“I needed to watch the sunrise. I needed to remember - to believe - it still could. “

Redraw of THE Codywan panel. I currently have it as my lock-screen feel free to join me it fits perfectly ;D

superboy: the man of tomorrow 1 spoilers

(it's just one panel but below the cut just in case)

memory identification: go!

It's a dangerous idea, thinking…

Grace and greetings to you! I understand this is going to be a long one, so for the individuals amongst my follower list who struggle with reading through walls of text I'll be happy to provide a TL;DR at the bottom.

First I must make a confession; I have been fighting tooth and nail against my motivations to get my comic pages done.

Alright, that's not that surprising, is it? Everyone has some kind of struggle getting work done, especially when there's nothing in particular that they have to do. And I, being a 29 year old male still living with my parents, have only the obligations to complete chores and pay a small rent every month. The nothing I have to do could fill a book, so really what is there for me to be miserable about?? And yet despite all the time in the world I have, I've been finding myself hanging my head, lazing about and watching youtube videos, all the while waiting for a certain spark that had yet to be found.

Fortunately misery loves company, so in my efforts to solve the problem like any man would I complained to my brother and parents about being stuck in an artistic funk. And this, dear reader, is where the idea was planted in my head. My dearest mother told me under no uncertain terms that despite my efforts the last few pages of The Prospect were too busy, and she diagnosed that why that might be the case is because I have had more of an interest in animating things than my brother I pack too much into each panel. So... Why not animate the panels themselves?

The idea of trying such a thing hadn't really occurred to me ever, not even back when I still called myself a brony. And if I'm honest with myself... very few others have tried that kind of thing either. This is so so risky, and such a potential time sink, but I really can't help thinking to myself that in all my interest to animate, the thing I want to animate the most out of everything I can think of in my personal portfolio are the characters in The Prospect that I know and love.

With that in mind I'm sure if you've read through this you all have questions now, such as how this might affect my webcomic as it stands today. I'm going to rip that band aid off: I do not know. Most of my old panel work and other arts are very, very sloppy and would have to go through another once-over to even look even close to the quality of my most recent posts, but I have no idea if the writing will have to be taken care of as well. I do know however that some compromises will have to be made; such as the total loss of all my light and shadow layers for the sake of not killing myself over the arduous process of that animation.

But to make that work, I think I need to field-test it first. Do you guys have a favorite scene in The Prospect that you'd like me to try animating first? Please, let me know!

TL;DR-- I'm going to try animating The Prospect's panels, and maybe redo several pages while I'm at it. Give me an idea of a scene you want me to animate!

Take care, and God bless!

For @abbyheart25​, from the send me a pairing and a number and i’ll write you a drabble thing.  As always, brevity is not my strong suit.

116.  “If you’re here to arrest me you should know I have no intention of coming quietly.”  Graves/Credence

This one kinda feels like it should come with warnings?  My sense of what needs warnings and what doesn’t is a bit skewed, but I suspect it’s better to be safe than sorry.  So.  Warnings for racism, sexual harassment, the food service industry in general, and attempted underage prostitution.  (Nothing in the warnings applies to the main pairing except the last one.  Which doesn’t actually sounds as helpful as I think it does, but I promise this is very PG-13.)

Credence let the storm go.  He collapsed back into his body, landing hard on the rain-slick concrete.  He bit his lip when he landed and tasted blood.

Changing back always left him disoriented.  It didn’t hurt, exactly, but he couldn’t control it very well and he usually landed badly.  One of his knees twinged faintly; Credence couldn’t tell if he’d scraped it or strained it while his mind tried to reconcile having a body again.

For a second, his world was nothing but panic and pain.  He had to run -- had to get away.  He didn’t know why or from what, but he was on his feet and running before he realized what he was doing.

Credence ducked down a side alley on instinct.  The world was a rain slick blur, but some part of his brain recognized where he was.  He was down by the docks, not far from one of the squats he’d stayed in after Ma had thrown him out for being a godless freak.  Credence scrambled up on a dumpster and grabbed the fire escape, hauling himself up with a grunt of effort.  The squat had been cleared out awhile ago, but no one had bothered to check the little alcove on the roof.  He could hide there for awhile.  It wasn’t like the cops were going to go door-to-door.  Not in this neighborhood.  And even if they did, they wouldn’t check the roof.  Why would they?  No one in their right mind would be up there.  Not with the storm rolling in.  Everyone who had someplace else to go would be indoors.

The little alcove had probably been a pigeon coop at some point.  It was a rickety structure whose only saving grace was that it had a roof.  That was enough for Credence.  He ducked inside, closing the chicken wire door behind him.

Credence sat down on the floor.  Someone had cleaned out the bird shit since the last time he’d sheltered here.  There was a nest of filthy blankets in one corner.  They smelled like mildew and stale urine, but there was no other sign of human habitation.  No one had been here in awhile.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to force his thoughts into some semblance of order.

He’d been twelve the first time he’d changed,  He hadn’t realized that was what had happened until much later.  All he’d known was that he’d somehow managed to reduce his bed to splinters.  Ma had beaten him so badly for it he couldn’t move for two whole days, and he’d slept on a thin mattress on the floor until the day she’d turned him out for good.  She said that he’d done it because he was willful and sinful and all manner of other hateful things that she needed to beat out of him.  Credence had tried to tell her that he hadn’t.

Except, of course, he had.  Just not in the way that Ma thought.  He hadn’t done it maliciously, or to be disrespectful.  He hadn’t been able to control the change or the storm. Not then.

Credence had read enough comic books to know that whatever was happening usually kicked in around puberty.  He just didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know what he was.

Part of him desperately wanted to believe that he was different.  Special.  Magic or metahuman or a mutant or something else out of the stories.  That there were other people out there who were like him.  That there was a place for him.

This was real life, though.  Real life was nothing like the stories.  The good guys didn’t always win, the bad guys were rarely punished, and there was no such thing as a happily ever after.  Not for people like him.

Whatever he was, he was the only one.

Except, maybe, he wasn’t.

Credence rested his forehead against his knees and remembered.

*

Nagini hated the stupid outfit Skender made her wear.  She called it the video game version of a Chinese cheongsam, from the kind of fighting game that was designed to appeal to perverts.

“You know,” she said, at Credence’s baffled look.  “The ones where the women all have breasts the size of cantaloupes and they make porno noises when they get hit.”

Credence had seen pictures of those kinds of video games -- Ma had been religious, but it wasn’t like he lived under a rock -- but he’d never actually played one.  He had to admit that Nagini was probably right about her outfit.  Any modesty the high Mandarin collar of Nagini’s pervert-inspired cheongsam might have provided was entirely destroyed by the enormous lace panels “covering” her breasts and part of her right flank.  The skirt went down to her knees, but there were slits up both sides so high that Credence -- and therefore everyone else -- could see her underwear when she moved.  Skender made her wear underwear that matched, but what he’d provided had been little more than string, so one of the other girls at the Circus Arcana had taken pity on Nagini and told her where she could get cheap lacy Victoria’s Secret knockoffs to wear instead.

“This is about as Chinese as I am,” Nagini added, sounding more exhausted by the racism than enraged.  She passed Credence a hundred bucks under the guise of topping off a patron’s drink.  Her stupid skimpy outfit didn’t have any place to hide her tips, and Skender wasn’t above stealing them.  He’d check the girls at the door before he let them leave for the night, mostly as an excuse to put his hands on their breasts under the pretense of checking if they had money hidden in their bras.

Skender didn’t check Credence, though.  Why would he check the dishwasher?  No one was going to tip Credence.  The patrons of the Circus Arcana didn’t even know he existed.

“Sorry,” Credence said.

Nagini shrugged.  “Makes the assholes tip better,” she sighed.  

It also made them handsy.  Credence could see red marks on her thigh.  The guy at table six had tried to grab her again; he must’ve scratched her when Nagini jerked away.  Table Six always got handsy with the girls, but he paid well and he tipped well, so Skender let him.

Credence hated him.  He was vaguely aware that Table Six -- Shaw, his name was Shaw -- was a politician of some sort.  He’d seen pictures of the man on the subway.  He used to wonder what would happen if someone leaked the fact that Shaw liked to get handsy with the waitstaff at the Circus Arcana, and what he liked to do with the working girls was worse.  Nagini had told him not to bother.  Shaw’s father owned a newspaper.  No one would run that story.

“Nagini…”

“It’s fine, Credence,” Nagini said, twitching her skirt to hide the marks.  “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.  Credence felt the storm beckon.  For a second, he was genuinely tempted to let it go.  To reduce the Circus Arcana to rubble and rid the world of the entitled, handsy assholes who’d had the world handed to them on a silver platter and still thought it owed them something.

He couldn’t hurt Nagini, though.  Or the other girls.  Credence pushed the storm down and went back to work.

