAYSSSS if you made it this far I hope this inspired you to at least play around with the idea of OCs and Spidersonas in general.

Here's Hobie.

BYE.

If you want to make a sona and are kinda lost on where to start, lemme know!! Because I think they're amazing starting places for those who have never written or drawn before. Or if you have a sona but want to develop them further.

I haven't seen a guide to spidersonas and i wonder if that's something some people might want/need.

Seriously if I can even get one person into writing or drawing I'll be over the goddamn moon.

MAKE OCS PLEASE.

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idolatrybarbie · 6 months

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pairing: marcus pike x fem!reader

word count & rating: 3.9k | explicit - minor free zone!

summary: you wish marcus a happy thirty-sixth birthday. the sequel to two lonely people.

warnings: social isolation, self doubt, anxiety, themes of alienation, light angst, fluff, marcus has the cutest stretch marks and freckles, reader is described as same height and/or shorter than marcus, smut - mentions of intercrural sex, cum eating, grinding, handjob, sex toys, praise kink, exhibitionism, nipple play, vibrator play, cuddling(!!!).

notes: wrote this sporadically throughout my weekend away, shout-out to sima for letting me blab on and on about pedro boy porn. truly in my marcus era, i am a man possessed. these sex toys [x] [x] are also real! in case you were curious.

Bender stretches out on the couch beside you, his long and lanky body bowing low. His hairy belly brushes against the fabric of the cushion when you scratch beneath his chin. The mission of an early afternoon nap has been well accomplished. You push yourself into a sitting position, letting Bender jump to the carpet and stroll away. The grey-white of the cushions contrasts the red of the walls perfectly; in another life, Marcus must have been an interior designer.

You watch your cat—yes, yours—settle atop the orange loveseat across from you, dotted with crimson and tangerine throw pillows. Everything inside Marcus’ place is so rich and vibrant, a constant splash of colour no matter where you look. It makes you feel good to be here, like you belong. Every night spent across the street from your own home feels like a glorious field trip.

You've been coming around for four months, and Marcus has never turned you away. He's your boyfriend now, a label and structure that hasn't existed in your life for what felt like aeons. You've had to modify your habits a little bit—boyfriends get worried when you don't text or show for four days. They show up at your front door ready to call someone—a hospital or an ambulance, or your mother, god forbid.

It has been more difficult to adjust than you thought it would be. As it turns out, once you live a life of solitude, incorporating people back into it is a little like pulling teeth. It’s not that you don't like it, crave that contact. You simply don't think of it. You don't take into consideration whether or not Marcus is missing you because that feels like a little too much. Too much thought from another thrown your way, too much care about you as a person.

You're finding that Marcus almost strictly operates in the realm of too much. Too much time, too much attention dedicated to you. It's a seed of guilt that you've swallowed. The feeling has rooted itself in your chest, stringy vines encircling your lungs. Surely he has something better to do: work, maybe, or visit family and friends. But he seems to want to spend almost every night with you.

You watch movies, chat dinner plans, fuck—though it doesn't really feel like fucking. Marcus brings sweetness to your tender care, delivering praise to each of your soft touches. You love learning his body. The glow in his eyes when he makes you feel good could light the night sky, you're sure of it.

Time with him injects a new type of levity into your life that animals can't bring. Even with Bender as your own now, after Anne-Marie admitted to you his care was too much for her to handle, Marcus brings a presence to your life that makes you feel a little more assured. It's cliché, but it's true.

Tonight, you're waiting for him to come home from a late shift at work. No pet clients this week, you’ve been making yourself comfortable at Pike’s place for the past few days—since that fateful evening he knocked on your door, presuming you dead or worse.

Earlier, you texted him asking when he'd be home and almost dropped your phone. Home. Marcus hadn’t seemed to notice, but the message stopped you short. Maybe you’re a little too comfortable.

Later than I’d like, he’d replied.

His guesstimate was closer to bedtime than dinner. You told him not to worry; you’d still be here waiting. It's his birthday, after all. You are determined to celebrate, even if it's after a long day of catching criminals.

You’ve got a whole thing prepared. A silver birthday banner hanging above the kitchen entryway, his gift on the coffee table. And dinner, of course: chupe and warm bread for dipping, along with sopapillas and ice cream cake for dessert. You've never put so much effort into something like this for another person—never gotten the chance to.

Picking his gift was probably the hardest part of the process. You'd bugged Marcus over and over about an online wishlist. Anything that he needed for his place, any wants. His answer was always the same, eliciting an eye roll every time: you.

“You can't gift a person,” is always your counter, to which the man wholeheartedly disagrees. He has everything he wants; a feeling you cannot understand. Everything he wants and all he seems to want is you.

When Marcus makes it through his front door, the sky is dark. You’re asleep again, body laid across the couch as Bender sits in a comfy loaf across your ribs and diaphragm. His purring moves through your chest, keeping you warm without a blanket. The peaceful scene is disrupted when Marcus drops his bag to the floor a little too loud, waking you. It’s less of a slow, sleepy roll and more of a sharp gasp. The intake scares the cat, Bender leaping from you. He lands on the floor easily.

“Marcus,” you sigh.

“It’s me!” he smiles, his tone one of mock celebration.

“I fell asleep.” An astute observation on your part, you rub the sleep from your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Marcus approaches the couch, holding a hand out to help you stand. You take it, pulling yourself up with his weight as an anchor. He manages to get you into the hold of his arms before you realize, giving you a warm hug. He’s a little sweaty today, salt mixing in with natural sweetness at the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t be sorry,” Marcus says.

You start to move, readjusting the huddle of two so he’s at least facing the strung up banner. “Happy birthday,” you whisper. “I made dinner.”

He hums against your cheek. “All this for little ol’ me?”

“Yes,” you say. “And dessert. And a gift.” You nod at the coffee table, like he can even see you with his chin over your shoulder.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Marcus says.

“I already did. And I wanted to, so it’s done. Come on.” You squeeze your arms around him. “Let’s eat.”

You sit him down at the table, not letting Marcus lift a finger as you bring out two bowls. The shrimp stew has been on the stove, simmering at a low temperature since you finished cooking. You bring the pot out of the kitchen and set it on a cork trivet. When he looks past the lip of the pot, Marcus’ face splits into a disbelieving smile.

“I could kiss you right now,” he says, ass hovering from his chair.

“Sit. You can kiss me later.” You ladle chupe into Marcus’ bowl, then your own. “Shit, spoons. Just a second.” Getting up again, Marcus catches your wrist as you pass the side of the table.

“Honey,” he says.

“I’ll just be a second.”

“You’re doing too much.”

“I’m not,” you insist. “I—can I…”

Your eyes tell it better than your words can, staring down at him. Please let me do this for you. Marcus lets you go, and you return a minute later with a pair of spoons.

You sit down at the table. Marcus simply stares at you. You start to smile before twisting your lips, looking down at your bowl.

“What?” you ask. When he doesn’t say anything, you repeat yourself.

“Nothing.” Marcus shakes his head.

“There’s something.”

“You. You’re just…incredible.”

You shrug. “I wanted to do something a little bit special. I know it’s not a super big deal—”

“The woman who has a freezer stocked with heat-and-eat lasagna made me chupe.”

“Sopapillas, too. They’re in the microwave.”

“And sopapillas. This is such a big deal,” Marcus says.

You hate to admit it, but your heart swells. This is such a big deal. God, you really do lo—

Marcus watches you expectantly, like he's just asked a question. You have no idea what he said. Instead you smile and nod. Then you dip your spoon into the food.

Watching him eat is the best part. Every bite is a reaction, seeing the flavours splash over his tongue turning into something of a spectator sport. Marcus takes seconds but declines a third helping, obediently letting you clean up from dinner and bring out the aforementioned fried dough pouches.

In central Chile, they make sopapillas with pumpkin—in the north, that's not so much the case. Marcus has told you where his family is from, Arica, right near the border with Peru. Part of your disappearing act last week had to do with the last round of research and planning for tonight. By the time you’d nailed the recipe, you’d gotten caught up in looking at maps and learning the country’s history.

“I know it's not one hundred percent,” you say, referring to the food. “Not too sure if I cooked the sauce long enough.”

The cinnamon syrup was the difficult part of the cooking operation. Unsure if Marcus would like a thicker or thinner consistency, you spooned in corn syrup ‘til the liquid took on a half-runny, half-gloopy viscosity.

Marcus speaks with his mouth still full. “It's fucking delicious.” He cuts himself off at three, promising to finish the rest for breakfast.

You scoot away to the kitchen for the final time tonight, taking the ice cream cake out of the fridge. Admittedly, you got a little carried away with it. Ninety dollars on a cake sounds like highway robbery, but it's worth it for the look on his face.

As you set the cake down on the table before him, Marcus looks at a perfectly printed image of his own dopey grin. Jutting out from his mouth is a speech bubble made of icing and carefully placed fondant. He's wishing himself a happy birthday.

You stand by his shoulder, watching his expression. He seems to be stuck halfway between amazement and amusement; just what you wanted. When he joins you on his feet, it's to kiss you—long, deep, and slow. You lean into it, into him, his soft strength supporting you as Marcus caresses your upper arm. Then he grabs your elbow, gently placing each forearm at his sides to cage him in. You hear Bender more than see him, feeling him rub his head against your shin.

“This is the best birthday ever,” Marcus says.

“Including or ignoring that you’re four years out from fourty?” you ask.

His nose brushes against yours. “Don't be a smartass,” he breathes, voice all play.

You both only take a small slice of the cake, bellies full of your homemade dinner. You won't be telling Marcus about the trial batches of shrimp stew that were ultimately fed to the dogs in your care, woefully forgotten as you added another bag of the fresh shellfish to your grocery order.

When you're finished, you start to clear the table. Marcus insists on helping at this part, leaving no room for discussion when he plucks the stack of bowls and spoons from your hands. You wrap the cake and put it back in the fridge, along with the chupe and sopapillas, both in airtight containers. Marcus washes as you dry, navigating his kitchen like an expert when you go to put things away. Well, not like an expert—you are one. After today, you can run this room blindfolded.

When all is said and done, Marcus leans you against the kitchen counter. He plants a kiss to your cheek, slowly heading southbound to your jaw, then your neck.

You giggle as he reaches the soft skin of your throat. “Still got your present waiting for you.”

“You're right here,” he says.

“Hardy har,” you intone. Pushing at his shoulders, Marcus lets up. “On the coffee table.”

He takes the lead back to the living room, sitting on his couch to eye the sleek black box that awaits him. You can't sit, running a thumb over your lips as Marcus takes the gift in his hands. He shakes it, causing you to roll your eyes.

“You're killing me here, Pike.”

“I'm appreciating the fine cardboard craftsmanship,” he says of the box. As much artisanal handiwork as the dollar store gift aisle can grant you, anyway.

Finally, Marcus lifts the lid from the box. On a soft pillow of red and white tissue paper lies the three things you got him, as well as a small card. You watch him take one of the gifts from the box, squeezing it. Nerves claw at your stomach. He takes his time to analyze it, flip it over and flip it again in his hand.

“This is cool,” he says, almost absentmindedly. Then to you, “These stress toys?”

That anxious cord inside snaps, taking you down with it. You're in free fall as your skin goes warm with embarrassment, your palms the only thing shielding you from the world.

“No,” you sigh softly.

It's a shitty gift. That much is clear when he can't even tell what it is. You should have stuck with something simple, like a bookstore gift card. But no, you had to go out on a whim.

Marcus asks if you're okay, words laced with tender concern. You take three seconds to recompose yourself and prepare for what comes next. Pulling a mask together, your hands come away from your face.

“They're, um—well. They're sex toys. Grinding toys made of silicone to…” You clear your throat. “Those are soft... The other one is sort of a vibrator.” Marcus follows your words, looking down at the small green device. “It was a bad gift idea. I thought you would like ‘em.”

If you click your heels three times, will the universe grant you mercy and travel you home? Squeezing your eyes shut for a second, you swallow the knot in your throat. Opening them again, your boyfriend is still here. No dice.

He stands, bringing the box with him. You take a seat on the loveseat, letting him join you. As much as you want to curl inwards and die, for a lack of better words, Marcus will want to talk about it. Understand.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you return. Looking at him makes it hard to retreat into yourself.

“It's a great gift.”

“You don't have to say that.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “This is good.”

Watching his thick fingers rub over the meat of the toy should not turn you on as much as it does, a low simmer between your legs. The soft ridges of the floppy one in his hand look a little Georgia O’Keefe; the lines of an abstract vulva. You stop yourself from picturing that hand by your thighs, cupping you where you want Marcus the most.

“I figured because you like to grind on me, this might add something more to it. Just for fun,” you shrug.

Like to is an understatement. If observing Marcus Pike is a competitive display, when it comes to grinding, you're going pro. In bed, he rubs his cock against you—your thighs, your ass, your chest—and against the sheets. He's very into intercrural, first showing you a video of the act on the night of your two month anniversary before putting yourselves to the test.

His favourite, though, is to rub against the top of your thigh as you make out and watch him. He likes the attention, and you love giving it to him. When Marcus finishes, he lets you feed him his cum with the pads of your fingers.

He kisses you softly now, hand at your cheek as he rubs the skin close to your ear.

“It's a great fuckin’ gift,” Marcus assures you. “Just needed the clue in.”

“You don't have to reassure me,” you say, shaking your head. You hate when this happens. Tonight is about him, and suddenly it's your emotions taking centre stage. Sometimes it feels like you take up all the air in the room.

“I want to,” Marcus says.

