My name is SCOTT LANG. I'm ANT-MAN ... yadda yadda yadda. You've heard it all before. Truth is, I've always been kind of a lousy superhero. And before that I was a failed criminal, a CONVICT, and a terrible husband. Not much of a resume even if you do print it single-sided, I guess. But I got this little girl here ... and I am going to do right by her. I'm going to be a GOOD DAD. I pull that off? I'm calling it a win.
( #ASTON1SH1NG ) an independent, mutuals-only portrayal of the second ant-man: SCOTT LANG. A study in fatherhood, reform, pummeling through the morbid itch & the line between what is love and what is attachment. As burgled by Gray ( he/him. 19+. )
While Paul Rudd remains the live action FC, this Scott Lang is not MCU-compliant, and is primarily based on the following 616 comics: Marvel Premiere (#47-48), FF (2013), Ant-Man (2015) && The Astonishing Ant-Man (2015), with some other influences mixed in. ... Important portrayal notes here ! ... I am also rather partial to writing him in the DC UNIVERSE, so do check his background out over here.
@vi4torz : reinterpretation of aether, genshin impact.
low activity:
@aston1sh1ng : Scott Lang, 616 marvel comics & integrated into dc.
@hatt1tude : oc multimuse with a central character, original lore.
@uplus003f : Edward Nygma, dc.
lethally low activity:
@bullsh1tterz : adam faulkner-stanheight, saw.
@ca1nsheresy : gabriel john utterson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde hiatus
@should1st4yz : Jonathan Byers, Stranger Things.
@d4rkpassengerz : Dexter Morgan + Brian Moser & Joey Quinn, Dexter.
@d1rtgrubz : Charlie Kelly, It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.
@heywestcov1na : Greg Serrano, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.
@4o77 : Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, M*A*S*H.
@hkmpf1ve : kang no-eul, squid game.
@lili3z : park min-su, squid game.
@cr4zedgunz : adrian chase, peacemaker/ dcu.
Her head lifts ever so slightly when she notices the garish backpack. Miriam's face keeps its papier-mâché blankness, plastered onto her skeletal framework to approximate a human likeness, but this clearly caught her attention. She pulls back slightly, retreats onto her feet again, crouching in place. It looks bizarre on him, out of place. She must assume it has value, sentimental if not practical, and that's why he keeps it. People do that, she knows, and she used to be touched by that, the many little things people do.
Beats her, really, why he's bothering. Her declared strategy is going to be to keep her head down, become wallpaper, and let this place grind her to dust. Preferential treatment on any level is counterproductive. If you have something, someone's gonna take it away. Could be another patient, could be a mean nurse. But she doesn't say that.
"You don't have to apologize to me." She tells him. There is gentleness to it that stems not from affection but defeat. "I deserve all of this."
Miriam threads her fingers through strands of unwashed hair and winds them around each digit. They won't get near her with the shears anymore. She did her share of damage the last time someone tried to cut the tangled, mouse-brown mane. Something half-feral to her, something that was domesticated once. Neglect has deformed her, chewed her to the bone. Now no one knows what the hell to do with her.
"... You're not like the other people here, are you?"
I DESERVE ALL OF THIS, says person with heart and soul. He does not know her. Scott has no real method of discerning the validity of what she says, and yet why - simply, foolishly, why - does it sting? Perhaps it is simply the resonation. I deserve my comeuppance. I deserve what my very hands have dug out of neutral soil. I deserve, then, all of it. All of this. It's bitter how he does not refute it in his knowing. It only hurts more to have to defend your resignation to consequence.
Okay, then.
"I can still apologize. Deserve it or not, I didn't walk in here hoping to semi-flashbang anyone. Not a note I wanna end my Monday on, you know?" Faint smile illuminates chapped lips, attempting slowly to fish reprieve out of his own constitution.