Shaw got loud enough and drunk enough that Skender had him escorted out.  Discreetly, of course.  He’d torn the lace panel over Nagini’s breasts before Skender had done it, though, so Skender had sent her home.  He’d docked her pay -- “for the cost of a new uniform” -- and laughed when Nagini flushed red with humiliation and rage, but he didn’t know about the hundred dollars Nagini had slipped Credence earlier, so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.  She could still make rent.

“C’mon,” Credence said.  He’d filled a water bottle with well vodka at the start of his shift.  He took a sip, just to ward off the night chill, and handed the bottle to Nagini.  “Let’s go get pancakes.”  It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think of to salvage the night.

Nagini laughed.  “You’re such a lightweight,” she said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Credence teased.  “If we both weren’t lightweights, Skender would catch me, and then how would we get free booze?”

Nagini tipped the bottle to her lips and drank.  “Pancakes are too much work,” she declared, a red flush creeping over her cheeks.  She always got red when she drank.  “Let’s have waffles.”

“With chocolate chips?”

“Fancy,” Nagini said approvingly.  “Do we have chocolate chip Eggos?”

“... No.”

“Shit.”

Credence was pretty sure they had regular Eggo waffles at home.  He was just tipsy enough to think the sandwiching a Hershey’s between two waffles might be an okay substitute to chocolate chip waffles, when a car door opened behind them and Table Six lurched out.

“Hey!” he said.  “Hey, you bitch, I’m talking to you.”

Credence and Nagini both turned to look at him.  Nagini jerked her head.  “Let’s just go,” she said.

“Don’t ignore me,” said Shaw.  “I paid for you.”  He gestured to his crotch.  “Time to work for your money, you slanty-eyed bitch.”

“Fuck off!” Nagini yelled.  She threw the vodka-filled water bottle at him.  It was half-empty already, and it didn’t do much besides splatter Shaw with cheap vodka.

Shaw roared something incoherent and charged at them.  Credence put himself in between Nagini and Shaw and got a black eye for his trouble.

“Don’t worry, freak,” Shaw promised.  “You can have her back when I’m done.  I just want what I paid for.”

The storm beckoned.  This time, Credence let it take him.

His storm self raged the way his human self couldn’t.  Credence threw Shaw around like a rag doll and stole the breath from his lungs.  He heard Nagini scream something -- maybe his name, maybe a warning -- and then white hot pain streaked through him.

Credence was so surprised that he let Shaw go.  He didn’t really know how his abilities worked, but he’d figured out that bullets and conventional weapons didn’t work on his storm self.  Nothing could hurt him when he was the storm.  Credence would have given up being human entirely if he could have, but he’d never managed to stay a storm for longer than an hour.

The storm turned, and whatever it was hit him again.

Credence screamed in rage and pain.  The pain made it hard to keep his hold on the storm.  He felt himself flicker between his storm self and his human self and forced himself to be the storm once more.

“Stop!” someone roared.  The voice was male, commanding and familiar.  Detective Graves from the 12th precinct.  He walked down the middle of the street like he owned it, his tailored coat flaring out behind him like a cape.  He looked like a superhero.

Credence had run away a couple of times when he was younger.  Detective Graves used to by the street kids sandwiches.  He was alright, for a cop.  Didn’t seem to want anything for his kindness -- not information or favors or a couple of sweaty minutes in the back of his patrol car.  He’d been horrified when Credence had offered, the one time he’d taken Credence to an actual diner and let him eat his fill.  Credence hadn’t understood why he’d been so upset at the time.  It wasn’t like he had any other way of paying Detective Graves back.  And besides, he was starting to think maybe he liked men more than he liked women, so it wasn’t like Credence wasn’t going to get something out of it.  Credence was pretty sure Detective Graves would be nicer about it than anyone else, and he could at least find out if he liked it.

Ma had found him and dragged him back home not long after that. Credence had only seen Detective Graves once after that day in the diner; he doubted the man even remembered him.

The man didn’t stop.  He’d made a gesture and lightning leapt from his hands to strike Credence.

Credence screamed when it hit him.  He had enough presence of mind to force himself to keep his storm shape as he scanned the area, looking for Nagini.  She must’ve run off as soon as Credence changed shapes.

She was probably afraid of him now, but at least she was safe.

Credence fled.

*

The filthy blankets were better than no blankets at all.  It was cold enough that Credence was grateful for them.  His clothes were soaked through with rain, and he couldn’t afford to go to a doctor if he got sick.  It wasn’t like Skender offered his employees health insurance.

Credence curled up underneath them and tried to sleep.

That man had been like him.  He had -- abilities.  Credence didn’t know what else to call them.  Maybe he was a metahuman.

He wasn’t alone, and the only other person who was like him had tried to kill him.

Real life was a little bit like the comics after all.

Credence fought down a wave of hysterical laughter.  Behind it lurked the urge to cry.  He wasn’t alone, except he was, and Nagini had seen what he was and she had to be afraid of him now, which meant that he was more alone than he’d been since Ma had thrown him out.  He wanted to go home and he wanted to run and he had no idea what to do.  He was a little bit afraid that if he started laughing or crying then he wouldn’t stop until he’d gone crazy.  Credence had seen enough comic books turned into bad movies to know what sort of person had that kind of origin story.  He didn’t want to be a supervillain.

There were footsteps on the roof.

Shit.

Credence bolted upright, trying to breathe as quietly as he could so as not to draw attention.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  He was so stupid.  Why had he ever thought that hiding here was a good idea?  He was trapped.

Credence reached for the storm.  He could change if he had to.  It would hurt, so close to his last change, but he could do it.

“You can come out if you want to, Credence,” said Detective Graves.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Credence couldn’t help the bitter bark of laughter.  It just slipped out before he could stop it.  He clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late.  The damage had already been done.

Well, it wasn’t like Detective Graves didn’t know he was here.

Credence stood up and walked out of the pigeon coop.  The storm surged beneath his skin.  He could fling himself off the roof and change shapes before Detective Graves could stop him.  Go somewhere else.

“It would be you,” Credence muttered.  The only cop he’d ever kind of trusted.  The only one who’d ever been kind.

The only one he didn’t want to hurt.

“If you’re here to arrest me, Detective Graves, you should know that I have no intention of coming quietly.”

“Captain,” said Detective Graves.

“What?”

“It’s Captain Graves, now.  The 12th is mine.”

“Oh.  Um.  Congrats, I guess.  On your promotion.”

“Thanks,” said Captain Graves.  “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t here to arrest you?”

“No,” said Credence, and changed.

He didn’t want to hurt Captain Graves, but if it was Captain Graves’ life or his freedom, he knew what he’d pick.  He’d killed Shaw, not to mention done a shit ton of damage to various buildings over the years.  Captain Graves was a cop.  Cops arrested people like him.

The storm surged towards Captain Graves, reaching out with grasping tendrils.  They slid away without touching him.  It was like trying to take hold of a glass sphere that had been coated in oil.  There was nothing to take hold of.

Credence howled in frustration.  Captain Graves tilted his head back and looked up at him.

“You’re magnificent,” he breathed.

Credence pulled back, confused.  He meant that.  Credence could see that he meant it.  Captain Graves looked at him the way people in movies looked at each other -- like Credence was something precious and wondrous and worthy of love.  He could have just been acting, like the people in the movies, but Credence didn’t think he was.

Captain Graves reached out a hand.  “Oh, my boy, you should have been brought to us long before it ever came to this.  The fact that you survived is nothing short of a miracle.  You are a miracle.”

Credence grasped his hand, letting the tendrils go solid until his human self remained.  It was hard to hold on to the storm when he was this confused.  The storm needed rage to direct it.  Rage and hate.

He stumbled, disoriented, and Captain Graves caught him.  He wrapped his arms around Credence, steadying him.

Credence felt safe there.  He hadn’t felt safe in years.

Us, he’d said.  You should have been brought to us.  There were more people out there like the man from earlier.  People with abilities.  People like Captain Graves.

People like Credence.

“What am I?” he asked.  “What are you?  Are we … metas?”

Captain Graves snorted.  “No.  Nothing like that.  Although it’s a useful cover for what we are.”  He raised one hand to cup Credence’s cheek.  “I told you.  You’re a miracle.”  He loosened his grip on Credence and took a step back.  For a second, nothing had changed and the next Credence had the impression of wings, huge and dark, unfurling in the air behind him.  They weren’t there and yet they were.  The feathers were a shade of brown so dark they were almost black.  Credence felt the rumble of tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth, the thin air of mountain peaks and the oppressive weight of dirt as he was buried alive.

Captain Graves snapped his wings shut and they vanished.

“What the hell?” Credence blurted.

“Not hell,” corrected Captain Graves.  “Or heaven.  Something in between.”  He traced a symbol in the air between them.

Credence recognized it.  He didn’t know how he recognized it, but he did.  He knew what it meant, too.  It was almost like he’d grown up knowing it and just forgotten that he did until now.

