#LOVE AS CODEPENDENCY. LOVE AS PARASITISM

[shroombell]

sunnysides apoc au tarn bitlets

in the back-alleys of tarn... second art piece for a sunstreaker and sideswipe au where they roam an apocalyptic cybertron, this one depicting them as young bitlets trying to survive in tarn. sunny gets sick and nothing sideswipe tries makes him better :( (also sunny fucking dies <3)

their bitlet designs have wings and seeker features bc technically they have an aerial spark <3 but without the credits/resources to upgrade into an adult aerial frame, they were forced to made do with grounder frames (doesnt take away the urge to fly tho which was why sides flung himself off a tower in vos jsadfuhgfde)

pt1 link to sunny and sides in vos

pt3 link to exploring praxus

... im gonna marry gradient maps frfr it is my one true love <3

me (even tho i MADE this au):

[thelonelynindroid]

Brad Jo Dana Evil Gang.........I love it

[dogmasquerade]

Commander Vincent Morgan & the Falcon rifle. An army veteran turned Ranger, a branch of the armed forces specifically created to protect mankind against supernatural threats, Morgan spends much of his time dealing with the trickery of fae. He's currently stationed in a small Yorkshire town with a surprisingly high rate of fairy attacks.

The rifle is the Falcon, though privately Vincent refers to it as Wraith. A powerful cursed weapon, Wraith has existed for centuries. Originally built for conquest against the Normans by an ally of King Harold, it began life as a longbow forged from a deadly deal made by a mortal man- kill whenever the Falcon asks, in exchange for the power to kill anything- of any world. Fairy and mortal alike cannot withstand the wrath of the Falcon. To fae the weapon does as much damage as it does to man, an impossibility amongst all other manmade weapons. Usually a weapon will only kill one or the other. Never duel-use.

Over the years its form has changed to reflect the best designs of the time. From bow to gun to sleek sniper rifle, each time the weapon is remade its personality changes- born anew, like the rebirth of a phoenix. But the curse stays the same. The gun is inextricably linked to its bearer- neither can live without the other, nor die without the other's consent. What the Falcon wants it must get. It's passed on through blood or by ritual. A bearer who cannot attain the weapon's standard will die by its own bullet. It accepts nothing less than perfection.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ��➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship. 

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive. 

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function. 

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but. 

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead. 

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright. 

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane. 

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease. 

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525. 

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it. 

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god. 

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything. 

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive. 

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago. 

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear. 

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with. 

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee. 

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting. 

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh. 

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together. 

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody. 

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane. 

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out? 

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves. 

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago. 

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart? 

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch. 

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all. 

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face. 

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain. 

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked. 

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated. 

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway. 

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now. 

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office. 

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly. 

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not. 

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces. 

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated. 

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home. 

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park. 

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials. 

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze. 

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off. 

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation. 

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects. 

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab. 

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes. 

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark. 

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant. 

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting. 

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair. 

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly. 

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid. 

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.” 

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?” 

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years. 

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew. 

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment. 

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one. 

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him. 

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek. 

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed? 

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before. 

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever. 

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily. 

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes. 

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time. 

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment. 

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him. 

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all. 

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly. 

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him. 

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back. 

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him. 

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts. 

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were. 

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch. 

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions. 

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed. 

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs. 

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body. 

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously. 

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling. 

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth. 

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand. 

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it. 

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands. 

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,” 

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly. 

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass. 

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling. 

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before. 

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt. 

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins. 

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him. 

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open. 

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth. 

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds. 

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in. 

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out. 

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.” 

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach. 

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him. 

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him. 

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm. 

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you. 

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments. 

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you. 

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come. 

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs. 

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior. 

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music. 

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair. 

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it. 

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid. 

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you. 

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch. 

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe. 

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily. 

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ summer slasher!pazzi: the finale.