He wants to. You could melt.

“Did you want to try them?” you ask. “The toys?”

“Please.” He nods in the direction of the stairs, prompting you to lead the way.

You take Marcus by the hand, leading the way as he follows you up to his bedroom. In the months of being together, the rush to the bed has dissipated. Neither of you are any less eager, but you know now that Marcus isn't going anywhere. There is a sense of security here that you haven't ever felt before.

When you cross the threshold of the room, you take your time with undressing him. It's an unwrapping of sorts. The buttons of his shirt come away easily, sliding off Marcus’ shoulders to the floor. Next is his belt, clinking lightly as you reach down and pull the leather strap from his waist. He takes his pants and boxers off for you, leaving the man in the nude.

You leave yourself a moment to simply look. Taking him in with your eyes, you smile. Who has blessed you with such a beautiful, understanding man and how can you ever repay them? The heat of his body pressed against the skin bared by your rolled up sleeves makes you shiver. You want forever to hold him. Have him be yours.

Cool fingers run across Marcus’ bare hip. You trace the marks of thinned skin near his waist. He watches you carefully, breath held. You blow air against his lips before kissing him hungrily. Like this, you can taste him: vanilla ice cream and butterscotch.

Pulling him to the bed, you let him get comfortable. Marcus has left the box of toys on the nightstand. You leave them for now, straddling his thighs before you take his dick in your hand. He’s all warm and smooth against your palm, the ridge of a vein pressing against your thumb.

Marcus sucks in a small gasp as you start to move your hand. He gently takes hold of the base of your skull, resting your forehead to his. He looks at you, unblinking. The two of you are caught in a bit of a staring contest; you never want to pull your eyes away from his beautiful face. Those full lips pout for you, forming something like your name in precious whispers.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” you say. “I love you.” Marcus’ eyes roll to the back of his skull, his hips tilting further up into your touch.

This man is the sun to your stars. You don’t quite orbit each other, but he makes you feel that much brighter. You two are cut from the same cloth; scorching infernos no one ever truly gets to see, not quite within the grasp of others. But here, it’s different. A focused fire meets an exploding astral scatter.

“You’re always so good to me, Marcus,” you whisper. “I’m so lucky.”

“Fuck, you’re so—god.” He doesn’t get much more coherent.

You reach for the toys with your free hand, distracting him with gentle kisses across the constellations that dot his chest. A thousand tiny sun spots beneath the plush of your lips. You could stay here forever, feeling his skin against you.

First, you start with the soft silicone toy without the vibe. You squeeze it in your hand to warm it up, then bring it close to Marcus.

“Can I touch you with this?”

“Please,” he nods.

You take it into the hand already in contact with his cock, sliding the toy against him slowly. Marcus groans, tipping his head back. His eyes close briefly before flying back open.

Immediately, you stop what you are doing. “You alright?”

“You’re still fully dressed.” He speaks as if he’s just realized the situation at hand.

You simply nod. “Yeah.”

“Would you wanna…” Marcus glances down at his naked body.

“Tonight is about you,” you say.

“Well, I want you to. If you want to.”

You’ve been ignoring the tacky feeling in your underwear, letting the seam of your pants do the work for you as you watch Marcus.

“Okay.”

You let Marcus undress you, pressing pause on sex. His hands rove over you as he peels the shirt from your skin, making quick work of everything below the waist. He settles your cunt over his cock, gliding you forward and back with his hands. You take in a breath, reveling in the slide against your clit. When Marcus lifts his hips just so, you moan. You use his shoulders as a hold, balancing to stay upright.

Taking the silicone toy, you place it between his pelvis and the length of his dick. Then you hover over the underside of him once again. When you sit down, pussy slick against his length, Marcus huffs out a desperate groan. You grind against him, giving him friction at either side.

“Feels so fucking good,” Marcus says. “I…you’re so fucking warm. Wet.”

“Yeah? That’s what you do to me. So sweet, such a good man,” you say. His hands come to rest at your hips again. “Wanna flip me over?”

Marcus nods, readjusting so that he’s overtop of you now. He slots the toy between the crux of skin at your thigh, grinding against it as he presses light touches to your clit. Focused on his pleasure, he keeps his eyes closed as he ruts into you. Marcus kisses you as he cums, stickiness painting your skin.

He travels down your body with his mouth, trailing lips and tongue across your collarbone. Marcus licks at your left nipple before he latches onto it. Your spine pulls taut as you cup his head to your breast, petting his hair in encouragement. When he leaves your chest, he moves straight to the cum against your skin. As you watch him lick it off the front of your hip, you’re sure that you have died and gone to heaven.

Marcus laves his tongue over the skin between your belly and pelvis, watching for your reaction. He leaves your body for only a moment. When he comes into focus again, he’s holding the green vibrating toy in his hand.

Turning it on, he asks, “Is this okay?” as he presses it to your pubic bone.

You nod, an mhm coming out more like a slight whine.

He moves it lower and lower, tracing the tip of the pear-shaped device around your wetness.

“Where do you want it?” The question is playfully facetious; he knows exactly where you want it.

“Marcus, please,” you sigh.

He hums, nose inches above your soft and swollen cunt. “You know I’ll always give you what you want.”

Marcus presses the toy against you, the round and squishy body subtly buzzing against your cunt as the tip delivers a direct point of pressure to your clit. He shifts it every few moments, the readjustments pushing you further and faster towards the edge. It’s the kiss that does it for you, tender as he cradles the side of your face with his large hand. The caress of his ring finger against your cheek cuts the cord, your orgasm rocking your body like volts of electricity.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” he murmurs. Marcus turns the toy off, releasing you from the overwhelming waves of pleasure. Cradling your back to his front, he kisses the crown of your head.

“I love you too, y’know,” Marcus says.

“Hm?” You shift in his arms, looking at him now. “What did you say?”

The way you bat your eyes at him tells Marcus that you heard him perfectly fine. He shakes his head with a light chuckle. “I said—”

“I love you.” You steal the words from him the same way he’s taken your heart.

Marcus Pike is many things: your neighbour, your boyfriend. A lover and a thief. He’s offered up his guts to you so easily, your prize for taking a chance. This man is a gift. A teacher. You're re-learning what it's like to have someone be there. To live and feel the art of giving.

#marcus pike #the mentalist fanfiction #marcus pike fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #marcus pike x reader #*lover be sweet

71 notes · View notes

brighteyedbushybrowed · 7 months

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𝐀 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 The secrecy surrounding Mary's activities and a little brown book lead to you feeling pushed out and rejected. However, all that changes with a confession from your partner. 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩(𝐬) Transmasc!Mary x Transmasc!Reader 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 Brief smut (18+ only, MINORS DNI), grinding, use of the term t-dick to describe yours and Mary's genitals, dirty talk, Mary using sex as a distraction, arguments, anger, Mary discussing himself pre-transition and his fears surrounding part of himself because of that, happy ending. 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2754 words 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 I am semi-back from my writing break! This fic means a lot to me from the standpoint of an AFAB transmasc person who also has insecurities about a similar thing Mary has insecurities about in this fic. This fic does talk about things that can be dysphoric, so please keep that in mind when reading this fic! I've briefly proofread to make sure I've not used she/her pronouns to refer to reader or Mary at any point but if I've missed any please let me know so I can correct that ASAP. 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢 𝐓𝐢𝐩 𝐉𝐚𝐫

The scratch of pen on paper as you curl into Mary’s side is possibly one of your favourite sounds. It was the sound you woke up to the morning after your first night together and it was the first real glimpse you got into who your partner is behind the corpse paint and crimson blood they don onstage every night. You’ve both been here so many times before that you don’t need to look up to see what they look like right now. The image of their inky devil’s lock out of place and messy from your fingers threading through it in the throes of pleasure, the faint remnants of black clinging to their eyes where baby wipes couldn’t quite wash it away, pea-green eyes narrowed and plush lips pursed as their pen flies across the page.

His arm moves just so as he continues to adorn the page with rushed words from the depths of his mind. You know that he’s writing lyrics, but never what those lyrics are until you attend one of Repugnant’s concerts and hear them playing a new song or when you sit in on band practice and listen to them coming up with possible arrangements for what he’s written. That little black book of his is never far from him, kept secure either in his jeans or leather jacket pockets.

However, when you glance up at them now to try and sneak a peek you realise it’s not the same book. No, it’s not the soft black moleskin cover surrounding off-white pages of lined paper that’s in your lover’s grasp tonight. Instead, it’s brown leather and the pages have yellowed with age. You’re not sure what this book contains, but it’s much older than their go-to for scribbling down lyrics in a hurry before inspiration flutters away like leaves in a storm. You don’t even catch one of the words on the page before Mary shuts it and gently bops you on the head with it.

“I see you, nosy.” His tone is teasing and you can’t help but smile. “Trying to get a sneak peek at the goods before I’m ready to give them up?”

“Ah, you caught me! Whatever are we going to do about it?”

He chuckles before leaning over to his drop the book inside his bedside drawer, returning to you just to crawl on top of you with a smirk. Your eyes wander down from his face to his prominent collarbone, bite marks adorning it like tailored accessories made just for him, and then to the faint scars under his pecs. Lower still your gaze travels to the soft stomach you’ve marked up more times than you can bother to recall and the thighs you love digging your fingers into every time they fuck you. It’s while you admire their body that they deliberately grind down against you, leaving you gasping at the friction.

“Maybe what you need is a distraction, hm? Something to keep you occupied so you don’t have time to be so nosy.”

Your hands instinctually grab onto their waist as they roll their hips against you, their t-dick rubbing up against your own with such practised precision you can’t stop the moan that tumbles from your lips.

“What’s wrong, baby cakes?” They’re teasing you again, mocking you with the little pet name you accidentally gave them once when you were drunk after one of their gigs. “Does it feel too good? Too cock drunk to come up with a response? Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you.”

Mary rocks their hips again, slow and purposeful, and you throw your head back as you give in, all thoughts of the unfamiliar brown book scattering in favour of feeling every sensation they give you.

***

You think you’re hearing things when you return home from work early. A soft, crooning voice emanates from the bedroom accompanied by the strum of an acoustic guitar. Does Mary have a friend over? As far as you’re aware, they don’t have an acoustic and they’ve never sang around you for you to be able to decipher whether it’s them or someone else.

“Mare? That you?”

The singing and guitar stop with a dissonant chord that has you wincing as well as Swedish expletives coming from your shared bedroom. Your lover swiftly appears from behind the door.

“Wasn’t expecting you home so soon. Something happen at work?” The look on his face is one of genuine concern. The last time you’d returned home early, it was because of a family bereavement.

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Nah, they just let me off early. Friday night and all that. Do you have someone over? I thought I heard singing when I came in.”

For a split second, you think you see Mary panic. However, it passes so quickly that you can’t be sure and are quickly distracted by your lover strolling over to press a kiss to your lips and wrap his arms around your waist. His lips are dry and chapped and his tongue tastes like black coffee. It’s more of a stale coffee flavour than fresh, but it’s intoxicating all the same because it’s him and he’s dipping you a little, one of his hands moving up your back to support you as your tongues tangle. When he breaks contact, your chests heaving to catch your breath, he finally speaks.

“Just you and me here, babe. You and me. All alone.”

The way he purrs those last two words stirs something inside you, but something feels… off. They’re trying to distract you, just like they did the other night. Just like every time you venture too close to a particular part of themselves that for whatever reason they refuse to share with you. There’s a sting of hurt at the thought that they don’t trust you enough or don’t want you to get to know that part of them that their friends probably already know so well. You’d call them out on it, but the fear of them ending things because of you pushing too hard has its claws sunk deep within the corners of your mind.

So, you don’t say anything. Instead you wiggle your eyebrows at them and giggle when they growl and playfully slap your behind before leading you to the bathroom to “clean up” after your day at work.

***

You’ve had enough. Enough of the distractions. Enough of him shutting you out. Enough of feeling like you’re not trusted. Perhaps that’s why you’re both arguing so loud that you’re amazed you’ve not received a call or visit from the landlord telling you both to keep the noise down.

“How could you even think that I don’t trust you? After all we’ve been through, how can you think that?”

“Are you kidding me right now, Mare?” The hurt and anger swirl as one within you and you hate the way it makes your face and ears feel so hot. “How am I supposed to feel when all you do is hide from me?”

He groans and drags his hands down his face. “Oh my god, not this again!”

“Yes, this again! You keep shutting me out when I try and get close to you and you know how much that hurts me.”

“What, so I’m not allowed secrets now? I’m not allowed to keep some things just for me?”

“I’m not saying that, and you know it. Every time I think I’m about to be let in you try to distract me with sex!”

It’s the roll of Mary’s eyes that makes you finally snap.

“You know what? Fuck this.” You storm off towards the bedroom, weaving around them as you try and hold back infuriated tears. The thudding of combat boots on wood behind you alerts you to the fact your lover is following behind you and you don’t know if you want to shout at them to leave you alone or break down in their arms.

“Babe, c’mon,” Mary says, reaching out and taking hold of your hand. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to shut you out.”

You scoff. “It certainly feels like you are.”

“I know.” A quiet lull in the midst of your spat. It almost feels too quiet. Too calm. Blood is still blasting through your veins full throttle from the intensity of your arguing. “Let’s just… sit down. Talk. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

Reluctantly, you nod in agreement and the two of you sit on the bed, backs against the headboard and pillows while Mary plays with the fingers on your left hand. The lack of talking does nothing to reassure you that they’re going to give you any explanation, but even in your anger you’re not going to push them. Despite how hurt you are, you trust in them to explain things like they said they will.