"I'm – " In a way, she is correct. Could a man from tophet ever truly liken himself to the denizens of newer, darker hell? In spirit, he probably can. He always finds a way. But genetic makeup has always been distinct - further yet so when conceived of DNA possibly nonexistent here. And yet. " - not sure how to answer that one. Aren't we all a little alike, at the end of the day?" Elementary school answer, he realizes, and soon corrects himself. Yes, within the walls of Arkham, he cannot claim to belong. . Even if he might. Even if sometimes, some way, he should. "Buuuut - I mean … if we're talking arkhamisms ... probably? Sometimes? It's just that I'd rather not be a dick to someone I don't know." A beat. "... on purpose, anyway."
I am and probably will remain SO damn sporadic on all of my blogs both ic and ooc because I have so many irl things going on that I literally barely have time for my own private writing, let alone rp. Call it a semi-hiatus or so if you want, but I'm definitely gonna be around, just in the way a fly sits in a locked drawer waiting for it to open ...
I think one of the dynamics I strongly desire for Scott is fellow intellectuals. People he can absolutely nerd out with or even benefit to some capacity. His external silliness does an amazing job at deterring some from seeing him as a peer, but you need to understand that interwoven within the puns and casual verbiage is true understanding of the concepts at hand. A character doesn't have to "talk smart" to be smart, and my dear ant-loser is proof of that! I'd love it if he were to form a connection with an intellectual over time. ( That is besides Reed, he already has the connection there if you go by 616 canon & it's one of the few friendships in marvel comics I adore with a vigor. )
There have been ... many, many, many somewhat contradictory explanations for exactly how Pym Particles work on the human body. Here, I'm blending a few and adding my own bullshit because I enjoy fake science. Just … please. Please understand this isn't even remotely scientific despite some vague references to bio-phys-chem. I’m not claiming to be smart, I'm just having fun here.
Now bear with me … this is, uh, long.
So, Pym Particles are subatomic particles. Which means they're smaller than an atom, allowing them easy access to nuclei. At a fundamental level the original pym particles were not meant to chemically change anything. They weren't meant to work on a cellular level. What they do is pull atoms closer, narrowing the distances between them. They do not diminish mass, they shunt it.
For shrinking, the atoms are pushed closer to one another until the overall volume of the target is decreased. You'd think that would make the host feel like they're being crushed, but resistance force actually opts for the illusion of being stretched out, because as the atoms of skin & bones decrease, they create a push force ( thus making that shhhzzzwink noise ) against air particles. The host feels, for a moment, like they're being pulled from all sides as the good ol’ every action has an equal opposite reaction goes.
For enlargement, the atoms are spread out farther from one another so the volume increases. This is when one feels as though they've been put in a trash compactor. Because their particles are rapidly shoving away, the air or other surroundings feel like they're crushing every part of them ( thus creating a more fzzoooo noise ).
Mass retention is very important here. It's constant. So when Volume decreases, the density of the object keeps increasing, making it much more durable than it appears. When shrunken, the host retains their strength but with a more concentrated punch to it. ( Making the answer to "what if I step on ant-man": "you'd be stepping on the world's harshest lego." ) This, however, also means that an increase in volume decreases the density of the host. They become more unstable and, with the particles so far apart, might experience insistent nausea until their atoms adapt.
My problem with the purely subatomic model of the pym particles is that the hosts are shown to shrink and grow into sizes improbable of their atoms. Yes, shoving particles so close to one another would decrease their volume, but the atoms present in a human body are still plenty more than ant-size would entail, and way too few for a gigantic form to actually hold instead of getting vaporized.
Add onto that the fact that both first-time and prolonged exposure to pym particles have been shown to cause strain on the host - and in some cases have mentally or physically altered them.
Cassie, for instance, has grown the ability to naturally produce pym particles. As did Hank and Janet. Scott not developing this means it's not a given, and does indeed have more of an effect on the human body than something entirely nuclear would.
So here's my piece: they also work on a cellular level. Their effects and reactions do extend beyond the nucleus. Whether Hank had intended for it or not, Pym particles come with their own hormone. ( We've now hit the part where I'm pulling shit out of my ass. ) Except unlike the hormones already present in the human body, it's one the body opts to try and either fight or adapt to because it's foreign. It's released from the particle on its way to the nucleus, and mimics the already increasing adrenaline levels that occur as a result of the compression/stretch feeling.