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

🫀⋆ you're at the end. turn back .ᐟ .ᐟ

cw: high gore (final showdown), blood, violence, typical horror disturbances, misplaced sexual tension, psyopathic behavior, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs a mass murderer, unhealthy relationships bc it's a horror au, codependence, obsession.

notes: i genuinely thought you guys would bury me alive if i didn't post this, so here you go. i hope you enjoy. for all the threats i was getting, i better see some reactions in my inbox tonight! in all seriousness though, thank you for being here.

love you.

it turns out that even if your best friend is a killer, it will destroy you when she dies. it seems people you love are still people you love, even at their worst.

azzi doesn’t realize how much she has seen paige as infallible until now. her hands shake as she runs them over paige’s blonde hair, the blood soaking it so dark that the strands appear white. paige’s eyes are so blue, so bright in the cold call of the sun as she stares into nothing. there is so much blood, so much fluid leaving her from the neat slashes beneath her sternum.

her ribs peek through, the white bone arcing gracefully like dancers’ legs, curved in a reverent kneel around the pulp of her heart.

azzi doesn’t know where they are. when she looks up, eyes wild and wide, she can only see an aching, open forest. it was as if the two of them had been on a private anabasis, marching inland to something she was unsure of now. her throat burns as if she has been screaming, but when she lifts a hand to her mouth, she doesn’t find it open—she only feels the plump, even line of their closure.

her hands are shaking and covered in red. she reaches down and picks up paige’s head, which lolls like a broken doll. azzi’s grip keeps slipping, the crimson spray of blood across paige’s shirt and the base of her neck making it impossible to hold on.

finally, a sound leaves her.

it’s a horrible rattle, a combination of death and grief. azzi chokes it out, her back snapping outward as she leans over paige’s body and keens. she is nothing but an animal now—nothing but a pit of loss and rage. with a hand still on paige’s cheek, azzi glances up. she’s searching.

ashlynn must be here. she must be.

 who else would be the killer?

as she turns to look in a new direction, something flashes—a hot arc of light. azzi stumbles to her feet and is surprised to feel the earth beneath them. when she peers down, she sees they are bare, her brown skin pressed into the rotting, maggotted soil. she doesn’t have any more energy to be horrified.

she pushes through the thrush and works toward that bouncing sphere of light. every step away from the woman on the forest floor behind her, away from the woman she loves, feels like glass cutting through her skin.

it is salt in the wound to leave her behind. it is a slow-burning; it’s an unforgivable evil.

but she reaches her destination, despite the pain. she is not clear about what she expected to find. maybe ashlynn—her knife siphoning the light like the leech she is, her weapon an extension of her parasitic life.

but it’s not.

azzi finds nothing but a mirror.

 its body is long. its surface ripples like skin beneath a pulse.

she stares into it, desperate for answers. nothing is there except for herself: bloodied, bruised, and broken. she grits her teeth and tucks a shrill shriek of rage behind them.

she swallows down her terror. swallows down her mindless hatred. tries to taste only the love—the drive of paige’s death—tries to make it sweet.

and then, she sees something rise behind her.

a horrible, dark figure rises silently from the ground. she knows what it is. the knowledge snakes deep into her chest and coils in her stomach. this is paige’s killer. the creature that took her without remorse.

she has nothing to fight with except her bare hands. but still, azzi turns to face it. to face her.

she is hot-blooded. ripened by her anguish.

and then—she goes cold. because—

 azzi is staring at herself.

behind her, the mirror stills. it has given her her answer.