“I’ve… never really told you about before.”

Mary doesn’t need to say what before means. You instantly know and watch them, attentive.

“The guys were all there for me when I came out. Mamma and Pappa always supported me and kinda already knew, so that was never the issue. But I thought… I thought that if I sang I’d sound too feminine. Too much like the old me. I hated how feminine I sounded when I sang, so I stopped. It turned out well in the end, of course, because I don’t sing in the band and I never did. But it hurt because I had all these songs I used to write to process my emotions and explore different things and I couldn’t sing them anymore because I didn’t want to hear the old me, you know? Even the band haven’t heard my singing voice before. I’m the only one who’s heard it since I’ve been on T because what if they listen and they think I don’t sound masculine enough or I don’t sound like me? And the band is so niche and specific with its themes around cannibalism and necrophilia and horror that I’ve never felt like I can show them the other songs I wrote as well as the ones that I write in that book now. I don’t want them to view me differently. It would… hurt too much.”

Your fingers intertwine with theirs and give their hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Their eyes become glossy with fresh, unshed tears and you lean in to rest your head on their shoulder, their cheek coming to rest atop your skull as they tilt their head.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out like that.” Mary’s voice shakes as they speak. “It’s just… really scary thinking about sharing it with anyone because it’s something that I’ve kept for myself for so long. I wouldn’t have coped if I sang for you and you thought I didn’t sound masculine enough. Your opinion means a fucking lot to me and I didn’t want to lose you if… if…”

“Hey.” You’re both sat up again, your hands cupping his face so that he’s looking straight at you. “You could never lose me because of your singing. I would love your voice no matter how it sounds because it’s part of you; the person I love. Your voice is perfectly masculine because it’s your voice. I’m so sorry for getting upset at you. I had no idea you were going through this and I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I should have been patient.”

A tearful smile as their hands rest atop yours. “You have been patient. And you were right. I was trying to distract you with sex because I thought that maybe you’d forget and drop it out and you’d stay longer because you wouldn’t find out about my singing or my songs that I used to write before I met you.”

Your thumbs swipe away the trickling trails that roll down his cheeks. “I won’t force you to share your voice or your songs with me if you’re not comfortable with it, but I promise you that it would never change the way I see you or my feelings for you. I love every single part of you, and that includes your voice and your words in whatever form you use them.”

Mary is quiet. His forehead creases in thought for what feels like an eternity, but again you don’t push. Instead, you gaze into his eyes and caress his face, wiping away any tears that escape as he ponders. When he does eventually move away from you, it’s to reach into the bedside drawer and retrieve the secretive brown book. His fingers trail over the cover and along the edges in reverence before he finally allows himself to place it in your lap. Before you can ask if he’s sure he wants you to have it, he climbs off the bed and pulls out a banged up looking acoustic guitar from under the bed. So it was him playing the guitar that time…

“There’s… a song in there. On the fifth page. I’ve been practising it while you’ve been out at work. I’d like you to hear it. If you want to, I mean.”

Grinning, you pat the spot on the bed beside you and wait until he’s sat cross-legged, guitar in position in his lap, to open it up to the page he wants.

The first thing that sticks out to you is the title: House of Affection. Mary begins to gently strum the chords for the intro as you read through the lyrics scrawled onto the aged page along with his voice. There’s a hit of sadness in the lyrics and the way that your partner sings them. A longing for love etched into their words, but also a weariness weaved into that longing. Wishing for love but not if it comes with deceit and the selfishness of toying with their heart. The desire to not feel that love at all if there is no commitment or genuine intention of reciprocating it. All of it expressed in words arranged in such a way that it could be found in a poetry collection and not seem out of place. Mary puts such emotion and feeling into singing the lyrics that you have no doubt that they come from a place of experience.

And all of that is encompassed in a song less than four minutes in length. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so moved, not just by the song itself but how much meaning the fact Mary is sharing it with you holds. You’re the only one they’ve shared this with and that is something that has so much more worth to you than any material possession on the planet.

By the time the song is finished, Mary’s hands are quaking. You carefully pluck the guitar from his lap and replace it with yourself, wrapping your arms around them as they cry out of relief and the build up of emotions leading up to this point.

“Thank you, Mary,” your murmur, voice soothing as your rub their back and comb fingers through their hair. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Tears dampen your shirt as they let out the feelings they’d bottled for so long, and you don’t mind. You’d let your beloved cry all night if they need to. Anything to help release the pent up feelings and thoughts they’d kept concealed and hidden away for so many years. You’re not sure how they managed to cope like this for so long, but you’re glad that they won’t have to anymore.

“I love you so, so much,” you tell him, kissing whatever part of his head you can reach in your embrace. There’s a sniffle and a sound that leaves his mouth before he starts crying again and you let him.

After fifteen minutes of them crying in your arms, Mary eventually calms down and lifts their head to look at you. Their eyes are ready and puffy, nose and cheeks flushed, eyelashes wet. You delicately kiss their eyelids, their forehead, nose, lips. Lips over and over until they finally laugh softly and you can see their smile again.

“I love you too. Thank you for not judging me.”

“Of course. I would never judge you. Never.”

With the way Mary leans in to kiss you again, fingers curling into your shirt to pull you in so close that your bodies could meld into one, you believe them.

#spicy content #mary goore #mary goore x reader #mary goore x transmasc!reader #transmasc!mary goore #repugnant #the band ghost #smut #fanfic #my fanfic #mine

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obsidiancreates · 3 months

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One Undead To Another (Chapter 14)

(Trigger warning for... I guess mental breakdown? Death, grief, complicated feelings surrounding grief)

“Thanks.” Juliet smiles at the officer, and then turns and walks up to her partner.

“So?”

“Checks out.” Juliet doesn’t even try to hide the relief in her voice. “The mom tried to kidnap her daughter and Shawn caught them, the mom confessed to everything and the little girl is already home safe.”

“And no bite marks on the perp?”

“Not a scratch.” The relief she feels is enough to make her melt. “She described Shawn as quote, ‘rude and offputtingly cavalier with a strangely calm approach to everything’.”

Lassiter scoffs, not without slight fondness, and with much mocking. “Sounds like Spencer.”

“Yeah.” Juliet can hear the dreamy relief in her own voice. “Yeah, it does. Even through all that. … Maybe we’ve been a little too hard on him, Carlton.”

“Too hard on him? O’Hara, he’s a vampire.”

“But he’s still Shawn.”

“The last time we used the ‘It’s still Spencer’ excuse to relax about him, someone ended up dead.”

The tension returns to her in a crashing tidal wave with that sobering reminder. “Right.”

“Right. Yes, it’s Spencer’s personality, his behavior, even his soul. Doesn’t matter. We need to keep an eye on him and keep him in check. Even if that means being a little unfriendly.”

“Easier for you to do than for me.”

“I know. So I’ll be doubly cautious for both of us.”

“Thank you, Carlton. … What now?”

“We’ll have to go back and get Guster, then decide on how we handle the rest of tonight.”

“... Or… call Gus to check in, then go get coffee and late-night pancakes before switching off?”

“... I would kill for a good cup of joe right about now.”

Juliet smiles and pulls out her phone, finding the contact. “Gus?”

“Juliet?”

“Just checking in. How is everything so far?”

“Good, actually. We’re making a list of uh… changes to Shawn’s psychic abilities. Like Mary said, they’re all out of whack now.”

“And he hasn’t…”

“I’m fine. I put the cross on a paperclip necklace, he can’t get near my arteries.”

“Smart. Okay, well, Lassiter and I are going to take care of a few things and we’ll be back to relieve you soon.”

“Cool.”

She hangs up. “Are we splitting the bill tonight?”

“I was thinking I’ll watch Spencer tonight.”

“... So?”

“So, you should pay.”

“Oh, my god.”

“What?! It’s fair, O’Hara.”

“You’re seriously trying to use this to get me to pay for pancakes.”

“It’s a perfectly valid reasoning.”

“You just want to annoy me into not fighting you on watching Shawn.”

“Right. I want to make absolutely sure I’m the one stuck with him for hours.”

“You don’t want me in danger.”

“You owe me.”

“I do. Alright, I’ll buy. But that means we’re both getting the kind with the strawberries and bananas.”

“Fine. Doctor says I need to eat more fruit anyway.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright.” Gus has the list of psychic attributes laid out in front of him, and beside it a new list of vampire attributes. The psychic list is much longer, including lots of little moments they now both realize were actual psychic instances in past cases. “So we both agree that the Nigel St Nigel cigarette case thing was psychic.”

“The first stop was. After that I just actually noticed the danger.”

“Still counts.” Gus writes it down. “Okay, vampire thing next. Can you fly?”

“Pretty sure that’s a no.” Shawn isn’t even sure how he’d go about trying that except for jumping off a cliff– which he considered, before getting a vision of his body floating in the water and Lassie and Jules watching it be hauled up. He’s not sure if he was dead-dead in the vision, or just unconscious, but it doesn’t matter because Lassie and Jules looked pale and stricken and they’ve already had to see his corpse once.

“Psychic sure or regular sure?”

Shawn considers it for a moment, taking the time to eat a cheese puff. “Regular sure,” he decides.

“Fine. Then… how do those cheese puffs taste? Like ash?”

“Like artificial cheese.” Shawn eats another. “I think food tastes the same.”

“Does it feel the same?”

Shawn shakes his head and has another puff. “I had a smoothie earlier and it didn’t quench anything. That might be the biggest loss in all this.”

“You mean besides your eternal soul?”

“Pretty sure I still have my soul. … That one was definitely psychic.”

Gus notes that and the food thing down on their respective pages. “I think we’re making good progress here.”

“Me too, man. I knew we’d be able to figure this all out together.” He hadn’t intended on that at all. He still catches himself looking at Gus’s neck, as does Gus. It’s why Gus made the makeshift rosary in the first place. It’s risky, and difficult, and it makes him hungry.

Hence the cheese puffs. Which aren’t taking the edge off at all, but maybe if he pretends they do he can trick himself into it actually working.

“How about shapeshifting?”

“Gus, I’ve been a vampire for like, a day. Even if I could do that, it probably won’t happen before speed.”

“You said you super-sped at that lady’s car.”

“Yeah, on accident.”

“Fine. What about hypnosis?”

Shawn crunches a puff.

Yes. Yes, he has hypnosis. Strong, potent hypnosis. Some kind of power over someone’s very soul, compelling them to do what he says without even knowing he’s done anything. He can feel the phantom sensation of doing it to Gus, twice now, the way it tied them together for a moment in an otherworldly snare where Shawn was the trap and Gus the prey. And he hadn’t even meant to do it at all.

“I haven’t tried yet.” Not a lie. He hasn’t. But it’s not an answer. But how can he answer? ‘Sorry buddy, I’ve already hypnotized you, Lassie, Jules, and some random other person. You, Lassie, and Jules more than once, by the way.’ He’s still on thin ice, and he’s still figuring this out, and he’s sca–

“You haven’t tried?” “To be honest, man, I’m not super hyped about the powers stuff. They kind of suck so far.” He motions to Gus’s chest.

Gus rubs the bruise. Shawn tilts his head and tries to parse if there’s any tip-offs for ‘bruise’. He’s pretty sure there isn’t– but it’s also just a normal, logical conclusion. He files that away as a ‘Maybe Psychic’ moment and crunches another puff. “So uh… how’re you planning on tricking out the office?”

“Hmm? Oh, that. Well, I talked with Father Wesley earlier–”

Shawn grits his teeth. A resentment he knows isn’t his bubbles up inside of him. He bites the next puff harder than he has to. Gus doesn’t seem to notice, now opening his laptop and looking something up.

“– and got some advice. I found Bible passage wallpaper in an online specialty shop, I’ll put whatever I have leftover from my apartment in here.”

Crunch. Is he scowling?

“I also ordered some actual crosses to hang around my desk. Just, you know, in case.”

Crunch. Shawn hopes his nod doesn’t look too stiff.

“I’m probably going to keep a spray bottle of holy water around too.”

Crunch.

Gus jumps in chair. Shawn looks down at his hand. He’s crushed the entire bag of puffs.

“Whoops.” It’s all he can muster up. It’s nothing. It’s chips. It’s so much more.

“... Maybe I shouldn’t tell you all the stuff I have planned.”

“Yeah. … I’ll probably figure it out anyway.”

“Probably.”

“It was kind of impossible to hide anything from me even before all this.”

“Not that impossible. You didn’t know about Ruby.”

“Oh yeah.” He probably would now. It feels a little like his brain is a poster, folded up so that whatever the focal point of the design is was on full display. He could pick apart the details, admire the intricacies, hang it up and be satisfied with just that. But now he’s unfolded it for the first time, and it’s so much bigger than he ever imagined it’d be, and it’s almost difficult to take in the whole complicated piece. He can hone in on little aspects, specific sections, he can separate it by the leftover impressions of the folding, but trying to see it all as one leaves him unable to see any of it. He could probably know everything, if he could just back up far enough to take it all in…

‘Don’t.’ His grandma’s voice drifts through his head softly. ‘You won’t be able to get back.’

“Shawn? Shawn!” He blinks and Gus is standing in front of him, pencil-cross tucked into his shirt so it’s not waving in Shawn’s face as Gus leans over and lightly slaps his cheek. The warmth of Gus’s hand enriches the smell-taste hovering around him. Shawn jerks away and tries to cover the seize of panic with an exaggerated flop and shout of surprise. He falls off the chair in his fervor.