“Nephilim.”

A/N: This prompt made me wish I could draw.  It really did.  For some reason it was easier to think of in terms of comic book panels than it was in words, despite the fact that I am nooooot a good artist.  At all.  IDEK.  Brains are weird.

30

HILL

A pair of slender lips greeted me, followed by a meek ‘good morning’.

Amid a plethora of pointless decorative pillows propped up against the cream tufted headboard, Tarin sat upright with her legs crossed, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Barefaced and all, her beauty never radiated more than it did at this very present moment. Much to her chagrin, she apologized for her current appearance. She reached upwards and pulled off the colorful paisley headscarf, allowing those loose ringlets of hers to fall past the nape of her neck. Amusement flickered in her eyes reminiscent of the hue of rum.

Her nose scrunched up at its narrow bridge.

“Did I wake you?”

“Mhm, but I needed to get up anyway.” she yawned and stretched. The strap to her thin camisole grooved down her skin, no hint of a bra in sight.

She fixed her mouth to speak, but sucked her teeth instead and grabbed a hold of the loose strap. “Hill, it’s way too early for you to be a fuckin’ perv.”

“It’s,” I pulled away from the phone, “Seven minutes to eight over here, which means that it’s almost eleven in New York.  I thought you’d be leaving the office for lunch at this time. Yesterday must’ve been awful.”

“You don’t even know the half. Yesterday was a day from Hell. Truly.”

“Did that nail polish launch thing go over well?” I queried.

“It went over well -- so well that the guests didn’t want to leave. Randoms started poppin’ in from off the street wanting to see what the hype was about, which conflicted with the schedule. The launch was initially scheduled from one to four o’clock p.m. That time was specifically stated in the mass email sent to all the social media influencers invited. Could you believe the party didn’t end until eight o’clock? I wouldn’t have cared about her having to pay for the allotted time if I wasn’t expected to stay there longer than I should’ve. My grandmother ended up having to pick my kid up from day camp and keep her overnight, all because that washed up reality star with bad injectables wanted me to stay there and ‘man down the entire operation’.”

“And where was Cara when all this was happening?”

“Getting her nails done. She might’ve helped put out the supply of polishes for the nail technicians, but that was it.” She huffed. “On top of that, she left halfway through the event. Like, who does that? Mind you, putting together this event was joint. We were splitting the commission percentage right down the middle!” Her anger could easily be detected through the video chat application. Her eyebrows knitted together; deep ridges emerging across her forehead. “I had to check the inventory and I had to make sure there was more than enough wine for everyone coming in, on top of that.” An aggravated sigh escaped her. “I know it doesn’t sound all that hard to handle, but when you have to deal with middle-aged trophy wives who’re under the notion that they’re always right and you’re in the wrong, then it becomes pretty difficult. Something like this wouldn’t have such a negative effect on me. I would’ve let this shit roll off my shoulders under any other circumstance. I think my lack of sleep had something to do with it. I, uh, I had this weird dream that kept me up most of the night before. I had a dream, about my daughter’s father.”

My back relaxed against the car’s plush interior after turning off the car’s engine. Beads of sweat still coated my body; my heart still racing after the routinely morning run.

“I had a feeling he was coming to see me. Most times -- whenever I dream of him, it’s never expected. But this time was different. It felt different. It was weird. I just knew he was coming.  But, it wasn’t like my other dreams. In my other dreams, we meet on Fulton street. For some odd reason, I dreamt about the night he was killed.” She murmured, her voice deadpan; Tarin’s eyes, though wearisome, harbored an ample amount of emotion that I couldn’t seem to distinguish. “It was still summer. He was wearing these baggy jean shorts. He walked me home that night wearing the same shorts. It was so hot out that night,” she reminisced, “like, unbearably hot, Hill. Blackout hot. Still sweatin’ in the shade hot --”

“I get it, Tarin.”

“ We’d spent most of the day together so it was definitely time to part ways. I wasn’t feeling all too well that day, to begin with. I’d been nauseous on and off for over a week.”

“You were pregnant by then, weren’t you?” I asked in an attempt to piece these significant occurrences in chronological order.

“Sure was. I thought my poor eating choices were to blame. You should’ve seen me that summer. I ate a bunch of shit I had no business eating. Greasy Chinese food, chopped cheeses from the deli -- you name it, I ate it, and then some!” Tarin laughed. “Um. Where were we before I got sidetracked? I forgot.”

“Your dream, baby. Your dream.” I laughed myself at her recent spell of absent-mindedness. Often she mentioned she fell victim to losing her train of thought whenever she was dwelling on something greatly significant.

She let out a timid giggle and quickly reined it in with a low ‘oh’. “It was as if it were any other night and I was sneaking back out the house. My grandmother was sleeping and my mother was probably working back to back shifts. So, I left out the back door to my grandmother’s house, hopped the fence and met Richie up the block. Our meetup spot was always in front of this beige paneled house with a rusted iron gate. He was there waiting for me. I saw him from far away and I was expecting him to get on my case about him having to wait for me, but he didn’t. He didn’t suck his teeth or groan, or anything like that.” She placed the phone on the bed; the camera capturing her bedroom ceiling. “His t-shirt was white, but there was this small dark spot that kept getting bigger the closer I go to him.” Tarin rushed out. “By the time we were face to face the spot had spread across the whole lower half.” There was a pause, followed by her taking a deep breath in an attempt to control the sudden shakiness in her voice. “He told me he loved me. In my other dreams, all his ‘love you T’s’ were rushed. He took his time, this time. And I appreciated that.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

“What happened afterward?”

“He left me standing in front of that beige house. I kept calling his name, over and over again. But he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t turn around. He just kept on walking up the street towards this bodega we frequented...without me…”

We hadn’t resumed our usual forms of communication since she cut the video call short Tuesday morning.

Whether accidentally or purposefully my calls during the dismal forty-minute plane ride were ignored and sent directly to voicemail, causing me to dread heading to Vegas altogether.

Bria, my parents, and two of my cornermen were either bracing themselves for all that awaited us in a matter of hours or busying themselves with their phones through the uneventful travel. Craig, on the other hand, decided to peruse the swank loaner the chairman of the Showtime network had given us access to so we could ‘ride in style’.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Impressive jet,” Craig murmured, adjusting his seat, “Do you have any idea how much this bad boy runs for? Just guess.”

“I don’t know, maybe forty mill’.”

“Close, but no cigar.” He retained an inward laugh. “Sixty-five, and that doesn’t include maintenance, kid. That Kyser fella at the network told me that yesterday. Could you believe that? Spending almost a hundred millions dollars on a goddamn private plane? These people are bat-shit crazy, I tell ya.” Craig let out a deep, raspy chuckle; the whites of his eyes disappearing when his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “So where ya flying to after this? Victoria wants me to go with her on her family vacation this year. He sounded as shocked to say it as I was to hear it. Though they’d grown closer over the years for the sake of Madison’s upbringing, Vickie and Craig were a bit estranged. There were no or ill feelings or bad blood between them, as far I knew, but unless it was a birthday or around the time of the holidays, they hardly kept in touch. “You ever been to Aruba?”

“Not yet.”

“Me neither. Apparently, that’s where her, the hubby, and little Maddie are going -- where they want me to go. That little prick she’s married to --”

“Language, Craig!” My mother blurted out, lifting the satin mask up from around her eyes.

With a push of a button, Craig sat upright in the plush leather recliner; his elbows grazing the small table between us. “That little prick she’s married to rented out this villa in the northern area of the island.”

“You going?”

“Damn right I’m going. There’s a casino not too far from there.” He guffawed. His boisterous burst of laughter settled within seconds. “What about you? Where do you plan on going once this thing is finished and over with?”

I had no intention of fleeing out of the country for a week-long vacation this time around. My sole intent was to meet back up with Tarin.

That is if she ever answered my calls.

After arriving at McCarran International Airport, the seven of us dispersed into two separate vehicles. Bria, our parents, and I packed into an SUV parked closest to the hangar while Craig and two of the cornermen rode with security personnel to locate the other service car. Once nestled inside the silent black Chevy Suburban, my mother and Bria ensued with aimless conversation as my father listened on, adding in his two cents to let them both know he was paying attention. They attempted to include me in the comical banter by questioning whether or not I was still plagued by the same pre-match jitters I had as an amateur, but I refrained from answering due to the fact that my mind was on other things.

Without putting forth much effort, my hand patted along the seat, searching for the cobalt blue encased smartphone and idly checked Tarin’s social media activity.

She may not have been acquainted with social media prior to becoming Cara Santos’ apprentice but her online following increased in the matter of a few weeks. Part of it having to do with her association to Cara Santos, but most of it having to do with her professionalism and execution. On Monday she revealed the alias of her newest client; a child actor turned crossover crooner by the name of Haneef Parker. The masses, women generally, were enthralled by him and his singing abilities for as long as I could remember. Since childhood Smith had been in the spotlight, gaining moderate success from the various TV-sitcoms he starred in. He managed to strike gold in the music industry after signing a lucrative recording contract with a major label.