𓇼

azzi jerks awake.

no scream. no gasp. just the sudden, animal twitch of her limbs like something’s been severed inside her.

she lies there for a second, disoriented. the air is too still. her chest heaves once, twice, but no sound escapes her. she’s soaked in sweat, the sheets clinging to her ribs, the echo of a scream trapped in her throat like a swallowed bullet.

she turns. slowly. like her body has a gravity it hadn’t before. she shifts beneath the blankets, knee brushing warm skin, and then she sees her.

paige.

on her back, sleeping deep, with one arm thrown above her head. her hair is a mess across the pillow. her face is soft, the tension of living drained from it in sleep. there’s a damp spot just at her collarbone where azzi must’ve cried into her in the night without knowing.

azzi stares. her own hands are trembling. there’s no blood on them now, no forest rot under her nails, but she still feels it. she still sees the wet gleam of paige’s ribs and the arc of bone cradling the red, weeping muscle.

she shifts forward, almost timidly, and crawls on top of her. her weight settles gently on paige’s hips, and she leans down, hands smoothing back the loose blonde strands. one at a time. every strand is a prayer. out of the two of them, paige is the religious one, but azzi still tucks paige’s name behind her teeth for protection. 

she thinks about paige’s connection to god more often since discovering that paige could kill people without a hitch in her breath. she wonders if the avowed faith is more about penance than true belief. maybe there is room for both. 

(paige understood that god was real when azzi saw the monster of her and did not scream. only unearthly hands could have made such a kind, forgiving heart.)

she presses her face into paige’s neck. breathes her in. the iron tang of her skin. the faint, dry vanilla sweetness of her shampoo. the heat of her pulse just beneath the surface.

paige stirs, brow furrowing slightly before her arms lift and fold around azzi’s waist. “you okay, mama?” she asks, voice sleep-rough and soft.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she wants to. she opens her mouth. closes it again.

the dream still clings to her ribs like ivy. she can feel it in her gut, in the space behind her eyes, in the echo of her name shouted from far away. she can feel the end of something. like a bell that’s been ringing long before she heard it.

finally, she lifts her head and looks down at paige. her lips part, and this time the words come, low and fragile.

“this is going to change me.”

paige is quiet. just blinks at her for a long moment. then she reaches up, slides her hand into azzi’s hair, and cradles her.

“shh, baby,” she says. “just sleep.”

but azzi knows she won’t.

something in her has already broken loose.

𓇼 jana’s asleep on the couch. curled up in one of paige’s hoodies, headphones half-falling off, arms wrapped around her stomach like she is forcing her spirit to live inside of herself. azzi tucks the blanket up over her shoulder, gently, and when she picks up jana’s phone to place it on the charger, she sees that the younger girl is listening to morgan’s sleep playlist. she feels the familiar prick of tears, the sickly reawakening of grief in her legs and chest.

𓇼 she leaves a cup of tea on the table beside her. koshary shai, with a twist of mint. just how jana likes it.

𓇼 in the kitchen, the quiet is almost too loud. paige is on the floor with blueprints and maps, and two empty mugs already. her hair’s tied up. she looks like she hasn’t slept despite them pressing together last night. azzi doesn’t ask—she wasn’t able to sleep well after either.

𓇼 “she shouldn’t be here,” paige says, not looking up.

𓇼 “i know.” azzi’s voice is low, rocking with something she’s trying to keep under control. “but she has nowhere else. and i—i don’t want her anywhere else.”

𓇼 paige sighs. folds up a map like she’s trying not to rip it in half. “we should’ve told her. she deserves to know.”

𓇼 “and then what? she dies too?” azzi snaps, and then closes her eyes. quieter now: “i can’t let her be part of this. not again. she’s already struggling to live with…it.” she still can’t talk about morgan. 

𓇼 paige watches her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. then: “you were planning on going alone.”

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer.

𓇼 “azzi,” paige says. and it sounds like she’s saying, please don’t die. azzi crouches beside her, takes paige’s face in both hands. her thumbs press softly beneath her eyes. “i keep having dreams of you dying, p. not like nightmares. more like… soft prophecies. i’m not psychic, but it has to mean something, right?”

𓇼 paige looks at her and then says, “it’s probably a manifestation of your trauma, az. i’ll be fine.” 