Gus just tsks and watches Shawn flop around for a second through half-lidded, done-with-you eyes. Shawn sits up, now covered in the dusty remains of the puff bag.

“What was that?” Gus puts his hands on his hips. “You completely blanked out.”

“Gus, please. I don’t blank out.”

“Your eyes glazed over, Shawn.”

“Now I want doughnuts.” He doesn’t. He wishes he does. He should.

“I’m serious, Shawn! That was–” Shawn zeros in on Gus’s hands, highlighted as they tremble slightly. His eyes go up to Gus’s lip, also trembling, and the way Gus keeps looking at his neck before quickly looking away.

“Oh, buddy.” Shawn stands, putting a hand on Gus’s shoulder. Warm, pulsing with Life, easy to take. He crumbles up the chip bag in his other hand, keeping the one on Gus’s shoulder loose and casual. “Look, man, if you need to…”

“No, it’s– I’m fine.”

“You were having flashbacks, weren’t you?”

“... Maybe.”

“I’m sorry, man. I-I can’t imagine… I mean if I found you like…”

“Shawn, seriously. I’m fine.”

The turmoil in Shawn’s guts is different right now. It’s not hunger, not searing pain, not uncertainty and confusion twisting his stomach into knots. It’s a deep pit of dread, a rolling cycle of regret and grief, a tight line of If Only that…

… Isn’t… his.

…

“Gus?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you need to go back home.”

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you until Lassie gets back, remember?”

“Dude, looking at me is just hurting you right now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. No wonder you keep throwing up, man. This feels awful.”

“Feels aw- you can feel my feelings right now?”

“Kind of, I– it’s complicated.”

“... I don’t want to leave right now, Shawn.”

The grief sharpens. The almost gentle roll of the grief cycle becomes a tear. Shawn sucks in a breath at the same time Gus pulls in a shaky sob.

“Gus, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You already did.”

“But I’m back! I’m right here, man!”

“You know it’s not the same, Shawn.”

“But it can be! After we figure all this weird new stuff out! Nothing has to change, man. I won’t let it, we’ve got a good thing going and nothing is taking that away from us.”

“You died.”

“Only for a little while.”

“No, Shawn.” Gus brushes the hand off his shoulder, putting both of his hands on Shawn. “You died. You– we saw–”

“But it’s okay now! We can move on from it, buddy, just like we always do.”

“Not just like we always do! Don’t you–”

“... Don’t I what?”

“... Don’t you feel off?”

“Don’t I feel off?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you died!” Gus shakes him. “Because we didn’t believe you! You died surrounded by freaky monsters, alone, in a basement! It’s not normal to just move on from that, Shawn!”

“What are you– are you mad that I’m not upset enough or something?!”

“YES!” Gus pushes Shawn away– or tries to. Shawn isn’t even wobbled by all the force Gus puts into it, and instead Gus is the one who ends up pushed back and stumbling away. “YOU’RE DEAD, SHAWN! YOU’RE DEAD AND YOU’RE STILL WALKING AROUND MAKING JOKES AND ACTING LIKE IT’S JUST SOME EVERY DAY THING!”

“What do you want me to do, Gus?! Sit on my bathroom floor and mope?! Hang around my apartment thinking about what it felt like to die?! I don’t work like that!”

“No, you just run away when it’s something you can’t brush off!”

“Run– that was years ago! I haven’t run away from something huge since I was eighteen, Gus! I’m here, I’m here to stay, I’m not going anywhere!”

“YOU DID!”

“And I’m back!”

“You’re NOT! Not the same Shawn who left, and we both know it, so stop trying to pretend otherwise!” Tears are streaming down Gus’s face. There’s a frantic look in his eye and Shawn can feel the confusing tangle of emotions taking up his best friend’s chest, the grief and the anger and the disbelief and the fear all twisting into each other to make something just ugly and painful.

“What do you want from me, Gus?!”

“I DON’T KNOW! JUST– JUST STOP PRETENDING IT’S NOT DIFFERENT!”

“I CAN’T!”

“WHY NOT?!”

“I JUST CAN’T!”

“YOU HAVE TO!”

“I WON’T!”

“WHY?!”

“BECAUSE I’M SCARED!”

Silence.

Gus stands, crying and huffing and panting. Shawn is frozen, not daring to breath, blink, even move to run. He misses his heart hammering in his chest in moments like these. He misses feeling it jump into his throat, hearing blood roaring in his ears, feeling his pulse speed up and not Gus’s, he misses–

Oh.

He’s crying.

He’s crying, and Gus is moving towards him with a tissue. He offers it to Shawn. Shawn still can’t move. This doesn’t feel real. None of it has felt real, except for when it has, and then it felt too real to be real. He feels like the admission popped his Shamu pool floatie and now he’s sinking, sinking into shark-infested waters with weights strapped around his ankles and no don’t think about Mary choking on blood in his arms right now on top of all of it–

Gus wipes Shawn’s cheek for him. He’s still crying too. “I’m scared,” Gus says, voice wobbling.

“Yeah.” Shawn’s voice comes out a watery croak. He motions weakly at Gus’s fake rosary.

“Not like that.” Gus swallows. “I’m not scared of you, Shawn.”

“Yeah you are.”

“A little bit. But I’m scared for you.”

“... Why?”

“I didn’t just see my best friend die. My best friend died, and now he’s trying to ignore that.”

“Gus–”

“We need to talk about it, Shawn.”

“... I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“... It might not even help.”

“We still have to.”

“It’s never helped anything before.”

“Have we ever tried?”

“... I don’t… want… to have died, Gus.” His voice catches. He’s trembling now. “That can’t have actually happened.”

“It doesn’t seem possible.”

“It doesn’t, right? I don’t– things work out for me.”

“They always have.”

“They always have. They always do. It can’t have just… not, this time.”

“But it did. Not, did not.”

“... What if I did die? … For real? And I’m not…”

“You?”

“... Yeah.” Shawn wipes his own eyes this time. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. He’s never heard it like this. Clogged up, shaky, weak. “Gus, I’m… I’m scared. I’m sc–”

The last word doesn’t make it out. He sobs.

Gus pulls him into a hug, also sobbing. Shawn feels Gus’s heartbeat in his entire body, in his bones and deeper, but for the moment the hunger and temptation don’t come with it. As Shawn hugs back, taking in the warmth and feelings and Life, he doesn’t feel any of the painful tension of before. He feels Gus’s whole self, body and soul and all, and feels comfort.

#psych #psychusa #psych usa #psych 2006 #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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allzelemonz · 1 year

Text

Reading: Micah Bell X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader is referred to as ‘boy’ and the story portrays them as gay/mlm with mentions of legality in the time period Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: M/Near sexual encounter Warnings: Micah Bell is his own warning, I mean it this time, making out, mild grinding, teasing Summary: Mary-Beth lends you a book you can relate to, but Micah ends up getting his hands on it.

You aren’t one to stray from your usual duties around camp. There’s already enough of that from Uncle and a few others. Between everything around camp and the regular jobs from Dutch, you don’t have a lot of free time. Mary-Beth seems to have made this her problem, scouring for a book that might make you skip a fishing trip or stop cutting wood for a few minutes.

“Just give it a chance.” She begs, holding the book out.

You sigh, putting down the sack you’d hauled across camp. “What makes you think I know how to read?”

“I’ve seen you read.” She says. “And I think I finally found one you’ll like.”

Your breathing is heavy from the labor. “I don’t like that romance stuff, Miss Gaskill.”

“I know, I know.” She grins. “But I got this one from the fence in town. It’s about two men who fall in love out in the Wild West.”

You chuckle. “I don’t need some book to remind me what I’m missing out on, Miss.”

“It’s good to imagine things, Mister.” She shoves the book into your arms. “Give it a chance.”

She scurries off before you can give it back to her, leaving you standing with it. If Mary-Beth is telling the truth about the contents of the book then it’s as illegal as the regular crimes you commit. Except this one doesn’t make you money. You look down at it. The cover is plain, not even a title on the spine. It’s black and unassuming, completely innocent at a glance. You flip it open, looking over the pages. The occasional word fixes in your mind as you skim over them, confirming Mary-Beth’s summary and damning the book as contraband.

You return to your tent and set the book with your things. There’s an itch in your brain that you think the book might scratch. You resist it and go fishing instead. Pearson is grateful for the fish you bring back and takes them with a smile. In the late night you can’t resist the itch any longer. You sit down on your bedroll and open the book, reading by the lantern light.

It’s not a bad book, not that you’ve had much opportunity to read since joining the gang. It’s been a long time since you’ve read a book, let alone a good one. The story is slow and the main character is fine, the love interest seems like a nice guy. They’re both far too nice to be the gunslingers they’re painted as. They hardly shoot anyone, they don’t rob much, they’re just on the run with no explanation why. It could be because they’re homosexuals, that’s reason enough, but the author describes them as badass gunslingers with dark pasts and portrays none of it. You close the book for a minute, sighing at the annoying inability to believe what’s happening on the pages.

Your only alternative for the night is to sleep like everyone else and you just aren’t tired enough. So you open the book again and continue. Chapters lead up to the moment when they get together, hats falling off as they embrace as if they don’t have the sense to take them off beforehand. Then there’s a scene that makes your face turn red. The two cowboys, the scandal that would make the owner of this book serve time in jail. Your heart beats a bit faster when you open the book again. You’ve known how you feel, that this is the sort of reality you want, but you’ve never seen it portrayed. Your eyes scan over the words, half reading and half imagining.

“What ya readin’ there, cowpoke?”

You close the book in a hurry, unable to act inconspicuous due to the scare Micah brought on. You were so consumed in it that you didn’t hear his footsteps or anything. The action was a mistake. Micah has a broad, wicked smile on his face as he takes a step forward.

“Oh, it’s interestin’ then.” He chuckles. “It’s gotta be with a reaction like that.”

“None of your business, Micah.”

“Come on, cowpoke. I ain’t one to judge.”

“Yes you are.” You say, standing with the book in hand and a full intention to throw it into the lake.

Micah side-steps in front of you with a chuckle. “Ah, ah, ah.”

“Move, Micah.”

He tilts his head. “Ain’t ya ever heard a’ sharin’?”

Your face heats a little as he steps forward. The position he’s caught you in is more than compromising and proximity to a man you find attractive is not helping.

“I’m not doing this with you, Micah.”

You try to push past him, but he wrestles the book from your hands and takes a few steps away until he’s out of reach. He laughs at your frustration, flipping the book open. He’s opened it towards the end, around where that scene is and you wait for him to read over it. There’s not much you can do without causing a fuss for the whole camp to hear.

He chuckles. “My, my, cowpoke.”

“Shut up, Micah.”

“Mighty unrealistic if ya ask me.” He presses the book closed and lets it drop to the ground. “I’m sure you and I could do better.”

You knit your eyebrows in thought, confused for a moment before you realize what he means. He snickers as he walks back into your tent, a hand untying the closing flaps so they fall down and enclose the space. You make no move to stop him, so he takes off his hat and sets it on your small table.

You take a shaky breath. “If you’re gonna do this Micah, hurry up.”

He chuckles, taking steps towards you until he can grab at your gunbelt and pull you in for a kiss. His lips are rough and his facial hair scratches your face, sensations that make you press into him and put your hands into his somewhat greasy hair. He smirks against your lips and slowly moves his hands to undo your belt, guiding it to drop beside you when he gets it.

His leg bends to press against you and he chuckles at the feeling of your hard dick. “All hot and bothered, are we?”

When you lean in to reconnect your lips, he steps away. He has a wicked grin on his face as he reaches for his hat and places it on his head. You smile to cope with your own naivete, of course Micah pulls something like this.

“I’m gonna kill you, you asshole.”

“Ah, ah, cowpoke.” He sighs. “Just ain’t the right time.”

“Fuck you, Micah.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I know ya want to. Cowpoke.”

He backs out, leaving the tent. You take heavy and shaky breaths as you try to comprehend what exactly happened. You rush out and grab the book, meeting eyes briefly with Micah as he sits by the fire sharpening his knife. He smirks, returning his focus to the knife and shaking his head. You take the book back to your tent and throw it to the side where your gun belt rests. You can’t decide if you want to burn it or give it back to Mary-Beth just for the sake of politeness. Either way, the damn book is too much trouble.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #micah bell #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #micah bell x reader #micah bell x male reader #x reader #x male reader

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videoplanchette · 2 years

Text

TLDR: This is a marketing tool to sell dolls

So, I finished the live-action Monster High Movie last night.

It was fine. Like everything it has its pros and cons which I will be covering.

And I don't know why this is the camel that's breaking my straws or whatever the hell-- but if I see one more hyperbolic clickbaity thumbnail or post describing why this is somehow the "worst" movie people have ever seen, I think I'm going be arrested. I've binged all of the monster high shorts, and 3D animated movies, and my brain is complete goddamn mush at this point. The live-action movie isn't even the worst thing associated with the monster high brand. Like to the veteran fans who have been here and are saying that this series used to be "better"-- What crack are you smoking, just curious? Like this series has been straight-up nonsense at points because it's meant to sell toys first and foremost. I want to highlight the whole nostalgia goggles we tend to wear and tell you what it actually is. It's bias. just call it what it is, it's bias.

There are a few different reasons why this claim of Gen3 or the live-action movie, in general, being toted as "the worst thing ever" gets under my skin. I'll be trying to engage with this movie as well as most of the marketing choices with this new line of dolls in good faith. Versus assuming every misstep or mistake is somehow an attack. During this long tangent of a post, I want everyone to repeat to themselves "this is a show meant to sell toys to children; I will not send death threats over this."

