I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creatingđ
(I superimpose the Robby on top of Jack a few times to make sure they match properly but it kinda flashes a bit. I don't often include the videos when I'm playing with colour and stuff because it often comes off as wild flashing lights which isn't pleasant for anyone. This one was very mild tho so I thought a warning might be enough!!)
Going out drinking with friends to celebrate with all the other fans, and meeting Johnny at a crowded divebar. An import from Scotland, he jokes: an' a big football fan.
He lays it on thickâ
accent. charm. crooked, boyish grin. sweet words murmured into your earâit's loud in the bar, crowded: he has to get close, doe, has to press against you, box you in against the back wall until you can't see anything else, anyone else, except him; the bracket of his arms, the solid press of his thigh; the rasp of his cheek, the scratch of stubble against your skin he leans down close to speak, lips peppering the shell of your ear. sweet things like you're so pretty, doe. prettiest thing in this whole town.
(he could just throw you over his shoulder, take you home to ma', and eat you up.)
âand despite yourself, it's working.
It's been a long time since you've felt this thrillâthis need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warmâburning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.
You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veinsâsyrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just thatâliquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.
You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotelâ
This isn't like you. You can't even remember his nameâa laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this timeâor how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't knowâa man they don't knowâbut when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.
He shushes youâmore dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.
But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.
It staysâa permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signedâyour messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.
You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the showerâthe phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)âtrying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.
The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your familyâin their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your ownâand he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it wasâchalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met beforeâand despite everything, they believe him.
Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know himâan opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Orâ
give him a chance.
But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you areâsomething he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.
Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.
Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to thisâa vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.
Maybe you'll be able to convince him that divorce is the best choice while you're there.
i don't care what happens anymore. no amount of insanity those moniyawak at Activision throw at me will ever take away from the fact that i'm currently in my mind palace, picturing sitting on merc Price's lap and kissing the thatch of grey on his beard while he smokes a cigar and gives cringe "i used to be a good man (not true), but the bad guys taught me the only way to win is to get on their level (also not true)" monologues and makes you hold his whiskey for him as he sighs forlornly at the loss of the man he was (literally the same, but his kills are unsanctioned and he has a new haircut) and does the "bad" old man thing where he talks about how he should push you away because you're too good for him (true) but won't because this new version of him is selfish and hungry and he needs a little bit of good in his life to remind of him the guy he (still is) was.
While sketching, I wasn't sure if this is Jack having a bad day or Pope Cody being handled with care by Robby, but I liked both possibilities. Choose your own adventure, I guess.
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