𓇼 silence. outside, the wind shifts. azzi lets her go and walks away. she turns on the nespresso machine, which sits on the countertop, gleaming black in the weak sunlight, and brings it to life with a press of a button. “i don’t want to take the chance.”

𓇼 “azzi,” paige finally says. “i was willing to kill for you. i did kill for you. do you really think you’d make it out of this apartment without me right behind you? you’re smarter than that, ma.”

𓇼 moments like this one remind azzi that paige is—still—incredibly dangerous. she’s only barely tamed the beast inside her, has only trained it to heel beneath azzi’s hand. 

𓇼 in the other room, jana stirs. her tea goes cold.

but of course, ashlynn is always one step ahead. azzi has to hand it to the bitch: she’s evil with a true purpose.

the basketball court is eerily beautiful at night. quiet and sacred. the polished hardwood catches slivers of moonlight filtering through the high windows, creating long, creeping shadows that stretch across the floor like abstract fingers.

it’s easy to slip in and be alone inside of it. everyone else left after morgan died, and those who stayed wouldn’t have left their rooms even if offered a million dollars. 

paige had insisted they come. i need to clear my head, she'd said, and azzi had, like always, understood. basketball is paige's ritual, her form of meditation. the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor grounds her in ways little else could.

azzi watches from the lowest bleacher, small and still. paige runs drills like she's trying to outpace death. dribble. step. shoot. each motion lands with ghostlike precision. the ball arcs clean, kisses the net with a sound softer than breath.

“you’re still favoring your right,” azzi calls out, voice too light for what she’s carrying.

paige catches the rebound, pauses. gives a half-smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “old habits.”

die hard, azzi finishes in her head. she doesn't smile back.

overhead, the fluorescents hum like dying bees, casting everything in a bleak, clinical glow. the emptiness of the gym amplifies every sound: the squeak of paige's shoes against hardwood, the hollow tremble of the rim as the ball beat against it. their words hang strangely, echoing back warped.

azzi checks her phone. no new messages. no calls. no blue dot from jana. her stomach knots. she’d made the girl promise, promise, to stay in, to lock everything. the girl had argued—of course she had—but eventually relented when azzi's voice cracked with a shrill squeak of desperation.

"she'll be fine, baby," paige says, reading the emotions off her body like a book.  "she's smart."

"she's coping," azzi counters sharply. "there's a difference."

paige nods, slow. you aren’t yourself when you deal with grief.  it makes a beast out of your nerves. it is easy to act out, to slip into a version of yourself warped grossly by your loss. jana is capable of anything during this time, plagued by a deep, miserable irrationality. 

they all are. 

the ball balances on paige’s long fingertips for a moment before she sends it spinning up toward the basket again. swish.

that's when azzi feels it. not a sound, not a sight. just a pressure. like the gym is inhaling. her spine prickles. her body knows before she does. she's developed a sixth sense for danger these past months, an animal awareness that prickles along her blood. her gaze darts to the shadows that gather in the corners of the gym, the observation deck above, and the corridor leading to the locker rooms.

“p,” she says. barely.

paige stills mid-dribble. doesn't turn. doesn't ask. but azzi sees the shift in her shoulders. she felt it too.

“paige, we need to go.” azzi stands. her hands won’t stop shaking.

the lights flicker once. twice. then plunge them into darkness.

azzi doesn’t think. she only moves instinctively toward where she last saw paige. her arms cut through the dark.  her body is pulsing with an unnamed energy. she’s not calling out. sound feels like a risk now. her fingers graze skin, and paige catches her fast.

their fingers connect and tangle, hold. paige pulls her closer, their bodies pressing together in the dark.  azzi’s body, ever uncontrollable, warms slowly as it registers their proximity. azzi exhales against the curve of paige’s neck, breath hot with fear. her lips brush bare skin, sweat-slicked. paige’s hands find her waist, urgent, grounding.