To immediately get this out of the way, if you're mad because they made Frankie Stein Nonbinary/Trans, or if they made Draculaura chubby? I'm sorry but you are beyond even my help-- get well soon.

I mostly want to address the criticism of the changed art style, personalities, dynamics, and interests of the characters themselves. I guess why this is exhausting for me because as a long-time fan of other franchises which has canon routinely altered to adhere to trends or the whim of new writers, this happens a lot.

Lot

Actually

Don't even get me started on Scooby Doo.

And I've seen this trend of trying to pigeonhole each new reboot of a beloved franchise as either the "best" or "worst" thing ever. And sure enough, when a good thing like Rottmnt is there, it's canceled before anyone actually realized it was worth a second look, even though the animation and voice cast was always on point. Or in Voltron's case, while met with initial praise, it tried to please everybody, while pleasing nobody. Nobody likes change, I get it.

Personally, I wish we had fewer reboots and more of an emphasis on original projects these days, but then how would we buy dolls?

Speaking of the Monster High Dolls. One thing I find hilariously hypocritical about people criticizing the changes made to the characters complaining about "coherency" and the like-- You folks do remember that this series was made specifically to adapt horror icons from the famed Universal Monster library and Gothic Literature characters into teenagers who attend school, make out with each other and wear gaudy clothes? Like again you guys are watching a derivative of a derivative! Like Monster High is a high school AU of HG Wells, Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, and GREEK MYTH!

I can understand the reservations to like the reboot, but I can guarantee you it's a more faithful adaptation than Winx: Fate or River Dale. It doesn't even scratch the batshit wildness that either of those series tried to pull. It's not entertainingly bad. The movie is genuinely decent. All the actors look like they wanted to be there and they all deliver their performances (especially Frankie's) with energy and charm.

Yes, the effects, costumes, and make-up are cheap, but I'd rather have cheap makeup done by unionized compensated workers with ambition than CGI everything. If anything it reminds me of my favorite made for TV Halloween movies from my childhood, like Scary Godmother or Halloweentown.

I guess what I'm trying to say, for a commercial to sell me a new line of dolls, it could have been a lot worse.

#monster high #monster high the movie #txt☆#captain's log☆

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beckwritesfiction · 2 years

Text

At Full Dark - PROLOGUE

CHAPTER INDEX/MASTERLIST: X

Summary: Ellie Brown's life has never been easy, even when she thought it was. This sets up the story of what leads her back to Wyoming, and a lonely Rhett Abbott.

Notes: This is the prologue of my WIP. I will be hitting 50/60k words soon, and at that point I'll be posting consistent chapters. This is before the events of season one, which I get into around chapter two. This fic will contain smut and is 18+, so minors please don't interact.

Content Warning: mentions of domestic abuse (not described in detail). Let me know if I left any out and I will happily add them!

Word Count: 1.8k

PROLOGUE

When Virginia was eight, her dad hit her mom so hard she lost consciousness. It wasn’t the first time she saw him hit her, but it was the first she saw her fall and not get back up. Her running out the front door wasn’t something he could stop, not when he was so far from sober. And he thought she was going for the woods like she often did when he got a little drunk and the screaming scared her.

She ran for so long and so hard that her white church sandals were brown the next time someone saw her. It was Royal Abbott atop a horse, flanked by his two young sons. The second Royal saw her, her face red and tear-streaked, he wished Cecilia were there. He didn’t know how to handle a crying child, let alone a little girl. He dealt with boys, who he raised to not show up on someone’s land crying the way Virginia did.

But a crying girl was a crying girl, and her breathless pleas to help her mother were ones he couldn’t ignore. From the way she described it, he was pretty sure he’d find her mother dead. He knew her parents, Lonnie and Mary Belfoure. Mary was nice and she exchanged recipes with Cecilia often. She’d even watched their kids a time or two. If anyone knew anything about Mary, it was that she was clumsy, and clumsy wasn’t welcome on a ranch. She was always getting kicked by a horse, bitten by a dog, or scratched by a chicken. That was why there were always marks all over her when she came into town.

Lonnie wasn’t the social type. Everyone thought it was so sweet how he’d sit in his truck after driving Mary into town for her bible study, how he always had his hand on her shoulder in church. It wasn’t until Royal walked into the Belfoure house that day that he realized Lonnie did all those sweet things so Mary was never far enough away to tell people it wasn’t a horse that kicked her, but him. And that he hid his love of liquor well.

Whatever happened inside the house that day, Virginia had no idea. She just remembered crying, Rhett and Perry and Abott standing beside her having no idea what to dote. It was Rhett that walked her to the pasture across the way, leaving Perry with the horses.

“Know why they call those pigtails?” he asked, nodding to the braid her mom did for her just before breakfast.

She only shook her head, having a hard time not seeing her mom laying on the kitchen floor in her mind.

“Me neither. Maybe it’s ‘cause they kinda look like pig’s tails.”

With how far away they were from the house, she couldn’t hear what was going on inside. She was too young to realize that, but Rhett wasn’t. His horse that he’d tied to the fence post was grazing when he nodded over at him. “You like ridin’ horses?”

Virginia shrugged. “I like it, but my daddy says I’m too young. My mama took me once, on the front of her horse, but I fell. Ain’t allowed anymore, I guess.”

“I think your mama’s a lot like my mama.” When Virginia looked up at him, she was curious what he meant. Was his dad mean, too? “Whenever she gets hurt she gets up again, even if it takes her a while. If mine’s like that, yours has gotta be, too.”

First there was a police car, then an ambulance. Rhett was drawing pictures with Virginia in the pasture when they carried her mother out on a stretcher, not dead, but close to it. For everything he drew, she made up stories. He’d never heard someone sit there and say so much made up stuff, and he wondered how she thought of it all. How no matter what he drew, and how badly, she was able to instantly come up with something.

Cecelia drove her truck to the Belfoure ranch, and took her home. Perry wondered if they’d have to adopt her as they rode their horses back home, talking about her like she was a stray dog. Rhett thought if they did, it might be nice to have someone else in his house, someone that didn’t know him how his family did. Even then, at twelve, he knew they thought more of Perry than they did of him. Perry did all his chores when he was supposed to, the way they were supposed to be done. Perry wanted to take over the ranch one day, and listened to everything his dad said because he wanted to. Rhett felt like he was just there most of the time.

Virginia stayed in their house for a week. The first two days, she didn’t do much. Cecilia tried to make her feel more welcome, and even taught her how to cross stitch. When Monday rolled around, she gave everyone a ride to school so no one on the bus asked Virginia if her mom was alive or not. That didn’t stop them from asking at school, though, and when she ran away, Royal found her walking along Main Street when the sun was beginning to set. Cecilia decided she’d stay home with her until her mother got better.

It got better when her grandmother called from the hospital, telling her her mother was alright, and she just needed a few more nights to rest; that Friday night, they’d come by the Abbott ranch and pick her up. By Saturday morning, they’d be on a flight to a place she’d never been before.

“You ever been to Connecticut?” Rhett asked her when they did the dishes later. It was her job that night, she volunteered, but he stayed in the kitchen to help her.

“No. I don’t even know my grandma.”

“I don’t know mine either. She died when I was really little.”

The silence stretched on, the only noise was the game playing from the living room, and the clinking of the dishes in the sink. “I’ve never left Wabang before.”

“Maybe Connecticut’ll be cooler than here. Perry says we’ll never leave this ranch. You gettin’ to leave yours might be lucky.”

On the last night she was there, Cecilia told her not to do the dishes. She had volunteered every night, even when she saw crying because she missed her mom. No one said it, but they guessed she’d done the dishes a lot while crying the way she did.

Her grandma pulled into the gravel driveway with a foreboding crunch, and her mother didn’t even get out of the car. Virginia made gifts for everyone, and she handed them out one by one. It wasn’t until she stopped at Rhett, who sat on the stairs by the door, that she was nervous. She wanted him to like what she made because she’d never worked harder on anything in her life. No one told her she should write a book because of the way she made up such good stories, and he had.

“I wrote this about you, how you said you wanted to be the best bull rider in all of Wabang County. I know I can’t draw as good as you, but I hope you like it.”

He nodded and thanked her, tucking it under his leg as her grandmother ushered her to the door, ready to leave. She didn’t look like the kind of woman that Rhett saw often. Her hair didn’t move when she looked around, and he thought she looked like maybe she didn’t like the way their house smelled. He thought it smelled alright. Her shoes were too shiny, too. Like the kind they’d save for church, otherwise they’d get dirty too fast and not be so clean anymore.

He thought maybe she’d come back someday, but as the years passed, she didn’t. Sometimes he’d ride past the Belfoure ranch and think about the time they found her. And sometimes he’d think about the times she sat at the foot of her bed, making the very book he reread from time to time. It was short, but it was exactly what he wanted his future to be.

When Virginia moved, and she got old enough she figured out why she hated her name so much. Every time someone said it, it sounded like her father screaming it. When she turned fourteen, and started at a private school, she started going by her middle name. It was Eloise then, but everyone called her Ellie, which she loved. And she started thinking about what she wanted to do when she graduated when she was sixteen. The only thing she really thought she was good at was writing, and when she thought about that she thought about Rhett Abbott. She wondered often where he was, but she never tried to find out because that would just remind her of the place she tried so hard to forget.

She went to Colombia, and met a guy. Wes Brown. They got married by her sophomore year because he had graduated and wanted to move on with his life. She listened because she loved him. Then she made excuses for him when he cheated or said terrible things to her.

When her mother died and she left to go back home before he was returned from a business trip, which he refused to leave early, he hit her in their hotel room for the first time. At the funeral, she had a black eye. No one had the nerve to ask her why. He was all she had until she got an email that changed her life. A publishing house, and a big one, wanted to publish her first book.

She worked hard to make it perfect, and it paid off. It was a bestseller, just like her second one. Book tours made it easy to avoid her husband, but when they were over, she had to return to the dark cloud that was their New York City apartment. Every corner of it had a bad memory, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make better ones.

On their third anniversary, when she forgot to vacuum the rug, he told her she was a shitty wife. She made the mistake of suggesting he clean for once. As the black eye was setting in, and Wes was getting drunk and probably having sex with another woman, she got a phone call that felt like a sign. She left, having her own money, and having business to take care of. She took only what she cared about, and left the rest. The rest could be replaced when she found a new place to call home. A place where Wes would never be welcome.

#rhett abbott #outer range fanfic #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott fanfiction #outer range #rhett abbott x reader #outer range fanfiction #outer range fic #lewis pullman

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necroangelz · 2 months

Note

bored, so gunna do yur ask game... 💌 and/or 🫀 pwease.^⁠_⁠^^⁠_⁠^ hru today btw! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

help this has been in my inbox for a few days oops im so sorry... i drafted up the first half of this post last friday but i forgot to continue it and i had no energy... anyways

as of right now i havent been that great, my mood swings r going crazy and im stressed over a test tomorrow, although i did a lot of thrifting on friday and saturday and bought lots of nice stuff! i'll post my entire .. "thrifting haul" when i feel like it...

emoji answers below! i decided to answer both. my answer for the heart emoji is very... long.......... but what do uu expect from an infodump?

『 💌 』

a quote or song lyric

muse just realized on muses pinned post it says "song" instead of "song lyric" erm... it's supposed to be song lyric help anyway

“ Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling, and our story shall be the education of our heroes. ” -Plato, Republic Book II

wow, look at the intellectual internet angel, quoting Plato /s the quote is also referenced in the secret history by Donna Tartt (hir latest obsession) at the very beginning of the book ^_^ shi doesn't really know what to say, shi just really really likes this quote! shi likes very grand lines like this—the way that a simple leisure story can become an influence to the next generation of great heroes... there's something so alluring about it.

『 🫀 』

a game i played + an infodump

the free visual novel cemetery mary by arcadekitten! i really love cemetery mary and i can go on about it for hours, which is why i'll keep this infodump short bc i might just be typing here for hours and i wont get any sleep.

it's about a girl named mary anta (design is based on a manta ray), whose parents had mysteriously vanished without a trace one day. there's rumors of a killer in her city, called the blackwood butcher, and she suspects that her parents disappeared because of the butcher. she also texts a 'mysterious number' that claims her parents are alive and well.

she may look scary in the title screen but don't be fooled! she's a sweet and soft girl who simply has darker interests (such as the concept of death and cemeteries, as the title suggests).

here's mary hanging out with the other characters—crowven, twyla, and reginald. the player can pursue a route with any of these characters where mary will hang out with them and get closer to them. each route has a vastly different story and even genre/theme, and they lead to their own good and bad endings. i feel like it's easy to get the bad endings at first though... and they can get veeerrryyy VERY fucked up. there is also a true ending which is very entertaining and mysterious but leads to a happy ending.

i have about 42 hours in the game. yeah i got very obsessed with it... i like visual novels a lot and despite the occasional fucked up moments i enjoy CM because it's very chill and the characters are written well. and there's just something about how the game is designed that scratches my brain.

i got introduced to the game by a friend 2-ish years ago. we don't talk anymore but i liked that friend a lot... i didn't start playing CM until a few months later though

also just look at mary rn. SHE'S SO SILLY AAAHH I LOVE HER how can one not adoooreee her?????/

anyway let me just speedrun describing the 3 route characters rn

too lazy to find a better photo of him rn—this is crowven corvuson, design is based on a crow, and he's mary's cousin. except they're not blood related but they see each other as family. i don't interact with the fandom but i can imagine the discourse they would have about crowven and mary.

crowven is emo, moody, smokes weed, and has anger issues. his parents are dead. he lives together with mary. he gets up to secret business.