Hormones, in general, target cells equipped with their particular functions. Because the Pym hormone is foreign, like a glitch in the human body, it targets all cells and invades any available receptor. This binds them to cells temporarily as the host shrinks or enlarges, protecting them from tearing in the process. Its primary function is to adapt the cells to the size-altering, but as any hormone, it comes with neurological symptoms. The most common symptom for first-time users when shrinking is a hyper-awareness of their surroundings, like everything suddenly improves tenfold in visual quality and minute details become glaring. On the other end, growing comes with a "brain fog" that some might liken to a nicotine buzz or an adrenaline rush, only more intense and likely not pleasurable. It disorients and might nauseate the host, because they were experiencing extreme awareness (if unshrinking) or were at their customary level of awareness ( if enlarging ) and suddenly become stripped of either state. This also means that, upon shrinking, the host feels better. The left cerebral hemisphere becomes more active, so whatever positive emotions they might have been experiencing at the moment ( happiness, relief, wonder, etc ) become more prominent. Upon enlarging or returning to their original size, however, the host grapples with the negatives at a heightened rate, as their right cerebral hemisphere activates for a few minutes. It can be likened to a speed-run of withdrawal, and they might even wish to shrink during those few minutes in order to relieve the stress. However, it goes away on its own and usually isn't harmful unless the host is particularly weak-willed.
Now, returning to the fight-or-adapt response a person's body has to both the particles and the hormone: both end up in the same growth or shrinkage effect. The difference lies in what happens over time.
If the body’s reaction is initially to fight, the host is likely to actually be better at handling Pym particles at a psychological level. Because their body never considers it a part of itself, it only adapts to the symptoms of growing and shrinking, along with the psychological effects, without relying on the particles for them. In other words, if your body has a fight response, growing accustomed to Pym particles is harder, but as is being “consumed” by the rush or brain fog associated with growing. However, this comes with a mental strain on the host due to the fact that they actively experience rapid withdrawal several times a day, even if they get used to it. That means that some might develop anxiety, paranoia, or in cases where the host is generally well-aligned like Scott, chronic insomnia, sleep paralysis and vivid dreams/nightmares. This makes him more susceptible to hallucinogens, or even maladaptive to marginally lower doses of drugs or alcohol than the average man.
If it has an adaptive response, then it depends upon a few factors including the physical make-up of the host and whether exposure is momentary or prolonged. Some people, like Cassie, become physically bound to the particles upon prolonged exposure. They become a part of them, and thus shrinking and growing become second nature. The problem lies in the fact that if Pym particles are extracted from their body, they would need consistent doses to remain well. Or even, in some cases, to stay alive. The particles themselves are in “limbo” within the nucleus and the adrenal glands mutate to secrete the hormone along with adrenaline. The hormone itself is mutated over time, too, to help “activate” the dormant Pym particles, which then get used and create sub-pym-particles to bind with one another again and return as a dormant part of the nucleus. An extractor of some kind would damage the host's nuclei, and thus become fatal.
Some people, like Hank, have a more mental association with/ adaptation to the Pym particles. They might become amplifiers for their natural tendencies. Things like his ego, obsession with greatness and even borderline depression become bound to the particles in a sort of symbiotic way. Shrinking and growing become risks for kicking one out of hand, and come with a rush of both negative and positive emotions in a whirl. With the right training, especially in examples like Janet, this can become a non-problem, however it's entirely dependent on the host’s neurology and personality.
But then what about the response for a First-Timer or small-time user? As mentioned earlier, both responses are likely to come with disorientation and nausea upon unshrinking due to the awareness swap. However, there's a little more to it. With the fight response, that’s the body actively fighting the consuming effect of the Pym particles, along with, of course, that “brain fog” felt for the very first time. With an adaptive response, you’re throwing up because your body just got used to the particles and has now been stripped of them, meaning your “brain fog” might actually be worse than a fight-response First-Timer, and you might feel as though the enlargement or unshrinking is “satisfying” a nonexistent part of you. It's not a permanent or even lengthy feeling for First-Time users, but it might tempt them to want more exposure to the particles as though the long-term effects beckon them to reach out. It can be dangerous, but only for someone with poor self-control.