He was like a teen idol a decade go, Tarin brought up during her instance of fangirling. With high regard, she mentioned the copies of his albums she had in her possession, the J-14 posters taped onto her bedroom walls and the college-ruled notebooks marked up with the playful moniker ‘Mrs. Smith’ on them. I had it bad back then. He used to perform on 106 & Park all the time but Marjani’s parents would never let her go to Harlem without any supervision. We came pretty close to sneaking off one time, but we were never successful.

Of all the women Smith was linked to -- talented songstresses with whom he collaborated with, ditzy socialites the media often linked him to, and the frequently exposed video models who threatened to expose him on Twitter -- he ended up settling down with a registered nurse from his hometown.

Him and his girl are expecting, Tarin spoke lowly into the phone as if she weren’t within the confines of her own apartment. She mentioned how fortunate the opportunity was on account of him finding out about her through Instagram’s Discover tab.

Realizing Tarin hadn’t been active on social media since our last interaction, I proceeded to stuff my phone back into my pocket.

“Trouble in paradise?” Bria queried, lifting up her massive sunglasses for dramatic effect.

“What?”

“I watched you call the same number three times while we were on the tarmac.” She mentioned, reaching inside her knapsack’s unzipped compartment, retrieving a handheld mirror. The sight of her using holding the regal-esque mirror just to slab another layer of lipstick. “And now you’re scrolling down Tarin’s Twitter page like a stalker.”

“I’m not stalking her,” I made clear, “I’m worried. There’s a difference.”

“Worried my fucking ass.”

“Bria!”

All eyes darted towards the front of the truck. Seated beside my father who happened to be entirely engrossed with finishing the final pages of Nigger: An Autobiography of Dick Gregory, my mother mussed with her bangs angrily.

“What ma?” Bria peered over at her.

Raising an eyebrow, mother raised her hand, wagging her finger as she did. “Don’t be cussin’ in front of me! You know better than that.”

“Your mother’s right. Show some respect, Bria.” My father chimed in, pushing the e-reader aside.

“Sorry,” Bria said apologetically before turning to me. “You’re still a creep.”

“How exactly does this translate into me being a creep? By all means, let me know.”

“What you should be focused on is tonight’s final weigh-in. You have a lot riding on tomorrow’s fight, son.”

“And I’m aware of that, pops”

“Act like it, then.”

For the remainder of the commute to MGM Grand located right on the Las Vegas Strip.

As if it were her very first time experiencing the wacky Elvis Presley impersonators donning differentiating versions of the infamous studded jumpsuit or the old folks peddling off the shuttle buses and hurrying for the casinos.

“Act like you’ve been somewhere, please.”

She waited until my parents were mere feet away before advising me to ‘pull the stick out of my ass’.

Courtesy of the networks close relationship with the hotel, the family, Craig, the cornermen, and I were provided complimentary rooms of our choosing for the duration of our stay. Staying throughout the entire weekend wasn’t in the cads for Bria and my parents, being that they were heading back to their home in Florida Monday morning. With the assistance of a hotel staff member, the three of them were led through the main entrance. Craig and the cornermen followed close behind as bellhops unloaded every bag from the service trucks.

By the main entrance, a lone woman stood nearby equipped with a clipboard, extending her hand to acknowledge me. “Mr. Dawson, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Valerie,” She pushed her glasses upward by the bridge as they grooved down, “and I will be making sure your stay here at MGM Grand Las Vegas will be a remarkable one. I’m aware that you frequent the hotel quite often but it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve never visited our diversions.”

“I can’t say that I have, Valerie,” I answered truthfully. Aside from the matches being based out in Nevada and a few last minute meetings held inside of a restaurant or two, sticking around in the city of sin just wasn’t my thing. After matches, I allowed my body time to decompress and checked out at dawn.

“Well, If you’d like to reserve the best table at any of our ten restaurants or acquire tickets to any show of your choosing, please do not hesitate to call the skylofts’ private lobby and ask for me personally.” She said, pressing her hand against my back. “Now, if you don’t mind, the head of hotel security would like to escort you through the VIP lounge. There, the three of us will take a private elevator to your loft where we can check you in.”

I figured the extraordinary service I was currently experiencing was due to executives at the network pulling out all the stops to make sure the networks and I were all on the same page.

I’d be a fool to believe there wasn’t a proposal of a potential partnership in some capacity impending.

In the skyloft, at the elaborate dining room table complemented by chairs draped in yellow fabric, Valerie walked me through the hotel’s preliminaries and procedures; a document that I’d signed many times before. “If you’ll just sign right here and here, Mr. Dawson.” Valerie pointed to the bottom of the document. She leaned over the table’s edge. The deep V-neckline shifted, unintentionally granting me unwarranted peaks of her lacy bra.  “Alrighty then. Here is your keycard.”

“I was never good at keeping up with keycards.”

She rested her hand on my shoulder but slowly pulled it away. “In case you happen to misplace your room’s keycard, a staff member will be happy to help you recover another one.” I nodded, indicated that I had heard her. We sat in a prolonged silence until Valerie the concierge took the hint that I wanted to be alone. Grabbing her clipboard along with the preliminary and procedures document she made a beeline for the door, muttering ‘good luck tomorrow night’ prior to closing the loft’s door.

My mind ran rampant.

Not with thoughts of tomorrow night or what I intended to do once I headed back to California.

At the forefront of my mind remained thoughts of Tarin and the longing for her to alright with whatever she was up to.

TARIN

Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love” poured in through the recording studio’s powered speakers connected to a white oak turntable.

Records suited in tethered jackets remained scattered across the state of the art soundboard; audio from the likes of Teddy Pendergrass and Donny Hathaway were two of the few I’d been able to identify from their covers alone.

My time was limited, I reminded Haneef once obliging to meet at the last minute.

Considering that evening was steadily approaching and my hunger was getting the best of me, I still found time to schedule a last-minute meeting with Haneef Parker to come to a general agreement about the event, its budget, and the non-negotiable commission percentage I expected for my services.

“Could you tell me a little about -- I’m sorry. What’s the mother of your child’s name again?” I queried. The fact that she wasn’t famous was making it all the more difficult to remember her name.

“Marissa,” He answered quickly as he sorted through a crate containing hordes of records. D’Angelo’s Voodoo album had been pulled out and placed over Bilal’s 1st Born Second and Erykah Badu’s Mama’s Gun.

A boyish grin tugged at the corner of his mouth; one that instantly put me in the mind of the one he sported on the cover of Essence’s annual Men’s Issue.

He scooted back in the swivel chair, lifting the turntable’s needle carefully before swapping the Roberta Flack record for D’Angelo’s.

The opening track was slow and taking its time to build up with a succession of hand claps and layered vocals, luring me to sway along to the song infused with jazz and funk.

“You like that?” He inquired, his voice low.

“It’s easy on the ears.” A moderate screech hollowed out the song Haneef referred to as “Playa Playa”. “Drawing inspiration, by any chance?”

He twiddled his thumbs. “Every now and again I always seem to hit a dead end. It never fails.That’s when I take a breather and dig in the crates. Creatively I’m burned out. My mind’s on other things.”

“You’re about to be a father. It’s be expected that music isn’t your main focus.”

His mouth hung slightly ajar in an attempt to form some sort of rebuttal, but he paused, looking to be in deep thought as he bopped his head to the beat of “Devil’s Pie”. Rather than giving forth an audible answer, Haneef nodded his head in agreeance.

“I’ve always wondered whether men freak out over parenthood as much as women do.”

“I can’t speak for all men, but I’m a lil’ nervous. I ain’t gonna front.” Haneef admitted, running his hand down the length of the fitted, distressed jeans he donned.

“The fear will go away. Trust me.”

“How you know? You’re speakin’ like you know. Like --”

“-- I’ve been where you are. Well, not exactly where you are. You’re a multi-millionaire having his first child in his late twenties. I’m not saying I was when I had my kid, but I didn’t have a ton of cash at my disposal, either..”

“Wait. You have a kid?”

I nodded.

“You lyin’!”

“No, I’m not. I’m serious!”

“Bullshit,” His laughter came out a low, gruff roar, “you can’t be no older than --”

“-- I had her young.” I retorted without thinking much of the revelation. I turned forward, taking in the isolated room ahead equipped with bass drums, a microphone, and an electric guitar. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The same way your child will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And despite the fame, the money, and all your accolades, they will be your greatest accomplishment ever. Enough of all that, though. By any chance, do you have a theme in mind?”

“Nah.”

“What about a color scheme?”

“Nah.” He repeated.

“Do you know what you’re having?”

“Nah Rissa,” He called her for short, “wanted the baby’s gender to be a surprise.”