AAAAAHHH EHHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHHE this is twyla sophio, design based on an owl, this isn't her main "look" though, this is her outfit for a party. she's filthy rich, she's toxic, she's manipulative, and she's relentless to uncover the identity of the blackwood butcher. she also has some kind of rivalry with crowven (apparently it's accurate to nature where owls and crows have beef irl)

i am very very very in love with twyla in a normal way and i ship her and mary together

lastly, reginald tetra, design based on a pufferfish. this also isn't his main look, but he's so handsome here. i don't really like him that much but there's some certain scenes that make me like him...

he's your local average guy. he's so average. he's so normal. there's nothing wrong with him. i swear

he also has a littol tiny crush on mary :3 they develop a nice bond

ok thats it infodump over

#🎮﹕ press start 𝜗𝜚 ︵

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ogdoadfates · 1 year

Text

It was only a cough: Ch #8 Killbox

Warning! I do try my best to describe the zombies so this chapter has descriptions of rotting corpses and gore!

Also I am so so sorry this chapter took forever!! I had a hard time writing it sadly even if I was excited too. ( ao3 link )

He told them , he fuckin told them. Grog was pissed, angry, enraged, whatever you wished to call it as he stared up into the slightly deflated eyes of the foul smelling zombie he’s struggling with. Grog grunts, he can feel the blood running free from his flesh where the living corpse had scratched him. He told everyone they shouldn’t have split up but they did anyway and look where that got them. With one last hefty shove he overpowers the zombie, its squirming flesh leaving a residue of grime, blood, and gods know what else on Grogs hands and body.

With a swift motion Grog grabs his sledgehammer from the floor where it’d fallen and with one quick swing, lobbed it onto the wretched things already dilapidated skull. With a resounding crack and thunk gray matter and gore flings about the tiles of the room Grogs in. He stands still and listens for a moment, he knows he’s rather deep within the hospital which means the others are too most likely.

For a couple moments all he can hear is the moans and groans of the other zombies infesting this horrorshow of a building and just before he decides to go back to what he’d been doing he hears it.

A blood curdling scream rings out like a beacon to summon death, the zombies in the halls responding in a rushed yet faltering sprint to wherever the sound originated. Like the undead Grog responds but unlike them, his muscles work and his determination comes from something else other than hunger. Grog runs, swinging his hammer around to clear a path, he’ll be littered with cuts due to how reckless he’s being. Fucking hell he can easily get bit by running through a hoard like this, but by the gods it’d be worth it if he can prevent a member of his family from dying by one of these wretched things.

Grog already had a hard time thinking of this place as a hospital and not just a glorified meat bag when he was sneaking around but now as he runs he can’t help but think of how it looks like a never ending hallway made of wriggling, worm infested, rotted flesh as everything blurs together.

As he rounds a corner his blood runs cold before relighting with fury. Vex was hunched behind Pike, clutching her side as blood seeped through her fingers. They're surrounded by zombies and no way in hell was Grog not going to change that. With a roar to rival that of a dragon he charges in, knocking the head off of one of the zombies closest to his friends, spraying blood and muscle around the room.

They needed to get out of this hell hole, now!

Vex is terrified. Everything had been going so well, as well as it can be in a hospital full of cannibalistic undead that is, they found quite a fair bit of meds and other supplies but of course something had to go wrong. It wouldn’t be them if it went without a hitch.

She should have been paying more attention, hell she should have brought Trinket with her instead of leaving him in the car with the others and now she got clawed by a zombie, screamed bloody mary alerting every single undead fucker in the area to her and Pike’s location, Grog’s rushed over to them and heavens know if his thoughtless run to them got him bit or not and she doesn’t know where the hell her brother is because he decided to be a dick and sneak off first chance he got.

Vex clutched at her side, it wasn’t a huge cut but enough to spill a fair amount of blood but she kept her hand pressed to the wound. Wouldn’t do them any favors if it got infected. She can hear the near silent choir of okays that release themselves from Pike’s mouth as she tries her best to keep any of the festering undead that haven’t gone after Grog away from them.

“Shit!” Pike shouts, swinging her wooden bat wide to whack a zombie that had been sneaking up on them away, a sickening crack signaling the crushing of the corpse’s ribs as well as notifying them of the bat's withering condition rattles the room. “Buddies, we need to find Vax and leave! Now!” The white haired woman shouts. Vex can feel her panic rising, like Pike said they need to leave but where the fuck did her brother go?!

Vex’s vision is swimming from panic and all she can hear is what she could only describe as a crusade of death, gnashing teeth, blood splattering onto the walls and floors, shattering of bone and the sickening gurgle of death finally claiming the bodies of the undead just like it did the souls before.

It takes some time but eventually they are running, completely forgoing stealth they shout and yell for their missing member. Only takes a few unanswered calls to cause the dam to break, tears rain down Vex’s face with vengeance. She can not lose her brother, if she loses him she loses herself. They are two halves to a whole, not one without the other.

Her calls more so resemble the shrill shriek of a mother who’s lost trace of her child at this point, yet she keeps at it. It takes what feels like ages but finally they get an answer, though not necessarily in the way she’d like.

Vax crashes through one of the windows of a room, quickly scampering up and proceeds to run to join them. Rotting hands emerge from the window trying to crawl their way out, only to get caught and impaired on the shards of class still attached to the window, like a sick experiment of rats climbing on the corpses of their kin they flop over onto the other side.

Which leads them now to their current problem. This entire time they’ve been running further into the hospital and now they have to run back, where a hoard of zombies have amassed. Vex clutches onto her brother’s arm, who does much the same to her. They’re all hurt and crazed and Vex just wishes they make it out of here alive.

With one quick glance at each other and a nod, they run.

#apocolaypse au #vex'ahlia #vex #grog #grog strongjaw #pike trickfoot #pike #vax #vax'ildan #criticalrole #critical role #criticalrole fanfic #critical role fanfiction

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annsillsomething · 2 years

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this is going to be a long post

so I watched the rings of power

and I have to emphasize that I didn’t pay anything for it because I would never pay someone for defiling the beautiful world J. R. R. Tolkien created

well, I say I didn’t pay anything but it have definitely costed me some nerves

and not only because it is so devastatingly different from the original work, it hurt, but I was willing to give the creators a chance to tell a « new story »

if they had succeeded I would have still complained because I believe it’s unacceptable when dealing with such a well written and detailed world like J. R. R. Tolkien’s but there would have been at least something positive about the whole situation

but this series don’t tell a good « new story »

and I don’t have to see the end of it to be completely sure

the number of scenes that do not make any sense even in the context of the « new story » is ridiculously large

like that one with Galadriel jumping overboard in the middle of the sea

and speaking of Galadriel

let’s ignore for a moment the fact that what we see in the rings of power is a completely different character (where is her husband, by the way, I wonder)

but I can’t ignore that she was turned into Mary Sue

like her single-handedly killing the troll that at least three of her soldiers failed to even scratch

or defeating 4 guards in full armor while being in chains and unarmed

that’s not what a strong female character is supposed to be, that’s a badly written overpowered character whose personality can be described in two words: independent (which is more like arrogant asshole who « doesn’t need anyone’s help ») and badass (not in a good way, something like « I’ll punch you in the face if you as much as look at me slightly wrong »)

seems like more than two words, but I wanted to be as clear as possible

I don’t understand why this kind of characters is so popular nowadays (not among the audience but in the industry, I still can’t get over Carol Danvers… she was so damn annoying and flat)

ok, some might say « she is an ancient elf with thousands years of experience », but so are her soldiers, what makes her different?

honestly, I’ve got so many questions, Galadriel in the books is incredible why make her so… shallow

ok, enough about Galadriel

let’s move on to other stupid things

Arondir (and some elves whose names I didn’t catch, they died too fast anyway) fighting the orcs in their camp (or whatever that was, I’m not sure I got it right)

the scene looks so unrealistic and physically impossible… ugh… I just can’t, it’s not even cool because the rings of power is not an anime, it’s supposed to be fantasy (probably dark fantasy in this case) series, that implies some magic, yes, but none of defying gravity and flying on the giant chains

then there was the tunnel that Arondir was investigating

that’s some of the horror film’s logic like « let’s go into a potentially dangerous place which is hard to get out of fast »

additional points for going alone

and when he tried to get deeper when he spotted enemies instead of going back the way he came

without knowing whether there is a way out

that might be my claustrophobia talking but I still believe it wasn’t the smartest move

and I don’t think this character is supposed to be stupid

those are the things that annoyed me the most

and I really try not to dive into the abyss of complaints about canon deviations (J. R. R. Tolkien’s works are very important to me personally, I spent my whole youth reading and rereading everything I could get my hands on, so yeah… I don’t want to speak about all this shit in the series now)

the story itself is barely there

4 (5th being watched while I edit the post) episodes in and nothing actually happened

and I don’t like where this is going (for a lot of reasons)

there is another thing which… surprised me

while watching the scene where Teo is hiding from orcs I found myself hoping they will find him

I really wanted them to

and this is when I realized that the problem is even bigger than I estimated

that has been the first time I actually rooted for orcs

I couldn’t find a single reason to empathize with Teo or any other positive character (aside from Durin, Disa and Nori with her family, those are fine), I didn’t want to see them happy or even alive, I didn’t want to hear their story

this has been the first time I wanted Sauron to actually succeed in his quest to conquer the world

and that must mean something

in conclusion, I can say that I didn’t have high expectations for these series to begin with (at least after the trailers, before that… talking about it is just going to make me sad) so I wasn’t too disappointed

it is exactly as bad as I thought it would be but now I can make a list of things that make it bad instead of just saying that it is

my sister made me watch it to see me suffer (she got what she wanted)

Upd.: the 5th episode was something

I’ve never heard anything more stupid than the explanation of the necessity of mithril for the elves (no spoilers my friends, I want you to hear it yourself)

someone must have been drunk or high when they came up with it

it was so terribly stupid I couldn’t even get angry

the rest of the episodes pales in comparison to this shit

I’m still rooting for orcs and whoever is leading them (I don’t care who this guy is, Sauron or someone else, I like his voice and overall vibe), haha

oh, and Númenóreans’ armor is probably made of cardboard or something like that, really, it looks so cheap and ugly, ugh

well, it probably won’t protect from anything but at least the soldiers won’t sink if they fall overboard heheh

#the rings of power #rings of power

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charlesharrymackenzie · 1 year

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Email Subject: PAYDAY

Dear Mr Harmse,

I am writing to you today with great rage.

Granted, it has been a secret rage, accumulating in my stomach like an unfartable fart. (I feel it coming, an atom bomb about to drop, but from the outside, I look like the non-plussed espresso-drinking artiste that I have worked so hard to project).

How do these farts and rages come? They start as a small and unremarkable burden. As more time passes, a frightful reckoning commences: this is unlikely to be innocuous. Finally, you begin to fear for the very ozone itself. It has become a true Nietzschean horror. Even the most Über of mensch would begin to feel like a fucking piss ant when this thing lays waste. Even if no one around you is shaken to the core by the disaster that lives inside you, you are tragically embarrassed by your respiratory system. Sorry, anger.

In other words, I am writing about an offense committed against me that now lives inside of me, like a [insert country of conflict here] refugee, with an eye to rectifying the ethical loneliness I currently live with. I reside in this home, buried under a bottomless pit of angst and frustration. I'm afraid all the soil that was dug away to place me there is on your hands.

You are the wicked man responsible. I hope you have your testicles well-protected. Blunt as they may be, my words are not dull. There is a significant possibility that they will incisively dance out from behind your monitor and into the more compromised sections of your ejaculatory organ.

I am not sure if you remember, but we were friends. Once upon a time, as the Brothers Grimm would say. And just as it is with many of their tales, the romance foreshadows excellent tragedy. Mary Poppins gets Alzheimer's, Cinderella loses her uterus, and Black Panther doesn't get an Oscar for best picture.

Once upon a time, we were friends and had esoteric conversations about 'apex apes' in the broader pool of plebeian H. Sapiens. We discussed strange and mostly unknown things, like good writing and admirable journalism. But this is also where the spanner in our beautiful affair first appeared.

You see, I have no doubt that you remember our friendship. Fondly, one would hope. I certainly do. Or, instead, did. What you don't recall; and what I am pointing a long, erect, and forceful finger at; is the tremendous contempt you have encased me in. I feel like a helpless animal in your sick rodent theme park, running endlessly along on a hamster wheel while you watch in the distance brushing your long luscious locks in glee. For christ's sake, we all know that your hair is majestic. But the means do not justify the ends. I have half a mind to call PETA and tell them what you are doing to maintain your metrosexuality. I hope they bag you right there on the street, take you to some kind of warehouse, shave off all your headhair, and make you talk about GIRLS and CARS and other dalliances that sophisticated intellectuals such as yourself couldn't give a fuck about.

"But what," you scratch your deep intellect and think, "is he fucking on about?" Guess. It rhymes with Ferry Hiller. No? What if I told you he was a man who described his erection as "lead with wings"? No?

My fucking Henry Miller book. Where is it you cunt? I haven't slept with a woman since pre-school, and yet you suppose I am to just write; about passion, sex, the many iterations of the female body, and inducing clitoral orgasm by telepathically stroking the pineal gland; from what - memory??? Are you mad!?

I kid. The rant above was all a ruse. It's a less civil, albeit more entertaining, way of saying, "hello, how are you? What have you been up to?"

So: Hello. How are you? What have you been up to?