Finally, I have to, again, address the discrepancy between the sizes they become and the atoms that make up the human body. How do the Pym particles do it!? Well, easy! The hormone has another function. The particles are decreasing the spaces between the atoms, but the hormone decreases the volume of some cells in a different way. How? Well, first, it literally smothers them. It creates a coating around the cell - thus triggering a temporary mutation - which then goes to squeeze the cell into its smallest possible form. This causes atoms to overlap instead of just exist closer to one another. They don't touch, but for instance two nuclei, if under a microscope, would look like they're interlinked.They are all in order, all in check, but misaligned. What makes the cell hold its form, only smaller, is that coating. If it breaks, the host is vaporized.
The particles are also a little smart because I said so. Instead of the entire host retaining mass, it's a good part of their outer shell that does. The skin, bone, veins, capillaries, brain, muscles and such. Internal organs become more vulnerable to penetration and damage because those do lose mass. Because of the tougher outer shell, however, they are much harder to get to, and one would need an oral entryway to the host's organs to get there.
Upon unshrinking, the mass returns to normal at a slightly slower pace than the rest of the body. The Pym hormone, again, kicks the body to work on rapid restoration. This means the host is most physically vulnerable within a few minutes of unshrinking.
The opposite can be said of enlargement and downsizing back to normal. The cells are coated in something more elastic to have them contained as the atoms draw apart, and mass is gently increased in, unfortunately, also the internal organs. Because that's what the hormone affects. Which means that the skin would be easier to penetrate and the right attack can break the host’s bones, but their insides are far less vulnerable to fatal damage. They are least physically vulnerable when reversing the enlargement process
Does any of this make any scientific sense? Nope! Not really ! But did Marvel care when they created a billion things that made no scientific sense? No! So neither do I! Enjoy! I'd love to know where you think your muses lie here, so don't be shy to give me a nudge and let me know.
me when I make shit up just compensate for the fact I'll die on the dc hill but cannot just erase my guy's background ... which is heavily reliant on marvel stuff
Beneath the heart of Alchemax brewed inter-dimensional hell. Years prior to kingpin's involvement, there was the attempt to untether the fabric of all universes but one's own; some classic masterplan to control existence one vortex at a time ... except something about it was different. Some scale to it that had not been attempted before.
Scott knew little. He had to investigate - infiltrate - rewire early code in some sorry attempt to stop it all. An explosion took place. Small, but double-edged in its merit. Research stunted by a mile for the price of finding one's self in the unforgiving belly of GOTHAM CITY. The fantastic four do not exist here. The avengers, the x-men, shield - all gone. His friends are where he cannot be. CASSANDRA LANG IS WHERE HE CANNOT REACH HER. To the displacement, Scott has lost his entire world.
Still, Ant-Man pushes to his feet. He looks at the half-empty glass and chooses to regard both liquid and air. The air is dire and thick, but the liquid comes in form of diminished criminal record and SOLID GROUND TO STAND ON with a skillset built for a world so cruel. ... Arkham's security department welcomes you, Lang, newest technician ... and the squalor says hello to the not-so-astonishing Ant-Man and his unrelenting push for good.
This verse is heavily affiliated with @sunmad & @cranetm / @whywhitby. It's split into three arcs, find them under the cut!
ARC ONE : SETTLING IN.
The world is not so grim, though it looks to be this way. Scott takes to his new position with a certain tireless pace. A system that is simply god-awful begging for the reprieve of a man who, in kind, needs nothing more than distraction. He attempts to blunt the harrow of grappling with such tumultuous loss through a lifeline : connections. People, in all of their complex glory, are a remedy unlike any other, and he finds himself striving to warmly crawl his way up countless spines: one of which belongs to Jonathan Crane. To him is the element of mystery wrapped in soothing calm. Intrigue is only a step away from friendship, for Scott, and he pours into the psychiatrist's much unusual presence a solid blend of trust and affection.
