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Description
Another entry for [link] and [link] 's illustration contest "The Devil in the Details"

Not a situation I think most of us would want to be in...face to face with B....

This is a scene from Maru and Anda's newest work "I'm Not Okay". Check it out: [link]

Snippet from the story:

so he just stayed where he was against the wall, closing his eyes, bleating hot and pulsing hard and feeling damp and moist and smelling like Jersey and tasting like Jersey and thinking of only Jersey, so when someone pushed in close to him he thought it could only be Jersey—except he caught a strange gamey scent and opened his eyes to see—

That it wasn’t.

It was Manson.

And Muse’s eyes flew wide, he jerked back against the unyielding wall, hit his head and felt all-too-suddenly like the stupid little field mouse in the gaze of the hawk. Manson had a hand on the cinderblock near Muse’s face so there was no easy escape, and he looked Muse dead in the eyes, tilting his head one way slowly, then the other and his mouth unfurled into that mad, leering grin.

“What do you want?” Muse gasped, heart pounding now with fear and there was barely sound to the words. But he seemed to speak on a weird other level just then, like there was some terrible fate closing in around him that Manson was more than well aware of, set apart from the rest of the world, a fracture, a doorway between, and Manson clicked his teeth, his gaze fluttering up to that space above Muse’s head, the same way he’d done back at Eddie’s.

It lingered for a second.

“Oh~” he murmured, sounding disappointed. “Pity. It changed.”

Muse had no fucking clue what he meant. But Manson tapped him under the chin almost apologetically. “You’re a lucky, lucky little boy,” he murmured. “So very very lucky~

Description
Another entry for [link] and [link] 's illustration contest "The Devil in the Details"

Not a situation I think most of us would want to be in...face to face with B....

This is a scene from Maru and Anda's newest work "I'm Not Okay". Check it out: [link]

Snippet from the story:

so he just stayed where he was against the wall, closing his eyes, bleating hot and pulsing hard and feeling damp and moist and smelling like Jersey and tasting like Jersey and thinking of only Jersey, so when someone pushed in close to him he thought it could only be Jersey—except he caught a strange gamey scent and opened his eyes to see—

That it wasn’t.

It was Manson.

And Muse’s eyes flew wide, he jerked back against the unyielding wall, hit his head and felt all-too-suddenly like the stupid little field mouse in the gaze of the hawk. Manson had a hand on the cinderblock near Muse’s face so there was no easy escape, and he looked Muse dead in the eyes, tilting his head one way slowly, then the other and his mouth unfurled into that mad, leering grin.

“What do you want?” Muse gasped, heart pounding now with fear and there was barely sound to the words. But he seemed to speak on a weird other level just then, like there was some terrible fate closing in around him that Manson was more than well aware of, set apart from the rest of the world, a fracture, a doorway between, and Manson clicked his teeth, his gaze fluttering up to that space above Muse’s head, the same way he’d done back at Eddie’s.

It lingered for a second.

“Oh~” he murmured, sounding disappointed. “Pity. It changed.”

Muse had no fucking clue what he meant. But Manson tapped him under the chin almost apologetically. “You’re a lucky, lucky little boy,” he murmured. “So very very lucky~