“emergency exit,” paige whispers, her mouth against azzi’s ear. “we’re gonna move slow, okay, mama?”

they begin.

one step. two. it’s as if they’re dancing.

the dark feels alive. the court groans under them.

ten steps. maybe more. time is liquid here. the silence crushes.

then, a sound. metal screeching against metal.

a lock clicks into place.

then another.

another.

“she’s sealing us in,” azzi moans. paige’s body is so tense it could be stone. they stop their migration, unsure now.

and then,

“i always hated that stupid bracelet.”

the voice sings through the dark like a near bullet.

azzi stiffens. paige turns, shielding azzi instinctively.

“such a pathetic little charm. all that sentiment for something mass-produced.” the voice drips honey and venom. amused. almost tender. “you kept it, though. of course you did. you probably felt so good thinking you had it all figured out. god, i hate arrogance.”

silence.

then footsteps. slow. deliberate. from the direction of the locker rooms. the echo carries strangely in the dark gym, like the space itself is struggling to breathe. it does not want to release her. 

they switch: azzi steps in front of paige because she’s the one closer to the heat of ashlynn’s evil. her body is trembling, but her hands are fists.

“ash,” she says into the dark, hoping to coax some memory of their history with the nickname. “you don’t have to do this.” 

ashlynn laughs mockingly. the sound is so soft, so broken at the edges. “ash. god, you’re still so romantic. you still think this is about choice?”

the lights snap on. all at once. blinding white. 

and there she is. standing near the half-court line, hands at her sides, head tilted like a question.

she looks wrong.

thinner than she was. more angular. her limbs are too long for her body, or maybe it’s just the way ashlynn holds herself, like a doll that’s been overextended at the joints. her skirt sways with every shift of weight: white, cheap pleats, bloodless. a cropped uconn jersey is taut over her ribs, the fabric faded and curling at the hem. there’s blush smeared along her cheekbones, or at least azzi prays it's blush. she doesn’t know how deep the violence runs in the other woman. 

ashlynn’s lip gloss is smudged pink and sweet. she’s dressed up, azzi realizes with mounting horror.

ashlynn’s eyes are too wide. unblinking. like she’s seeing a vision none of them can.

“there was never a choice,” she says, voice now deadly quiet. “there was always only this.”

wings. it’s a match to the bracelet azzi found missing.

ashlynn notices her staring.

“oh,” she says, tilting her head further, mock-embarrassed. “you like it? it was a set. my mom got them for me. one for the wrist. one for the throat.” she touches the charm gently, like it’s precious. “guess she didn’t want me to forget how easily things can break.”

azzi’s throat tightens. the gym feels colder now.

“you killed her,” she whispers. “you killed morgan.”

ashlynn doesn’t flinch. she only sighs. patient. as if disappointed in a child.

“yes, that. god, that was awful, wasn’t it? it was supposed to be jana or, well, you.” azzi’s blood runs cold at the mention of jana. ashlynn watches her, her lips twitching. “morgan was an outlier. an unfortunate name added accidentally to the list. but despite whatever you’re thinking, i swear this is all for a very good reason.”

azzi feels paige’s hand on the small of her back, right in the middle. she tries to focus on it. ashlynn saunters closer. both girls step back. 

 “all they ever did was hog the light,” ashlynn says, walking forward steadily, slow and calm. it’s as if she's giving a lecture. “gold medals. scouts. scholarships. even in their failure, they were praised for being brave. strong. legendary. but there’s no room to grow in soil that’s already choked.”

she steps closer. her charm swings gently. again, the girls step back. ashlynn pauses, her eye twitching almost imperceptibly. 

“someone had to rip out the roots.”

ashlynn finally stops, now a few feet away. looks directly at azzi. her eyes shine sickly. azzi can feel her words, her disregard for every life she’s spilled into an early grave, settle slow, stringy, and sticky inside of her. it clings to the ribs.

“you—you were supposed to be different,” she says. “a signal that things could change. that we didn’t have to keep worshipping the same ten girls forever. but azzi, you stayed small.”

her tone shifts again. silk-wrapped. almost pitying. she tilts her head, seems to smell azzi's disgust.  