As Ant-Man, he opts for friendly neighborhood work. The rogues' gallery is much unfamiliar to his trope of hero, and he finds it best to slowly but surely familiarize himself with the bunch before he can truly engage.
ARC TWO : GOTHAM SYNDROME.
Scott is not yet a Gothamite in full until he discovers that his one-sided friend, dear 'jonnie', is none other than the toxin-happy SCARECROW in all of his vicious might. Terrible rite of passage; the way he is blasted and forced to relive some bloodier death of dearest daughter in vivid detail.
Still, the janky hero clasps the wilting end of his optimism with every kernel of hope he has, holds onto who he is despite the disillusionment and the sheer loneliness that overcomes him. New beginnings and brighter days are much too wishful, he comes to realize. But where he would have flaked out before, he chooses to stay. To coop himself up into finessing Arkham's system, spending late nights and empty afternoons toiling away in some effort to find himself again.
He familiarizes himself with the not-so-new world's hero and villain rosters alike, deciding in the spur of his recovery from the toxin that gone shall be the days of waiting to know and in are those of returning to hero work. Of stopping foes whenever possible and assessing whether they are to be turned in or aided to good. Of working secretly on a means of returning to Cassandra.
Scarecrow - Jonathan - remains an open wound, but one he does not choose to oppose. No, he is not his enemy. He will not be turning him in. Scott knows who he is, where he lives, what he is capable of ... and chooses to keep it to himself out of some loathsome attachment to understanding him.
He has never been more miserable ... until she comes around. Miriam Baxter, behind an Arkham cell. A woman who looked just as alone as him. Perhaps lost, in some way. They connect, in time. Conversations after dark and little training sessions so she may hold her own; they drive them into the bond of daughter and father. A bond Miriam, it appears, shares with Jonathan, too.
ARC THREE : BE IT AS IT MAY.
Everything is horrendous. Though it has grown on him, Gotham remains as it is. Scott is still without Cassandra, and seems to have developed just a spark of trust issues. But that is simply how things are now. Scott despises curling into himself at every hurdle. He cannot stand to simply be. ... Instead, he accepts. He accepts what has become of him, here. What Miriam means to him and what he must do for her - to show her the good. Even what Jonathan means to him, an agonizing friend to comprehend, he accepts. He has decided, as he is, to make a change. No grudges, no regrets, be the light you wish to see in others. Be as good of a father and friend as one can be.
And it helps, it really does, to have Whitby around. To not return home and be alone. To work hand-in-hand on retrieving his daughter with someone so fresh to him; a brother, almost, something he's never had.
His hero work goes to full-blast, but paired with it comes the understanding that Gotham needs social change. Shelters, movements, even the prisoners and 'patients' left to their loneliness must be tended to. Kindness is something many are void of in the darkened streets of Gotham. One man cannot change this, but he can try. He can help. He can visit.
That is all he does now: he tries. Tries to keep doing good. Searches and scours tirelessly to try and return to his daughter. Tries to find reprieve on holidays by taking trips to metropolis, where he may see its beacon of hope at work. He tries to extend Miriam and Jonathan the influence he wishes he'd been granted when he was astray. That is all he can do, as Scott Lang, but he is beginning to believe that might be alright.
Lex Luthor doesn't startle, but there is a moment where he visibly stills before turning towards the intruder. he knew it wasn't batman just from the pitch of his voice, but the mogul finds it difficult to believe someone other than the dark knight was able to finesse their way past his state-of-the-art security system without triggering at least one alarm.
" where else is a man to feel safe if not in his own castle? " Lex replies in turn, taking a moment to quickly assess this trespasser: while not his fellow billionaire (or is bruce just a millionaire now?) from across the bay, the costume strongly suggests the man's from gotham. they're quite the dramatic lot, to put it mildly, and the fact that he would rather toss out a quip instead of finish whatever job he came here to do also tells Lex he's likely dealing with that city's particular flavor of nutjob.
he carefully sets down the tool he'd been using to repair his Lexosuit—damaged from his latest run-in with that damned alien—and straightens his tie. " I'm afraid you've skipped past the treasure vault, however, and are now in the dungeon. "
Lex can only think of one reason someone who's able to enter his personal lab undetected would choose to do so while he's in it.