“Haneef,” I huffed, “Haneef. You’ve got to give me something to work with here. Something.” I stressed, easing my back against the chair. “Now, since the baby’s gender is unknown, it’d be best if we stick to a gender neutral color scheme. This leads me to ask you whether you’d be content with the use of yellow.”

““I’m not put off to it being used’.”

“Alright. Yellow is a possibility.” I nodded. “How about I look into some potential venues and follow up with you sometime next week? If you’re available we could schedule another meeting Monday morning.”

“Tomorrow’s my only free day.” He mentioned.

“Eh, tomorrow’s no good for me.” I spoke sheepishly, “I’m gonna be outta town.”

“After tomorrow I will be, too.” Haneef expressed with a head nod. “I’ma be in Miami until next week doing a few intimate shows. From an artist’s standpoint, I haven’t garnered enough attention leading up to the release of this album --”

“Which is why you’ve considered doing these performances.”

“See, you get it.” Haneef scooted in the chair up to the soundboard, carelessly fiddling with the buttons and knobs. “My management said those bastards at the label want me to put forth a bit more effort this go around. I’m booked all month for radio interviews and segments for morning talk shows. They even got me doing those interactive Q&A’s with the fans so I could seem more attainable.”

“You have to put in more of an effort now than you’ve probably had to before. I’m no music industry guru that knows all the ins and outs of the biz but album sales are definitely not as high as they used to be. You had it pretty easy back in the day, Haneef. You were the sangin’ pretty boy with the big hazel eyes --”

“'Was the sangin’ pretty boy’?" He scoffed. "I still am!”

I pursed my lips together, fighting the urge to tell him he’d handed over the title of reigning supreme the moment he decided to chase musical fads and cross over. A former label A&R and longtime mentor of Haneef introduced him to a duo of producers responsible for the reemergence of EDM in mainstream music. Working with two of the hottest producers of the moment earned Haneef concurrent chart-topping hits and favorable co-signs from the mediocre pop stars who conquered radio airplay day in and day out.

No longer was he the Haneef Parker record executives pitted against other rivaling act, nor was he the same Haneef Parker who critics regarded in the same class as the talented luminaries who had come before him. On the heels of his crossover success music aficionados referred to the R&B golden child as nothing more than a sellout who sacrificed true artistry for mass-notoriety; a man who disregarded his core audience.

I took a moment to ponder how I could break the silence that loomed over us, witnessing him looking at me with intent the moment my stare drifted to the True Believer tattoo cascading down his right forearm.

Either the bold marking was a new addition to the throng already coating his arms, torso, and legs or I was officially disinterested with all minor things Haneef Parker; the latter rang true the longer the singer and I occupied the same space.

“Um. So...conference call it is, then. And if I can’t get a hold you that way, I will send photos of venues within the budget directly to your email.”

“Damn. You on it, ain’t you?”

“It’s pretty much essential to be.”

Reaching for the slouchy tote bag that had been grazing my exposed ankles, I rose from the swivel chair, stopping per Haneef’s request; his rendition of the Roberta Flack record he played previously.

“Couldn’t let you leave without hearing his version.” His hand fell to the knobs again, feathery croons matching the tone of D’Angelo’s tone fluttered into the air as Haneef sung along, merging with the track’s infectious bass.

“I like this one, too.” I murmured as the studio’s door opened. I assessed the group of people; a collective of both men and women, passing through the entryway, dispersed into groups and occupied the two leather couches. A man holding a guitar case ambled towards Haneef and proceeded to give him dap before inquiring about the audio engineer scheduled to be present for the session. As they engaged in conversation, and the trio of women behind me began belting out rehearsed verses they’d read off sheets of papers, I bid my farewell to Haneef and slipped out the studio.

It was nearing six when I finally arrived home.

Silence greeted me on the way inside the darkened apartment.

Traces of Ayla were present throughout the furnished space complemented by teal or orange decorative accents. Small shoes idled the cubby space by the door. In the living room, toys that she failed to put away as well as a box of misplaced crayons and a coloring book rested atop the coffee table. Releasing a huff, I tossed my bag and keys on the bare kitchen island in passing and proceeded to gather her belongings and return them to their rightful spots.

Before peeling off the frayed denim dress and slipping out of the mahogany rose Vans I hurried to hook my phone up to the charger port plugged in beside my nightstand, dreading to reply back to the inquisitive text messages from Marjani that I’d already skimmed over or hearing the voicemails Mama Sarah had left prior to my phone dying while on the way to meet with Haneef. With the dress puddled at my feet, I shrugged out my bra and shimmied out of the matching hip-riding panties, making a beeline for the master bathroom soon after. A backpack containing a change of clothes, travel size toiletries, and an alternate satin scarf hung above a change of comfortable shoes that were lined neatly against the bathroom’s wall.

I doubled back into the bedroom simultaneous to a resounding blare emitting from my cell phone. I figured it would be Mama Sarah calling to coax me out of leaving tomorrow afternoon, but I was wrong.

For what seemed like an eternity I watched my cellphone continuously dance from left to right and back again on the nightstand, a zoomed-in picture I’d screenshot one night during a facetime call appeared before a notification stating that Hill had left a voicemail, popped up. I contemplated on calling back but decided against doing so.

As soon as the voice on the other end greeted me the plan itself would be botched.

I had to remain focus and act accordingly.

Bria and Vickie would have my ass if I didn’t.

****

I was in over my head.

I’d come to that realization thirty-thousand feet in the air.

The flight scheduled for two remained stagnant on the runway due to the pilot being a no-show.

My mind instantly resorted to the worst.

Perhaps he was at someone’s bar getting sloshed prior to risking the lives of all the passengers or cooped up in a private bathroom somewhere snorting bumps of coke off a bathroom counter. As if harping on that horrific possibility wasn’t troubling enough, I grew frantic from feeling every erratic motion the alternate pilot who’d been assigned to fly the plane at the last minute determined was turbulence.

In a matter of minutes, I’d lost feeling in my limbs. The violent churning in my stomach commenced when the short-haired Asian woman sitting beside me commanded my attention. Since accidentally bumping into each other during my frequent trips to the bathroom, she’d been itching to start up a conversation. On more than occasion, I’d caught staring at me out the corner of my eye. I couldn’t even browse through Twitter in peace without spotting her take unwarranted peeks at my phone’s screen.

Heaving a heavy sigh I shifted against the window, closing the application after retweeting photos Cheyenne had uploaded from the recent nail polish launch onto CS Event Planning & Productions’ user account.

*Nervous?” The woman sitting beside me spoke up. With the hand that wasn’t cradling the latest issue of The New Yorker, she brought it upward to toy with her blunt ends. In contrast to her pale skin, her hair was dyed blue-black which complemented the reddish brown matte color staining her round lips.

She didn’t bother waiting for an answer.

It was as if she’d picked up on my timidness.

I mean, we were sitting directly next to each other.

“Relax. Sit back, and breath. Ditching the caffeine always helps too.” She nodded in the direction of the venti ice coffee cup that was now empty.

“This is my first time flying.”

“Shocking,” the woman muttered, laughing a little.

****

Often I wondered how it would be to see him again. To share his presence. To succumb to that familiar embrace and settle against his chest as his arms enclosed around me. He’d left an impression on me long before this moment. Long before our dinner at Buddakan. Long before our heated kiss at the bar. I wanted him more than I’d led on. More than I had ever predicted if I was being honest with myself. The wracking emptiness that lingered within me due to our purposeful strain in communication, attested to my developing sentiments. That, and the fact that I’d left my obligations in New York behind to simply be alone with this man for a few hours.

With the help of Bria snagging Hill’s keycard out of his pants’ pocket when he changed into his match attire, I entered the swank loft suite moments after the third round began. A series of alarming text messages and corresponding voice notes from Victoria stating that the fight had come to an end when Hill’s gloved fist connected with his opponent’s jaw, idled my notifications.

By unanimous decision, Hill had defeated his opponent by way of knockout.

Sports journalists wasted no time rushing to various social media platforms to discuss the bout that lasted four rounds.

In an attempt to allay the nerves afflicting me throughout the excruciating wait, I passed through the beautifully decorated suite more than once, finding myself in awe of the art bedecking the walls of the sitting area. Atop a checkerboard carpet positioned by the floor to ceiling windows was low-lying furniture paired with intricate additions of red and oranges. Hues of creams and browns were used avidly throughout the bedroom and master bathroom. Per Bria’s rather rigid request, every touchscreen tablet control panels were left untouched being that Hill hadn’t yet altered the settings himself.

When perusing every inch of the suite began to bore me I retreated to the ottoman positioned against the bed’s footboard. With my phone as my sole source of entertainment, I scrolled through my Twitter feed and stumbled upon a link to the post-match press conference. Both Hill and his opponent stood at adjacent podiums with their respected trainers behind them. It took an hour and a half for them to get through every question members of the press had asked, most of which were recycled inquiries concerning their training regimens, their diets, and each side’s honest opinion of the other. Much to my disappointment, the distorted live-stream was cut short just as Hill uttered a heartfelt expression of gratitude to Craig.