“i’m not a monster, azzi.” a soft shrug. “i’m only a gardener.”

and something in her smile twists like she believes it. like it wasn’t pain she inflicted on real people, only a kind of pruning. 

only love, in its most warped, most desperate form.

azzi suddenly becomes aware of how much her body is showing. she’d only thrown on an oversized, black zip-up hoodie over an unforgiving sports bra and low-rise cotton shorts. they were from adidas, vintage soccer style ones that ashlynn had gifted her just last year. i thought you’d look so good in these, she’d said. 

azzi wonders if she’d thought of her dying in them, too. 

ashlynn paces closer. her voice is still lilting, syrup-sweet.

 “you know, you should’ve thanked me. i carved a space for you. you could’ve led.”

 azzi’s voice is steady, but there's a tremble at the edges. “you didn’t make space. you made graves.”

a beat.  ashlynn’s smile flickers. falters. that wasn’t the response she wanted. that wasn’t in the script.

then, paige steps forward. she easily maneuvers azzi to the side. she can see the coil of ashlynn’s body, that same killer’s rise that she houses in her own.

“bullshit,” she says coldly. “you’re a fucking coward. you don’t have the talent, so you’re cutting the real players up? come on, ash, that’s pathetic.”

ashlynn closes her eyes and cracks her neck. she speaks with her eyes still shut. “and you. god, we could’ve been great together. then, you had to go and get all moral about it. ‘nah, azzi is off limits.’” the impression of paige drips with derision. ashlynn’s eyes open. “why do you always have to be the fucking hero, bueckers?”

paige doesn’t flinch. “i didn't say all that. i know what i am. i’m not that deluded.”

ashlynn lunges—not for azzi, but for paige. swift as death.

but paige is ready. she ducks, somehow shoves azzi away, and ashlynn back, hard. azzi feels the air get knocked out of her as she falls to the floor, paige’s strength much more than she ever could have anticipated. her side hurts from where she’s hit the court, and she realizes just how softly paige has always treated her. even when she was being mean. 

when she gathers enough strength to look back at where ashlynn is, she sees paige is managing to hold her own. there’s a moment where she even has her—back foot planted, adrenaline surging. she almost wins.

until ashlynn shifts direction, sharp and serpentine, like a dancer who missed a cue and made it part of the choreography. she feints toward where azzi sits stupidly on the ground and, of course, paige moves to intercept—too late.

ashlynn smiles, and azzi feels a horrible twisting ribbon of dread around her neck at the sight. she watches in slow motion as ashlynn whips back around and drives the blade in.

right under the ribs. the blood that follows is deep and red.

azzi screams.

the sound tears out of her like a rupture, and then there is only blood. blood, ruby and leaking, and the echo of metal. there is only paige, crumpling like the world stopped holding her up. azzi was a fool to think violence couldn’t reach her.

azzi scrambles forward, knees slamming the ground, hands skidding through something warm. she falls, slips as she pushes herself back up. her vision is thin and hot and wrong. she can’t hear anything except the pulse between her ears and paige gasping, trying to say her name through lips turning white at the corners. paige is still trying to be strong, her teeth grinding together as she lets out a pained groan. 

azzi is going to kill her. she’s going to kill that fucking cunt. 

“fuck,” azzi chokes. “okay. it’s okay.  i’ve got you.”

she shrugs off her hoodie, blood on the sleeves already, and presses it hard against the wound. paige hisses, jaw clenched, but doesn’t pull away. azzi makes her hold it there.

“fuck, this shit hurts,” paige whispers. azzi lets out a weak laugh. “ah, shit.”

her blue-eyed gaze flickers over azzi’s shoulder. she reaches out, her free hand cupping azzi’s chin.