I await your reply. If you are currently in JHB, I will be coming up sometime in April.

Best,

Charles

(Yes, this is an actual email I sent. No, I was not actually angry)

#black panther #hunter s thompson #Letters #henry miller

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wollesenthestrup5 · 2 years

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donovan03valenzuela · 2 years

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hermes crocodile kelly 28

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themaribatpit · 3 years

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Jasonette July Day 4: Game On

Written by: The Maribat Pit @jasonette-july-event Prompt: Game On Rated: T (for sexual references, mostly references to things that happened in the comics. You have been warned.) “I can’t just go spilling my protégé’s secrets. I can barely send her out into the mean streets on her own.” she said with a coy show of innocence that she wasn’t even trying to make believable.

“I’m not asking for her identity, all that concerns me is why you decided to take her in.” Batman explained.

“She was in trouble, I was in the neighbourhood and I gave her a helping hand,” she explained. “That special claw of hers comes in handy, and besides we all know how you feel about magic users Bruce.” She wasn’t wrong about that. Batman could never trust Constantine further than he could throw him. He could only bring himself to turn to Zatanna when he really needed her help. Shazam was an exception, seeing as the limits of his magic were clear and simple enough to understand. That didn’t make him any less formidable, but it didn’t make him quite as unpredictable. He was, at the end of the day, a detective who was trained to think rationally and logically in order to get to the bottom of a situation. Magic was the ultimate wild card, and the sooner he figured out this girl’s abilities, the better. “You’ll be pleased to know she’s not a completely hopeless case, she’s been helpful but she doesn’t get quite the same thrill out of thievery.” Catwoman remarked, “but it’s been lovely having her around, and I’m not about to just hand her over to you”.

“Then what would you have me do?” he asked, “I’m concerned your rivals might be a little less forgiving.”

“Is that so? You don’t think she’s strong enough to save herself?” Catwoman smiled, it was nice to know that he cared, just a little. “Besides, she’s already had years of experience under her belt, maybe you’re just jealous you didn’t find her first.” She taunted playfully. Goodness knows he was in no position to talk when it came to taking people under his wing. “Tell you what, how about we have a friendly little wager?” Bruce saw her eyes light up at the thought, but he was undeniably curious about what she had in mind.

“What do you propose?” he asked.

“A fun little game, your boys against my little foundling. If any of them can take her down, then you can welcome her into your family with open arms” she explained.

“How do I know she won’t just kill them?” Batman asked, it wouldn’t be the first time Bruce had to try and steer someone away from any homicidal tendencies.

“She’s a lot of things, but let’s just say killing wasn’t really an option for her back in the day.” she explained, “She’ll fall in line with your ‘no killing’ rule quite nicely. Think about it, your sons versus my little girl.” Her claws skated across Batman’s shoulders as he pondered this.

“Anything else?” Batman asked, he had to know exactly what they were walking into.

“Your boys can bring a second to their little duels, but only one. No need to have the Titans ganging up on her.” she explained. She left out the part about her protégé having other tricks up her sleeve. With the power she had, they would be lucky to get a single scratch on her.

“So be it then.” Bruce said, it would be an opportunity to see how this girl measured up against the boys he had trained. At that moment Catwoman decided it was game on.

Marinette had just come home from her classes at Gotham University, and she was looking forward to a quiet night working on some designs that were due a few weeks. A text message from Catwoman brought her plans to a grinding halt:

“Mari dear, made a little wager with Batman. You beat his four sons in a fight, and you get to stay with me. If you lose however, he gets to take you under his wing (in every sense of the word). They’ll be on the lookout for Lady Noire in the next few days, but I never said anything about only using her to win.”

Marinette was really starting to regret being saved by Catwoman. That night, she was outnumbered by some muggers who thought she would be an easy target. She was trying to find an opening, to make a break for it, maybe find somewhere to hide and transform if she really must. Suddenly she heard a voice grab their attention, “I’ve always loved big strong men who aren’t afraid to show it with someone half their size.” she purred. While they were distracted, Marinette decided to call on Plagg for some help. She always loved how the Lady Noire suit made her movements feel lighter, plus the night vision and Cataclysm were useful too. Unfortunately for her, it meant that Catwoman saw her in action and decided to take an interest in her from that day forth. Sure, she was a cunning thief and there was little that Marinette could do to stop her. At the same time, Marinette was a young woman in a city that was the polar opposite of what she knew in Paris. She couldn’t deny that there was something comforting about having someone in this city looking out for her. Especially since her parents were in Paris, and Master Fu was no longer around to help her. She took the Miraculous with her to Gotham City, but none of the other wielders came with her. She was still their guardian after all, but she had to be more careful about using them. She wasn’t about to single handedly take on superpowered crime lords with their armies of henchmen. She had to be a lot more careful with her powers since other people could get hurt. Besides, they already had a small group of vigilantes keeping the city safe, they didn’t need her.

Marinette reread the text message over and over again. she was about to see what these vigilantes were made of, though it was just as accurate to say it was the other way around. She opened the box, carefully choosing which ones she could use in a fight. She usually used Lady Noire when she was with Catwoman, but by the sound of it she was counting on her to use all of her tricks to win.

Damian never fully understood his father’s attachment to Catwoman, but this was a challenge he could not refuse. They were told to keep an eye out for this “Lady Noire” character while they were out on patrol. Oracle had agreed to referee this ordeal, Damian was absolutely certain he was going to be the one to bring her in. They were allowed to bring a second, but Damian didn’t think it would be necessary. From what they were told she was a smaller Catwoman, though they were told to exercise caution because of her destructive abilities. The last person Damian had expected to find was a girl in a red and black body suit, who looked nothing like the girl with long hair and green eyes that Batman had described. Still, there was something odd about the girl and Damian moved in closer to investigate.

Catwoman had given Marinette a vague rundown of who her opponents were. There was Nightwing, the eldest of the four boys and a trained acrobat. The second eldest was the infamous Red Hood, Marinette had heard rumours about him and she had no way of knowing if the Kwamis could guard her against someone who uses firearms. The third was Red Robin, Catwoman advised using clever strategy if she was going to get the upper hand on this one. Finally, there was the current Robin, the son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul, the youngest of the boys who was trained by assassins before Batman took him in.

She took the Ladybug earrings with her, seeing as they were more versatile for the occasion. In addition to the earrings, she wore the Longg’s choker around her neck. Master Fu had often cautioned against using fusions, considering how draining they were on her body. Her new mentor advised her to use every tool she could in her arsenal, because they certainly would. On most nights she noticed a small, hooded figure passing through her neighbourhood from time to time. She decided to see which of these boys would be her first opponent.

While she was standing on that rooftop, she heard a few footsteps behind her. It was raining but through the mist and the rain she could see a small, shadowy figure watching her closely. It made sense, she was dressed in bright colours and standing on a rooftop in the pouring rain. She practically had a sign on her head that said “come and get me”, which in some way was part of her plan. The question was, whether or not her first opponent would take the bait. “I know you’re there little one, so are you going to stay there or come over and say hello?” she asked, Marinette tried to sound cheerful but she ended up sounding silly instead. She tried to hide the burning embarrassment she felt at how silly that sounded. The boy could probably sense it too, because she turned around and saw him narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously.

He leapt from his perch and landed behind her with a thud and splatter of rain water. He was no taller than Marinette and he wore a red and green outfit, with a black hooded cape and a green domino mask. The red and green outfit had a golden yellow “R” on his chest, and she also noticed a sword that was sheathed at his side. Marinette had to suspect this boy was the youngest out of the boys, Robin. The two of them stood in silence for a long moment, she figured that someone who was formerly trained by assassins would be a little more hostile. Then again, he was probably expecting someone else entirely. “Aren’t you a little young to be out patrolling by yourself, little one?” she asked, trying to make some kind of conversation with the boy. She wasn’t in any position to say anything about this, considering she had been protecting Paris since she was 13.

“What’s it to you?” He scoffed, “we’re looking for someone named Lady Noire, and you clearly wanted to attract someone’s attention by standing on a rooftop in that costume”.

“Robin, can you not be a brat for like, five minutes?” Red Robin groaned into his comm, but Damian didn’t listen.

“You can either state your business or stop wasting my time” he snapped, as Marinette chuckled.

“So, you’re planning on challenging Lady Noire. Tell me, what do you really know about her?” she asked him.

“Only that father and that woman have taken an interest in her, and I intend to prove to both of them that she is nothing special.” he growled, “so unless you know something about her, stay out of my way”.

“You seem certain, for someone who has never once faced her” she said with a smile.

“I was trained by the best, I will not lose to someone who is little more than a foundling.” he was reaching for his sword at that moment. Red Robin and Nightwing rolled their eyes at that comment as they listened in. They knew they had all bested their youngest brother at some point or other, despite being “foundlings”.

“It would have been easy too just to hide from you and your brothers, but I’m going to enjoy taking you down a peg.” She braced herself for her first fight of the challenge. She really could have, but sadly she had very little patience for people who thought they were better than everyone else.

“I won’t lose to you Lady Noire, or whoever you are”, he growled as he drew his sword and pointed it at her.

“Tikki, Longg, unify!” she called out, and a flash of red and gold light stunned Robin for a moment. The red and black bodysuit now had gold accents and a symbol on her chest. The symbol was a lighting bolt, a wave and a gust of wind all swirling together.

“What did you do?!” Red Robin yelled into his comm, “I swear if she kills us all just because you couldn’t control yourself…”

Robin looked up to see that she had a yo-yo in one hand and the other reached behind her to draw a sword.

“And by the way, it’s Dragon Bug to you”, she swung her yo-yo with one hand and Robin ducked to dodge it. After dodging it, he charged at Dragon Bug, katana in hand. She blocked his attack with her sword before kicking him back with her foot. Dragon Bug pulled back her yo-yo and charged at him with her sword, when he blocked her, he spun around and kicked her legs out from under her. As Dragon Bug fell to the floor, she raised her sword and yelled “Water Dragon!”. There was more than enough to create a barrier that pushed Robin back before he could strike again. Robin was knocked back against the wall, and she took out her yo-yo to make an escape to the streets below.

This Lady Noire, Dragon Bug, whoever she was, had insulted his honor. To him, that just simply would not stand. His father said that he wanted her alive, but he could barely get a scratch on her. He got up quickly and used his grappling hook to swing after her. She was waiting for him, with her hair blowing in the wind, and a smile that Damian wanted to wipe off her face. He charged at her once more, this time sliding on the floor at the last moment and hoping to take a swipe at her leg. Once again, she managed to turn and block his katana. The pair of them traded blow after blow after blow, but he could only land a few scratches on her. Marinette could use Lightning Dragon and shock the boy, to bring this to a swift end. However, with all the water that was around them, she might end up killing the boy instead. Before she could try anything else with that sword, he blocked it and sent it flying off to the side. Marinette watched as her sword flew out of her hands before clattering on the ground next to them.

Marinette had to admit that this kid was good and that the fusion was starting to drain her a little. She had to act fast as she dodged another incoming strike. She leapt backwards to dodge it but the boy took out a grappling hook, he gave it a few good spins before flinging it forward and catching her foot. He pulled the wire taut and sent her crashing to the ground, hard. “You may have your tricks, Dragon Bug, but I have skill, I have training, and now I have defeated you.” he called out as he tugged at the wire, pulling her towards him.

“That may be true, but there’s something you should know…” she groaned as she propped herself up on her elbows, he stopped for a moment as he waited for her to tell him exactly what that was. Marinette reached for her yo-yo, she needed to finish this and safe her strength, “…you’re not the only one who’s had training.” she told him. Dragon Bug quickly spun her yo-yo and swung it at Robin, this time wrapping the wire around him and pulling the string tight. He tried to free himself using his katana, while Dragon Bug unwrapped the wire around her foot. As she stood up she said, “another one of my ‘magic tricks’” as she ran to retrieve her own sword. She sheathed the sword and looked back to find a hog-tied Robin, desperately trying to cut the cord and free himself. She wanted to enjoy this moment for just a little longer, there was always something so satisfying in moments like these. She took a moment to send a quick message to Catwoman:

“Dragon Bug: 1, Robin: 0” before sending her a selfie, with Robin tied up in the background.

She glanced back at Robin who was now just scowling at her. “You fought valiantly little one, but sadly you are not my only opponent” she told him as she unwound the string around him. When she had her yo-yo back, she flung it towards a street lamp and swung forward, lifting her up off the ground. There was one thing Damian was certain of, there was no way his brothers were going to let him live this down. With a good tug of her yo-yo, freed Damian, spinning him around in the process.

Meanwhile, Jason and Roy were on a road trip back to Gotham, the two of them had just taken care of a Drug Lord in Starling City. Jason’s phone buzzed with some news from Dick, something about how they had all been embroiled in a bet to take down Selina’s new protégé. If any of them win, she has to join the Bat family, and if they all lose then she keeps working with Selina. He could not bring himself to care, it was 50/50 on whether or not this girl was tolerable or if she was going to annoy him like the rest. Roy glanced over at him before turning his attention back to the road, “you look like you’re desperately searching for a fuck to give” he commented.

“Just some dumb bet Bruce made,” Jason shut off his phone before reclining back in his chair.

“That’s not like Bruce, usually making dumb bets was something you guys did” Roy wracked his brain trying to imagine the stoic and serious Batman making a dumb bet.

“Something about Catwoman and her little sidekick.” he drawled, “If Dick, Me, Replacement or Demon Spawn take her down, she becomes Batman’s little sidekick. Like he doesn’t have enough of those running around”.