With haste, I sent a series of text messages to Jani with whom I failed to respond to earlier on account of being escorted to a black Chevrolet by a driver Victoria arranged to meet me at the airport. Our conversation that consisted of her urging me to let loose while in the city of sin placated momentarily until the commotion filled the air, followed by the opening and closing of the door downstairs. Instinctively, I shot to my feet; a voice belonging to Bria Dawson approached and grew closer as footsteps padded up the stairs.

“You have your own room for a reason, Bria.”

“I’m aware of that,” she scoffed, “I wanted to use the bathroom.”

“There’s a bathroom downstairs. It’s right by the door.”

“Why do I have to use that bathroom? Am I not good enough to use the one up here?”

“Look, I’m not about to argue with you about no stupid shit. I’d appreciate it if you’d go back to your room --”

With a slight push, the bedroom door swung open, unveiling a stoic Hill standing in its entryway. His eyes drifting from me to Bria; doubt present in his expression.

Grinning, I muttered a low ‘surprise’, receiving a boyish grin I’ve had the longing to witness face to face since his previous stay in New York.

Standing before both Hill and me in a satin top and matching wide-legged pants the color of champagne, Bria’s tongue ran across her top row of teeth; a triumphant look spread across her face.

I didn’t know whether to acknowledge her efforts with a comforting embrace or with an acknowledging head nod.

Coolly she strutted to me, her oversized blazer draped over her shoulder, adding to the awe of her tantalizing gait. She oozed every bit of confidence. Everything I wished I was at nineteen. “Well, Tarin, I have to hand it to you,” her breaths jagged, “I’ll be the first to admit that when Victoria ran the plan by me I wasn’t too sure you’d be able to pull off ignoring my idiot brother until the weekend. I figured you were just as sprung over him as he is over you. But, you stuck with the plan. Good job, girl!  Mission a-damn-complished!”

“It was the easiest task.” I confessed, my eyes meeting Hill’s once again. He pressed his lips into a fine line, dropping a large Under Armour duffle on the swing-back armchair. He moseyed in more, skirting by Bria who stood just mere inches from me.

Her glossed lips parted into a goofy grin. Unrestrained laughter escaped her, settling once she took our non-verbal communication through fixed stare. “I’ll think I’ll be headin’ to the bathroom now.”

“And leaving afterward, I hope.”

“Do you see this Tarin? This the thanks I get for helping bring this plan to fruition. You’re an unappreciative ass, Hill. Where’s the gratitude? Where’s the appreciation? I’ve yet to hear a thank you!”

“Jesus Christ --”

“Thank you, Bria.” I butted in an attempt to keep the peace.

She shifted in her stance, elongating her right leg which showcased the nude strapless ankle-wrap sandals.

“I know you’re thankful,” forcefully, she nudged Hill right on his shoulder, “but I wanna hear this jackass say he is. He doesn’t seem to be!”

“Knowing you, a ‘thank you’ isn’t all you’re looking for.”

She snickered, “It it ever?” A series of pats were landed on Hill’s cheek prior to Bria making her way towards the bedroom’s door. “You owe me big for this one. We’ll talk later. Okay? Until then, have fun.”

Just as she was about to make her departure, Hill’s hand found its way to her shoulder, restricting her from moving any further. Without expressing words, he enveloped her in a hug from the side. At first, she tried shooing him away, but settled into the embrace, smiling although the moment was short-lived. Per Bria’s request, they separated, following up the endearing moment with an elaborate handshake consisting of two turns, three consecutive hi-fives, and a knuckle pound. Slips of laughter escaped me as I stood nearby witnessing the two siblings carry on lovingly as if they weren’t acting like a pair of bickering children moments ago. After she used the bathroom and Hill phoned hotel security to escort Bria to her room, he returned into the bedroom, discovering that I took a seat on the bed. He joined me; a hand rested on my thigh, putting me at ease.

“I’m usually not one for surprises.” He admitted lowly.

“I’m usually not good at keeping surprises. Anyone who knows me knows that I couldn’t keep a secret of this caliber. In the past, I tended to talk a secret right outta me.” I spoke faintly, reaching for his hand. His long, narrow fingers intertwined with mine. “I couldn’t ruin this one. I just couldn’t.”

His lips found their way to my neck, peppering my skin with kisses. I relaxed against his touch yet I desired nothing more than for his arms to surround me and for his lips to be on mine.

Fortunately for me, my earnest desire was met.

In seconds, his mouth collided with mine. His tongue slid inside, eliciting a stifled moan from me. Rather than gently running my hand up the side of his face, my left hand found its way to a spot just above his brow bone. The pads of my fingers traced over the thin, white bandage concealing a minor cut.

“How was the fight?” I asked in between fervent pecks.

“I won.” He retorted blankly, seeming somewhat disinterested in the topic.

“I know that.” I mentioned. “It doesn’t seem like you were hurt too bad.”

“You should see the other guy.” He responded, removing his lips from mine.

Impassioned kisses were left on my collarbone; the scent of sandalwood combined with another subtle manly scent wafted into my nose. My back came in contact with the sheets that felt expensive to the touch. He paused, assessing the ribbed hunter green mini dress that fit snug against my frame. At hem gathered at my thighs, Hill pushed the ribbed material up; a devilish smirk settled on his face upon realizing that I was pantiless, his grimace wholly manifesting into a look of mischief.

My dress was carelessly thrown to the floor.

The plunging triangle bra I donned was the next to be discarded after Hill’s struggled effort in unclasping the final row of hooks. Succeeding, he tossed the bra onto the armchair, basking in my naked frame and all its supposed glory. He regained footing when arising from the bed, unbuttoning each button stitched onto the mosaic-printed button-up he wore. He went on to remove his dark-wash jeans, but, I quickly shot up, wobbling on the heels I loathed wearing altogether.

“Let me.”

Somewhere in between Hill stepping out of his loafers and his belt producing an audible when his pants hit the floor, a ball of nerves flourished right in the pit of my stomach.

We stood before one another exposed. Face to face, chest to chest. “Hey. Hey,” he called out, halting me from any sudden movement, “we don’t have to --”

“But..I..want to.”

My hands aimlessly ran down his torso, patting over the deep-set grooves and contours of his abdominal muscles

We retreated to the bed, then.

I anticipated the moment our lips reunited.

For a moment I watched on with intent as he roughly parted my thighs. To his knees he sank and buried his head between my thighs, coaxing me to moan out his name. Nipping at my flesh as my thighs quivered -- tickling the smoothness of my thighs with his the minimal stubble coating his cheeks. Solace was found the moment I planted hand atop his head, raking my nails through the low heap of coarse locks he’d yet to trim off and down towards the scalp. A drawn out guttural mewl sputtered from my lips, prompting me to undulate my hips against his face.

I pushed further -- relentlessly, nearing the brink of my peak.

Goosebumps coated my fervent skin.

Shivers cascaded down my spine.

Warm tears settled at the lower rims of my eyes from the thought alone, thickening while they trickled down the sides of my face. Subsequent to removing his head that was recently situated between my legs, Hill rose from the bed and made a beeline for the slate grey sports duffle, leaving me aching for him; He searched through the two smaller compartments located on either side, retrieving a black leather wallet.

A condom or two -- perhaps maybe three rested inside the slip compartments.

“C’mere.”

Despite the sudden hoarseness detected in my voice, he happily obliged.

In quick movements he labored over me, gently caressing my cheek. With erratic haste, we eased down his boxer briefs together, only for him to rear back to rip one of the condom’s wrapping open. Our eyes locked shortly afterward. My expression was assessed for the slightest hint of hesitancy -- any inkling of uncertainty. Beats of silence pervaded the air thick of unspoken lust that became almost dire to be acted on.

“I want you.” His head lowered, granting me the opportunity to run my tongue over the fullness of his lips. “Do you want me?”

“Of course I want you.” Hill asserted firmly; the throbbing between my legs became unbearable the longer I continued to ache for him. “Of course I want you.”

The words reverberated into my skin. Within seconds, he was inside me, producing slow, marginal strokes that quickly progressed into deep thrusts. I panted his name until words were no longer comprehensible. My worrisome thoughts -- tasks that I knew had to be handled as soon as I landed back in New York, were subdued by warm breath cooing onto my skin. Repeated remarks of my beauty were made amidst struggled groans. Beneath him, I cursed and met his urgent movement with an eagerness of my own. My hips rose, prompting my thighs to anchor around his waist entirely. He reared back, supporting my trembling thigh as it started to ease down his torso; lust evident in the eyes of the man shuddering above me.