" I suppose you're here to kill me, then? " he says with the same cadence one might use when asking a stranger for the time.
IT'S RATHER QUICK on his part, the immediate up-flick of palms as though to say hey, now, nothing in them seeks to harm. They travel, slowly, to his helmet, where it's pressed to open with little regard for his identity. The face it reveals is ... ordinary, really. Benign, in how it almost shows his divorced status through uneven stubble and eyes kinder than they should ever be. "Whoa, whoa." It has always irked him; conversing without seeing proper eye-to-eye. It blunts those earnest greens of his, which now peer ahead to regard the man, something wary about them.
"No one's gonna be doing any killing here, man. Jeeze." Anymore. "I'm just pulling the whole dramatic entrance thing. A, uh, demonstration." He gestures athwart the area. "Clearly, your security system does have a few kinks to work out. Thought it'd be faster to just prove it on my way in." The confidence of a man who Knows, though it evades him to mention they simply do not account for shrinking adversaries. He takes a few steps forward, distance still well-established between them as though, once again, to say there is little harm intended.
"Listen, I know you suck, but I do kind of need something from you so, um ... you up for a chat?" ( Not that's he's taking a no if it comes by. ) The superhero rears his head, angles it so as to view the damaged suit. With his eyes, he points to it. "I could even play around with that, if you want. Occupied hands and all."
( #CR4ZEDGUNZ ) an independent & mutuals-only portrayal of DC PEACEMAKER's VIGILANTE: Adrian Chase. An exploration of friendship, psychopathy in justice and the desire to connect with a damaged heart. Heavily in-compliance with the show's iteration. Blink and you'll miss the comic influences. As befriended by Gray ( he/him. 19+.)
Silence fills the apartment, this strange and foreign place. An absence of noise, so thick it develops its own gravity well. The presence of Scott's confession is dense, it casts a shadow. It is the kind of silence that fills itself, an amphora emptying out into its own belly. You can write anything on a blank page like this: shock, fear, distance, the two-edged sword of hypocrisy.
One moment passes. Then another.
I killed him. I enjoyed it. I killed that man. I enjoyed it. It can only be compared to becoming God. I enjoyed it.
There is a shift on the couch next to Scott. A body on the move. Then two arms come to wrap around his shoulders, pull him close. Miriam kneels on the cushions, holds him there, with her cheek resting atop his head. Stillness. For a moment. Only the agitated thrum of her hummingbird heart, the laboring rise and fall of her chest.
It doesn't feel like absolution. Not remotely. She has never been in the absolution business. She cannot do that for people. It doesn't exist. Of all the miracles she's worked, healing the sick, turning night to day, swallowing angels whole, Miriam has never found out who to petition for the alleviation of guilt. Instead, she is there, small and damaged, and bloodier than him, saying I know you did a hard thing. I know you have to carry that weight and it is heavy.
It sticks to the inside of her ribs, that he says the words that have been haunting her throat. That he knows. Relief and a strange elation flit through her head. If someone else has felt this way, then they must know what to do. That's the fantasy, isn't it? That Scott will reveal some secret, some magic, that will fix her. Make her better, or much worse. She almost says it: His name was Joshua. His name was Isaiah. His name was Alfred. His name was Hezekiah. His name was Job. His name was, his name was, his name was. A hundred false starts.
Miriam presses a kiss to the crown of Scott's head.
Then, at last, she releases him again. She sinks back down, kneels beside him, her never-clean hands folded in her lap. She looks at him, softness splaying in her gaze. Her eyes are freakish things, flat and unhappy, but the slightest prick of tears brings them to such life. Eyes made for crying, her mother used to say. Was it praise, back then? Oh, everything's gone and gotten so twisted. Miriam doesn't remember.
"It's hard," she says. "To let ourselves know what we know. To look. But yes. That's what it felt like. And I can barely stomach it, that it feels that way."