“Ah, I’m guessing you don’t want to fight her when we make it back to Gotham City?” Roy asked, “wouldn’t it be hilarious if you taught her how to win against your brothers?”

Jason gave a half-hearted chuckle, moments later his phone buzzed with more messages. He was really looking forward to this little power nap, but he checked to make sure no one desperately needed his help.

He sees the picture that she took with Damian tied up in the background. Babs, Steph and Cass had watched the whole thing, with popcorn. While Tim had made that photo the new wallpaper on the Belfry’s computer.

“Well, says here she literally wiped the floor with Demon Spawn, before swinging away on a yo-yo.” he said and they both laughed “now I’m just mad I won’t get to buy the girl a few drinks”.

“I mean either way, I’m sure you’ll get your chance if you’re both in Gotham City. I’m just sad that I’ll have to be your third wheel.” Roy said wistfully.

“Roy, I had to listen to you and Kory in the next room,” Jason recalled, “you have no room to complain about third wheeling.”

“Awh was little Jaybird jealous?” Roy joked.

“Hey you’re the one who assumed that we banged in the first place,” he said “all I said was I was with her, and you decided to interpret that however you wanted”.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway because she ran off to Miami to work through some things, and we’re just over here thinking about the good old days,” Roy said. The two of them continued to drive in silence and Jason leaned back, trying to get some sleep before facing whatever chaos was waiting to greet them in Gotham City.

Tim has researched all he could on this mysterious Lady Noire, yet there are several reported sightings of different vigilantes all with the same height and build. Lady Noire, Ladybug, Dragon bug. Tim compiled all known sightings onto his corkboard to get a clear picture of who this person is.

The fight between Dragon Bug and Damian provided him with crucial information on how he could counter Dragon Bug. Tim then donned his Red Robin costume and began patrol of Gotham City. Gliding across he spotted an usual sight, a costumed person standing on a rooftop. It had to be the one Batman told him about, the person he was to fight because of the bet.

Tim landed on a nearby rooftop to reconfirm the target. "Same height and build, but this costume is different." Tim sighed, he had noticed that each costume had its own power and abilities, and made detailed notes on each. Codename: Polka-dot had the power to summon an unknown household object. Codename: Catwoman II used an indestructible staff and the power of disintegration, Codename: Drake used a sword and came with the power of hydrokinesis.

However, he had no intel regarding this new costume. He decided to press his luck and use stealth to take her down. He leaped off the roof and began gliding towards her with a kick.

To his surprise, his target shrank at the last second, he glided through and smashed into a skylight, landing inside an abandoned building.

Multimouse followed suit and jumped in through the broken skylight. Landing right at the centre of the room, she simply stood there arms akimbo looking at him. Red Robin threw a smoke bomb, grappling to the rafters. Multimouse did not pursue, no sense of panic she simply walked to a wooden crate and sat on it.

Red Robin, took the opportunity to launch himself off and glided towards Multimouse with a kick. He was shocked to see her suddenly turn around as if she knew he was there the entire time, with perfect timing she grabbed and judo flipped Red Robin through the wooden crate. Wiping her hands in a dramatic manner, Multimouse walked to the centre of the room and crossed her arms. Red Robin crushed a smoke bomb with his hand, obscuring the area and diving towards an underground vent.

He began to wonder how she was able to counter him so effectively. "The power of foresight? 360 degrees x-ray vision? No it can't be." Red Robin thought to himself. While crawling in the vents to a position behind Multimouse, he berated himself for pressing his luck without any information on Multimouse. He peeked his head out of the vent, Multimouse had not moved, she continued to stare at Red Robin's previous location. Taking another chance, Red Robin jumped out of the underground vent ready for a takedown.

Again as if she was a clairvoyant she countered him perfectly, spinning on the spot and delivering a crushing kick to Red Robin’s midsection. Sending him flying across the room, he took out his staff and slowly got up, using the staff as if it was a cane. He stood on shaky legs, in disbelief.

He then begins to notice something unusual hanging on the hem of his cape. His eyes widen as he takes a closer look. A miniature clone of Multimouse was hanging on, his eyes snapped up to the rafters and then the vents. There were several miniature clones all over the building, all about the size of a small insect.

Red Robin's jaw dropped as he had this epiphany. Seeing her cue, Multimouse shrank down and spawned a horde of miniature clones. Millions of clones rush towards Red Robin, he begins swinging his staff, stomping on any clones on the ground, flailing his arms like a madman. The horde bellows a collective “Surrender,” Red Robins defiantly continues to fight.

Soon the swarm begins to cover Red Robin all the way up to his neck, his body unable to move. The Multimouse arms pulls off the cowl and begins pulling all of Red Robin’s hair. Red Robin, facing the agony of Multimouse waxing his head. “Ok, ok I give up.” he cried. As he finished his plea, the swarm dissipated and reforms to the singular human sized Multimouse. Red Robin is then left kneeling and staring at the strands of his own hair left on the floor.

Multimouse, seizing the opportunity to obtain a trophy of her efforts, takes a selfie with a poor, disheveled Red Robin in the background.

Marinette was really starting to feel the effects of using different Miraculous for two nights straight. Dragon Bug was draining enough, but she had to use Multimouse to take on Red Robin. That left Nightwing and The Red Hood, and she was starting to wonder what was the point of this game. She felt like she was just fighting to win, fighting so that the person who took care of her when she first arrived in Gotham could prove a point. If she won, then she would stay under Catwoman’s protection, and the Miraculous would be protected with her. Though she was lucky that the Miraculous themselves didn’t look valuable enough to pique her interest. If she lost to one of them, she would be under Batman’s protection instead. She would become a part of the group of vigilantes who operate in the city, and she didn’t know how she felt about that either. How would she feel about seemingly being the only magic user among them? How would he feel about her being a magic user? She hadn’t even met the guy, all she knew was that he took an interest in her dealings with Catwoman. Maybe she would encounter the Red Hood and he would make the choice for her by putting her out of her misery. She decided to settle this fight once and for all as Ladybug, maybe then someone would give her some answers. ��

She got a text message from Catwoman, telling her to meet her on a rooftop that had gargoyles glaring down at the streets below. Maybe she had information on where her next fight would be, she didn’t say. By the time she got there, she saw two people eating fast food next to the gargoyles. The first was a redhead in red armor, and the second was…

“Get your own brooding spot, this one’s taken!” He yelled. Marinette looked up to see the other guy had a red domino mask, and in addition to being dressed in Kevlar and leather, had a red bat symbol on his chest.

Marinette spun her yo-yo, getting ready for a fight. The redhead continued eating, while his dark-haired companion gave her a swift once over.

“So, you’re the girl who took down Robin and Red Robin?” he asked, as if struggling to believe it.

“And you are?” she asked, when he put on the red helmet that was in his hand, it suddenly became clear.

“So, looking for me?” he asked, “Or are you on your way to fight the original boy wonder?”

“Honestly, I’ll take my chances with you.” Marinette said as she launched her yo-yo at his companion and wrapped the cord around him.

“Wait, wait, wait why me?” the redhead cried, then she threw him and sent him crashing into the Red Hood. The pair of them slammed into a nearby wall before she released the redhead. She unwound the cord and was getting ready to strike again.

Underneath the sprawled out pile of bodies, Red Hood grunted “Arsenal, get your ass off of my face or else…” Arsenal got up before he could finish his threat and they both stood up.

“So who checked ‘Fights with Toys’ off their bingo card?” Arsenal joked.

“Is that the best you can do?” Red Hood taunted. He came at her with a knife in hand, when she leapt in the air and wrapped her yo-yo cord around his arm. She launched herself at him, landing an aerial kick on his helmet. Red Hood grabbed her by the foot and flipped her over, sending her crashing to the ground.

“If you came here to fight me that’s one thing, not many people get to say they took on someone with a yo-yo and lived, unless you’re Toyman.” he said, as he lifted her up off the ground. “If you think this is what it takes to face Nightwing, then you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Ladybug took a few steps back after he helped her get to her feet, “so are you going to fight me instead?”

“Pixie, take it from me, it’s really not all it’s cracked up to be. As fun as it’s been watching you kick my brother’s asses, they are nothing compared to Nightwing.” he explained as he took off his helmet and set it down next to him.

“What do you know about Nightwing?” she asked, still understandably guarded about the situation.

“Oh what don’t I know, he’s basically Batman’s heir.” he told her “I’m just one of the spares, and that’s on a good day when I managed to not die.”

Dick had made it clear days ago that he wasn’t going to fight her, he already put his foot down at how silly this whole thing was. Jason, however, decided to have a little fun. “Honestly, you might as well just walk right into the batcave and challenge Batman yourself.” he told her, “I mean you won’t die, that’s kinda his whole deal, but you’ll be eating through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Jason, enjoying the anxiety bubble in the young woman, and he decided to crank it up to eleven.

“Nightwing is equal if not better than Batman in every way, he once took up the mantle of Batman when he was injured. Not only that, he broke Bane’s back. He lifted a 7ft tall 500lb big guy, snapped his spine over his knee as if it was nothing.” Jason moves his arms, mimicking the motion of breaking something over his knee. Ladybug began to sweat even more, struggling to imagine the powerhouse of a man to even accomplish such a feat.

Jason’s grin widens, “not only that, he fought a giant mutated bat the size of a man. He wrestled Man-Bat, putting him in a full nelson and smashing its face into solid concrete” Ladybug cringes at the thought of feeling the full force of having your face slammed into concrete. Jason gets ready for the coup de grace. “In fact, when he was 10 years old, he watched his parents get murdered by mobster Tony Zucco in front of his own eyes. After being taken under Batman’s wing, he went out for revenge. He chased after Tony for hours and cornered him in Crime Alley.

Tony died that night when Nightwent went after him, the official cause was a heart attack.”

Jason stops talking to look around him, as if he was paranoid and there were eyes all around him. He walks up to Ladybug and whispers to her ear “but between you and me, it wasn’t.”

He turns to Roy, “but if she’s gonna try and take him on after all that, then we might as well pull up some chairs and watch.” he said, giving Roy a knowing look.

“Oh yeah, I mean he’s no match for a cute girl and her yo-yo.” Roy joked.

“Come on, he’s probably waiting on top of the Iceberg Lounge, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting” he declared, Ladybug followed as the three of them made their way to the Iceberg Lounge. She felt her legs shaking, but it’s fine, she would at least live to tell the tale...right?

Nightwing stood on the roof of the Iceberg Lounge, carefully watching the whereabouts of the people going in and out of the area. He heard footsteps and looked up to see three figures landing on the rooftop in front of him. He looked up to see Red Hood, Arsenal and a short girl who looked to be in her late teens, maybe early 20s. He looked between them, then back at the girl who was spinning a red yo-yo with black polka dots.

Nightwing waved to them, figuring she would be the short girl mentioned in the bet between Batman and Catwoman. As he noticed the three, the short girl visibly frightened as he walked towards them.

Nightwing sighed “what did you tell her?” he asked, he had better things to than get involved in Batman’s dumb little bet. The outcome would have been someone joining the Bat family by force, even he had put his foot down by that point.

“I mean, nothing that wasn’t true.” Red Hood told him, “she might as well know who she’s dealing with.”

“Right, and you probably told her you are just a soft teddy bear compared to me.” Nightwing remarked sarcastically, “was it to keep her from beating the stuffing out of you?”. At that point Ladybug was visibly confused, so Nightwing looked over at her “so how did you get dragged into this? Got sick of having to share a litter box?”

Ladybug eyes Nightwing cautiously, thinking his joking mannerisms are an elaborate ruse to lower her guard. “What, don’t tell my Catwoman’s got your tongue?” Nightwing jokes with a large grin. Ladybug begins to slowly walk back, confused at how expectations did not match reality.

Nightwing points his thumb at Ladybug and talks to Red Hood, “Alright what did you tell her about me?” Red Hood raises his arms innocently “Like I said, nothing that wasn’t true.”

Nightwing raises his eyebrow at Red Hood and crosses his arms. “Alright I told her how you took down Bane and Man-Bat by yourself” Red Hood admits. “And?” Nightwing begins tapping his foot. “I may have, insinuated that you may or may not have had something to do with Tony Zucco's heart attack”

Nightwing facepalms, “well so much for first impressions, let's start over shall we?”

Nightwing reaches his hand out to Ladybug, “Name’s Richard but everyone calls me Dick”

Marinette tentatively reaches out to shake his hand, “I know you aren’t enthusiastic about this bet, neither am I. I don’t want to knock your spots off, so how about I lie on the ground, you take a picture for Catwoman and you fly off into the sunset”

“Where would I go?” she asked,

“She could come with us.” Red Hood suggested, “nothing would annoy Batman more.”

“Right, and next she’ll start asking me if I actually hypnotize people with my ass.” Nightwing said as he raised an eyebrow at him. “Think Catwoman would let you take her?”

“We already asked, someone has to look after this pipsqueak while she’s doing what she does best, alone”, Red Hood explained.

Ladybug felt herself calming down a lot more at that moment. She came to this city not really knowing anyone, feeling like there was no one else looking out for her. Now, for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was going to be in good hands.

Bonus 1:

Roy: So, should we call ourselves “Red Arse Bug” or “Lady Red Arse”?

Jason: Do you want me to throw you off this roof?

Bonus 2:

Ladybug: So you all had to wear red, yellow and green?

Red Hood: Yup.

Ladybug: What was it like?

Red Hood: I did my time in the pixie boots, Pixie. Doesn’t mean I like to talk about it.

#jasonettejuly2021 #jasonette #maribat

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