Curses bellowed from his parted lips, the very same succulent pair I latched onto and kissed tenderly, reaching the ascent to another climax. He plunged harder then, releasing a harsh, throaty groan onto my lips simultaneous to his body tensing up atop my quaking frame. I fastened my arms around him, asserting that I was unwilling to let him go.

In my grasp he stilled, his head resting on my breasts.

Still, plunged deep into my depths, his manhood pulsated.

“Don’t move. Stay right here.” I begged.

His large, taut hand ran over the tops of my breasts, kneading them softly until Hill decided to get off the bed and amble into the bathroom.

I rolled over, feeling the freest I’d felt in years.

The Ray #3

Doctor Doom?

I'm not too happy with my younger self right now. Not because he was a slacker who did nothing to prepare me for middle age and beyond. I'm irritated by him because he purchased six issues of The Ray and I'm now bored with it after two issues. The concept behind this comic book was "What if a young person had to buy a fridge? How would they go about doing that while also needing to pay rent and pursue a sex life? How do young people learn to be adults? And also, he has super powers! What?! I know, right?! That's going to be some crazy fridge buying!" That isn't speculation on my part (although it is in my own words). That's what Brian Augustyn wrote about this comic book in the back of Issue #1. Oh well! I guess I just have to eat an entire bag of Sour Patch Kids, feel sick and headachey, take some aspirin and a nap, wake up, remember I need to read The Ray #3, sigh until the Non-Certified Spouse puts her headphones in, and finally open up the stupid comic book. I mean the wonderful comic book! I forgot about my change in attitude! I love comic books! They're like no other art form!

Imagine having no lungs and trying to read aloud a sentence that ends with an exclamation point. I'm passing out just thinking about it.

The issue begins in the middle of a fight because The Ray knows to start in the middle of the story when he's writing a letter to Black Canary. I still don't know why he's writing her letters but that seems to be the narration aspect of this story. I like it better than when the narration sounds like the character is doing a DVD commentary on their recent life. It makes way more sense! Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to move on from that thought! One of the things that really annoyed me when I returned to comic books after about an eight year break was how so many were narrated by the main character. But they weren't the thoughts of the character during the action. They were the character commenting no the action while looking back on it from some future point. Priest gets around this by having The Ray writing about his life to Black Canary. It's a fucking brilliant way to get around the nonsense of a character commenting to the reader (I guess?) about their past. This is also a good chance for me to use the word epistolary but I don't know exactly how to use it. Earlier that week (prior to sitting down and telling Black Canary about the event in a letter), The Ray battled a guy named Death Masque. Death Masque was one of those guys really into teaching the hero something while he also tried to kill the hero. The Ray thinks he sounds like some guy trying a little too hard to be his father. Man, Star Wars cast a pretty long shadow on pop culture, didn't it?! The battle between Death Masque and The Ray is a bit of a therapy session. Death Masque: "Your father would be so disappointed in you!" The Ray: "My father is dead!" Death Masque: "I meant your real father! Not his stupid lying brother who raised you!" The Ray: "You're not my father!" Death Masque: "What? I never claimed to be, you fool!" The Ray: "Rot! I was so busy getting my serve on that I failed to gaffle myself! Daddy!" An alarm sounds and The Ray is all, "Oh shit! I have to go to work. End program!" That's right! He was battling a computer simulation that he programmed! And it's as intuitive as that therapist program on the Apple IIe from way back. You know the one that would ask you about your mother 95% of the time and hardly ever ask you about your dreams even though that was all I really wanted to talk about? I wonder why The Ray is working at a fast food restaurant when he can program such sophisticated therapy slash battle simulation software? The Ray heads off to work after hurting his own feelings because he's such an intuitive programmer. I guess he'll just have to battle the real Death Masque after his shift is over.

This is what a fart looks like at 20,000 feet.

Look, I don't like to concentrate on continuity errors. I love to! The Ray's suit is made out of light. But not the jacket! So how come he doesn't have his jacket on when he decides to get naked while flying through the stratosphere? Maybe it was destroyed when he was eaten by Brimstone and now it's just light too! Although, why would he fight naked under his light suit? What happens if he's knocked out in mid-fight?! Talk about embarrassing! I mean embarrassing for him! I would be all, "Hey ya! Look at my dick, Joe and Joanna Public!" I mean, I'd say that after I woke up naked in the middle of the street with everybody gawking and trying to resist jerking themselves off while looking at my beautiful man meat. After The Ray exposes himself to everybody on the right side of the plane, he goes home to wallow in self pity and remember the time a nun caught him jerking off. Although according to Neil Gaiman, he was once told by editorial that characters in the DC Universe never jerked off. Obviously that was disproven by The Scarab since he jerks off right on panel. But that was a Vertigo title a little bit more removed from the DC Universe than even The Sandman, so I guess it was allowed. But that doesn't explain The Ray jerking off in the DC Universe! Isn't that against editorial rules?

Oh! I see. Jerking off is nonexistent in the DCU which is why neither he nor the nun can explain what he's doing! It's like The Invention of Lying but with masturbation!

While The Ray is moping about people having seen his dick, Doctor Polaris reaches out to him for help. Well, he claims he's the good half of Doctor Polaris and not the bad half. So that probably means it's not a trick or anything! If there's anybody you can trust, it's the good half of an evil person, right?

Oho! So The Ray is smarter than I was willing to give him credit for! For which I was willing to give him credit? Fuck it. I hate writing.

Nobody will help The Ray figure out if Emerson is lying to him so he decides to simply break Emerson out of prison and force him to help. But that also means he's breaking Doctor Polaris out of prison, right?! I'm so confused about this kid's thought process! The bottom line is that The Ray fucks up and winds up allowing the "grave danger" to escape while also causing Doctor Polaris to take over Doctor Emerson's mind. So now The Ray has to battle both Doctor Polaris and a mysterious Light Entity. The Ray #3 Rating: C+. I liked this issue a little bit better than the other issues because a nun caught The Ray masturbating. Not on panel, of course! But it was still an exciting story to learn!

This Week in Powers Squared: Report From the Front: SDCC 2019

Editors Note: This is taken directly from http://1000wordsadayeasily.blogspot.com/2019/07/a-week-in-writing-256-report-from-front.html which is David’s personal blog about writing.

A day late, but better late than never, right?