THE KISS IS A BITTERSWEET THING. The contact - the whole of it, arms and cheek - pulsates as warm RESOLVE. A palpitation of the genuine - of her earnest heart, right beside his. It makes her so tangible - that silent thing that binds them. Fingertips move on their own, meet the end of her forearm in acceptance. In reassurance, even, that she is welcome and that she is loved. He knows, in some way, that what keeps him to her is not all daisies and winter morning glow. There is always that humidity about them - him and her, her and him, him and him, that frustrating ever-so-heartening triangle time has thrust upon them.
It is right angled, and he is at the end farthest from the two. Perhaps if he had been more of what he was, that would not have been the case. Perhaps it would have been some equilateral force; even, easy. ... But it is not, and the air is dripping with remnants of dew and muck flowing with the heat. Yes, the humidity can be suffocating. But every kernel of what makes them family brings to attention the simple truth that Scott has never once been deterred by suffocation. Miriam can suffocate him all she wants - yet in manner unlike her OTHER, closer patron ... she does not. Instead she lets him be wood. She keeps him wood : says she can barely stomach what he fears would consume her whole.
He knows better than to dismiss parallel running of the two. Sick to the pit of your stomach yet launching to chase evanescent thrill incarnate in cruelty and command. " ... At some point, I think I stomached it well." He begins. "But that's – that's exactly it. Why I'm telling you this, Miriam." Palm finds the end of her wrist, envelops it with utmost care - not surgical, just warm. Please, Miriam, look at me and see how I hold you dear. "I was there. I'm not anymore. You'll keep feeling sick, if you continue the way you are, until you get used to it. And then it won't be you. It won't be anyone that controls you anymore. It'll be the rot and the horror and the loneliness and everything that you might hate or fear about yourself. Just that. On autopilot."
He shifts, slightly, rolls a shoulder below to breathe with constricted movement of muscle. Lets it soothe him, the natural slip of skin with form. "It's not easy. When you're us — when you can feel like god ... it's so hard not to just keep doing it; keep chasing it; try, every once in a while, to re-experience that feeling ... But what good is God, Miriam? I don't even — – - ... isn't that just the loneliest, most frightful thing to be?" Something strains, somewhere in his throat, but he swallows it with all of ... again, its humidity. "I'm wondering ... if you even want to be God. I know it's exhilarating in the moment of it ... but what now? Why aren't you standing in front of me and proudly smiling if some part of you doesn't know how ... how destructive it is. To go for it. To let it pull you in?"
Hi, hello! Due to some personal issues ( unrelated to the rpc, so please rest easy there ), I'm not going to be on here or any of my blogs until 23rd of August minimum - 30th of August Maximum. A huge truck load of shit came up, so I'm very sorry for the abrupt disappearance! I'll be back, promise, but besides running queues or the occasional lurking, I will not be on the dash or in most ims. On discord, my activity will fluctuate depending on when I can be on my phone. Thank you!! Love you all! See you soon!
"A more powerful push..." She playfully nudges his shoulder. "If you can use your hands, then so can I. Or would that be considered an illegal move?" A quick glance over her shoulder, as though looking to an invisible referee for confirmation. "Fair play." She looks back to Scott, and studies him carefully.
"I think I'd rather put you in a chokehold." Her arms snake around him, binding him tightly. This time, her lips meet his. She won't break away until he's the one who needs air.
HE LETS THE NUDGE move him slightly, palm falling from cheek to meet the end of her neck. His eyes do not leave her, even as she glances beyond, fond grin curled with leisure to meet her upon return of view.
"A chokehold, huh?" He expects an actual one of those - perhaps even awaits it, being the man that he is, but the CONTACT THAT COMES is pleasant as any.
Readily, his lips are hers in kind, tension leaving his shoulders the further he leans into the kiss. There is something about having HER ARMS AROUND HIM that makes it so warm. Sunny summer morning, only a little humid the longer he indulges it; it's nice. BUT IT JUST KEEPS GOING. ... well. he can take that. That, too. Oh, another minute? Oh. Oh. ... OH. At this stage, he is keeping in tandem just to win whatever spontaneous competition this has become. Even goes the extra mile and pulls her closer, his arm now readily encompassing her waist.