Every year, for 13 of the past 14, I've attended San Diego Comic-Con and every year, since I've been blogging, I've written about my experience, first on Trophy Unlocked and then here for the past few years now. I write about my experience at the Con and the panels I've attended, sharing what I've learned in hopes that it will help me make more sense of what I've learned and to pass that on to you, dear reader, in case something I've learned would be helpful to you. I will write about about some aspects of the convention but if you're looking for photos of Cosplayers or a rundown of the MCU Phase 4, I'm going to have to tell you to look elsewhere, as there are much better sources for that sort of information. In all the years I've attended, I've never made it into Hall H, nor have I attended the Masquerade ball they have on Saturday nights. This is the first year that I've attended the event as a Professional, thanks to Powers Squared. Obviously, sales numbers are not taken into consideration when it comes to handing out that sort of badge. Being a Professional means that you don't have to go through the registration process, you get all four days and preview night, and you don't have to pay for admission. While that is all pretty sweet, that is all that you really get. After that, you are simply an attendee with no other real perks, or at least ones worth noting here. For those who couldn't attend, I put up some photos as a sort of travelogue on the Powers Squared Instagram page, which means they showed up double on the comic's Facebook page, Twitter feed, and Tumblr. If you want to see lines and crowds and see where we ate while there, please check that out. Paul and I also did short videos which will be edited together for next week's A Week in Powers Squared vlog that we put up on our YouTube channel. Let's get over the basics, Comic-Con is tiring and expensive. For the most part, you're one in a sea of people all trying to do something different, which means there is general organized chaos going on at all times. Lines are long, even for pre-ordered items, and having a magic ticket, so to speak, means you're at the end of a line that never seems to move more often than not. Some booths, like Hasbro, seem to know how to handle a giveaway while others, like Viz, still do not. Last year, they nearly shut down the Con based on the near-riots that they caused. While I want to have fun at Comic-Con and did attend some panels in that vein, over the past few years I've trying to attend more learning and professional sessions and that's what I write about here. There was one panel, The Art of the Pitch, that I could not get into. Not sure why, but I suspect that it had something to do with Yvette Nicole Brown, of Community fame, being the moderator. Don't know for sure because I never got into the room and I wasn't paying attention to what the next panel was supposed to be in that room. For some panels, especially the popular ones, you have to sometimes sit through one or more prior to get to the one you want to see. I didn't expect one about Pitching to "sell out," so I missed that. There is no substitution for actually attending these sorts of panels. I know not everyone can, so I try to present what I learned to help those who can't. I did make it into Finance Your Indie Comic Now, moderated by Barbara Randall Kesel, and while it featured four male black creators and one woman, as Kesel pointed out, this wasn't about diversity in comics. The nice thing about the panelists is that they, like many in the room, were creatives; Andre Owens had recently become a full-time creative, which is, of course, everyone's goal. Like most panels, there really isn't that much that you haven't already learned and you will sometimes hear advice that is impractical for your situation. However, here is what I was taught in the panel: 1) If you spend more than $162 a page, in a comic book, and your sales are not 5000 and up, there is no way to make money on your book. 2) You should try to price your book at about half of what Marvel and DC charge for the same amount of pages $4 to $5, which means you should price at $2 to $2.50, or make up for it by offering more than what they provide for the same price. 3) The sources for funding are the usual: Crowdfunding (Kickstarter and the like), Print-on-Demand and Digital-only distribution. They did agree that there is a little Kickstarter fatigue that has set in, which, if true, is not a good thing. 4) They did mention a website that I have not had a chance to explore, http://www.creatorresource.com, which is meant to provide comic book freelancing tools and resources. Nerdy Finance was actually a replacement panel, but when I heard about it, I wanted to be sure to attend. Presented by Neil Narvaez, the panel discussed the tax implications of a hobby and trying to run a business, or as he put it, trying to make money. His first bit of advice was to have an accountant do your taxes, as they know, or should know, the ins and outs of the tax codes and will allow you to take full advantage of all deductions. The IRS considers you a business if you are: 1) Acting like a business (i.e., trying to make money) 2) What is the time and effort you're putting into it (can't be an hour a week or a month)? 3) Do you depend on the income generated by your business? 4) Are losses beyond your control? 5) Do you change strategies to be more profitable? 6) Do you have knowledge/skill? 7) Did you make a profit in the past? 8) If you made a profit, how much? The top five deductions for a creative: 1) Home Office. If there is a part of your home that is only used for your business, you can claim that percentage against everything from mortgage/rent to property taxes to utilities as a deduction on your taxes. 2) Travel - to conventions, etc. This is no longer allowed for W-2 work, but if you're your own business, then it is still allowed up to 50%. 3) Meals while traveling. Again, it's up to 50% 4) Materials and supplies. 5) Hiring your children to work in your business. He also talked about the perceived tax advantage of being an LLC. While a Limited Liability Company does provide you with some sort of protection, it does not have an impact on your Federal or State Taxes. He made it sound like it is more trouble than it is worth. In states like California, it costs $800 a year to register. There might be cheaper ways to protect yourself, like an Umbrella insurance policy. He also did not recommend forming an S Corp unless your income is $60,000 or more. Again, costs and bookkeeping, etc. He also talked about Estimated Tax payments. While these are voluntary, if you owe Uncle Sam more than $1000 at the end of the year, they will fine you, so if your accountant recommends you make them, you should. See an accountant! Proper Pitching and Promoting Yourself was moderated by Bryan Kaiser Tillman, a very charismatic behind-the-scenes creative who has been doing some form of this panel for the past 10 years. He opened by saying that you wouldn't necessarily hear something you had never heard before, but he would make it so that you would remember. He went over the top five rules for proper pitching: 1) Know your product. There will be questions asked that you need to be prepared to answer. The better you know your product, the more confidence you'll have when presenting. Rehearse. Everyone is in the same boat you are, but the more you practice what you'll say, the better you'll present. And most importantly, you need to believe in it. 2) BS your way to the Truth. If in your presentation you're asked something you haven't considered before, you'll need to come up with an answer on the fly and then make it part of the story. DON'T LIE!! (as an example: Don't say you can pencil 24 pages in a week because when you can't, no one will hire you.) If you didn't think about it but can fix it in your presentation, do it. But remember to be consistent. If you give an explanation one time, you need to give the same one each time, as you don't want to lose the confidence of those you are presenting to. 3) Don't Cross the Thin Line between Confident and Cocky. No one will want to hire or work with you if you're a jerk. Something that was mentioned more than once in several of these panels is the old adage that you need to be two of three things; Fast, Good, Friendly. If you're a jerk, then you have to be good and fast, which is difficult if not impossible. Be nice to people. Don't be a jerk. 4) Network. Okay, we're all introverts in this room, but it can start with nothing more than saying "Hi" to someone and talking to them. Ask questions. Go to conventions in your area of interest. He made a point that if you're a creative, you don't or shouldn't go to Comic-Con to go to Funko, you should go for the opportunities to meet like-minded people and learn. And don't be creepy. 5) It's not about you. It's about the product. Learn to detach yourself from your work. The final panel I attended, Full Time Creative Work on a Part-Time Schedule, spoke to me when I saw it in the list of panels. Oddly enough, this panel was one of the last ones offered at the Convention. You'd think if you have a full-time job, then you might be leaving earlier than most to get back home. This one was held at 4 to 5 when the convention closes down at 5, so there's no revisiting the floor after this one. This panel was actually pretty good and included an opportunity to network with the panelists as well as others in the room. Of course, it was important to have a business card which one of the panelists, Sean Glumace, emphasized. He talked about the ability to use software like Evernote to ingest business cards and set up networks. To demonstrate, he used his phone to scan and send emails to Trevor, Paul and I during the panel itself. Unlike most people, we actually had cards to hand out. Very effective demo. One of the things I need to do a better job of is following up with people. In addition to having business cards, it is recommended to have a page on Linkedin and Facebook, which people who hire still use and will look there to see who you are and to look at your work. Apparently, Linkedin now has a place for portfolios. They took Q & A, which for the most part was specific to the person asking the question. However, advice to writers: Always Keep Writing, Keep Sharing and Surround Yourself with other writers, including writing groups. They also provided the basics part-timers need to be aware of: Communication - Everyone needs to be on the same page. Focus and Time Management - Rearrange as much of your life as possible so that it points to your goals. Never Too Early to Start - So many people get their start in college. Organization - Make lists and use them. Networking - This comes up in every panel. Support - You need as many people helping you as possible, but it is a two-way street. So much for the panels I attended. Again, if you have the chance to go to Comic-Con or a like convention, then I recommend trying to attend professional panels if they are offered. One of the important things about conventions is to make contacts and to keep up with the ones you've already made. Was able to touch base again with Doug and Corey at the Comic Creator Connection. Their book, Epic Win!, was very important for me when we started Powers Squared. Also able to run into our contacts at comiXology and at IDW. The former is our digital publisher and the latter is someone we've known through various conventions for the past ten years it seems. I had been carrying around printed versions of Powers Squared for a couple of days, which for 9+ hours a day can get quite heavy. I wanted to be prepared, if the opportunity arose, to show them to someone. I managed to get up the courage to show them to our friend at IDW. He was very complimentary, saying they're getting better as they go along, which they should. He also liked the artwork. I had to point out to him that we had changed artists; he had thought the artist had simply gotten better with time. I know it's not much of a win, but hearing that from him made me feel like we're at least on the right track. Did make an effort to support other creatives when I could, reaching out to Don Nguyen and Andy Nordvall, who were doing a signing at the Geekscape booth on Sunday. Nice to put a face to people you've only met through social media. Wanted to support them as well. Bought some of their books and will discuss as I read them. Right now I'm still working my way, slowly, through Spider-Man Noir. Next year, I'd like to try to do some portfolio review with the book. Maybe we could interest someone in picking it up or maybe we could find additional work because of it. In our absence, work continued on Powers Squared, with Rachel sending up four more penciled pages that Paul and I, as of this writing, have yet to have a chance to review.

Hey all! My sister and I are moving out into our own apartment soon and I’m gonna need some cash to pay for rent and food and gas while I finish up my Masters degree! Because of these exciting times, I’m gonna officially announce art commissions!

I’m down to draw almost anything! I’ll even take a shot at drawing furries and mechas and anything else that I don’t usually draw if you don’t mind me taking my time to figure it out. Just give me good references and we’re in business!

The things I WON’T do are things such as excessive gore, hardcore NSFW (nudes and cute, intimate moments are fine), and anything gross and illegal like incest, noncon, pedophilia, etc. etc. I reserve the right to deny service to anyone if I’m not comfortable creating what you want me to make.

I can also do things like logos or icons for your business or online accounts which are priced on a case by case basis!

Some important things to mention:

These are on a first come first serve basis and I’ll close them down if I get too many at once.

I’ll keep in touch through the process by sending shots of my progress to make sure you’re happy with what I’m making!

All payments will be processed through PayPal. I will send you an invoice when I’m done and it’s time to check out!

DO NOT PAY ME BEFORE I SEND THE INVOICE. I can get in serious trouble with PayPal and have to pay a $2500 fine

You’ll receive your commission after I’ve received your payment.

If you don’t want anything but want to help out you can DM me for my PayPal or buy me a coffee/donate via Ko-Fi! (And you can always share this so more people will see it and I can hopefully get more commissions!)

Thank you  loves ♥ Examples of my art are below the cut! You can also check out my art blog~

Line Art with simple background

Full Color with simple background

Character Sheet

Digital painting

Sketch Comic (3 Panels)

Full color Comic (5 Panels)