“look at me. azzi, look at me.”

azzi struggles to look away from the way her hoodie is becoming more and more soaked. her eyes are wide and glazed over. paige takes her hand away, slaps her. azzi gasps. not from the sting, but from the grief of it. 

paige has never hit her before. not even once.

“sorry. ‘m so sorry, baby. but i need you to listen to me. you need to run.” she pushes past azzi’s strangled protest. “she wants to finish me off. it’ll keep her distracted, and it gives you a good chance.”

“p—” azzi begins, but paige cuts her off.

“you knew what this was, mama. i said the point was protecting you.” her gaze is hard. “this is it.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she’s somewhere else now. something else. her hands are soaked, sticky. her breath goes in sharp, shallow. paige’s blood is on her neck, her chest, her mouth maybe. it doesn’t matter.

“azzi, if you don’t fucking move, she’ll kill you too.”

azzi meets her eyes. 

“she already tried.”

paige’s brow furrowed. azzi pressed her forehead against it. her lips parted, and the words ghosted out like smoke.

“do you remember seventh grade?”

𓇼 they were thirteen.

𓇼 paige never cried. not really. at least not when people could see her. she was the kind of girl who moved through the world like it owed her something sweet. so self-assured in a way that didn’t feel fair. 

𓇼 she was perfectly coded. she knew exactly how to flick her ponytail and land a beautiful free throw. azzi had always watched her sideways, had memorized the slope of her smile and perfect nose.

𓇼 so when she found her behind the concession stand after practice one afternoon, sitting with her knees pulled up and her face red and wrecked, azzi had gone still.

𓇼 she knelt down. touched her. paige flinched.

𓇼 “it’s nothing,” paige said, laughing in that fake, strained way. “it’s stupid. that girl—whatever, man. it’s just words.” but there was a mark on her neck. a little welt like a thumb had pressed there, too hard.

𓇼 azzi didn’t ask. she just stood up and walked back toward the gym. past the vending machines, around the corner where the field shadows stretched long. she knew exactly who it was, who had done this. who kept doing this.

𓇼 amerie. eighth-grade cheerleader. lip gloss always too fucking pink. always looking at paige like she was—like she was something she could ruin. a small piece of meat that wouldn’t put up a fight between her teeth. 

𓇼 she was behind the school alone, talking on the phone. azzi didn’t say a word. she grabbed her by the hair first.

𓇼 the phone went flying. amerie screamed once, short and stupid. then azzi slammed her to the ground—knees scraping, elbows cracking. she sat on her chest, legs pinned on either side, weight down hard like she wanted to be inside her ribcage.

𓇼 “you think you’re tough?” azzi said, breathing fast, too fast. amerie was clawing at her arms, crying now. “get off of me, you freak. what the hell—”

𓇼 azzi punched her. then again. then she dug her fingers into her cheeks, thumbs pushing up hard until amerie’s mouth split open at the corner.

𓇼“you like to call girls dykes?” she hissed. “you want to call paige that? huh? hurt her? make yourself feel big, bad, and strong?”

𓇼 the girl sobbed. azzi spit. she wasn’t sure if it was blood or bile or lip gloss on her tongue. azzi touched her own mouth, smearing whatever was there. then grabbed amerie’s chin and smeared it across her lips.

𓇼 “now you’re one too.”

𓇼 she leaned in close. maybe kissed her. maybe just hovered. she wanted her to remember this. her smell, her taste, the fear.

𓇼 “i’ll come back if you say her name again. and i swear to god, amerie, you’ll never forget mine.”

𓇼 and with that azzi stood, wiped her hands on her shorts. left the other girl curled on the asphalt, pink glitter gloss mingling with blood. she glanced down at her hands, saw the smear of dirt and glitter and blood. 

𓇼 she sucked it off.

paige looked at her, her face pale from blood loss and now twisted in a mixture of surprise and something azzi couldn’t place. then, paige let out a long breath, and azzi understood.

 it was desire.

“i never knew you did that. i just thought she’d finally fucked off.”

azzi smiled and leaned down, pressing a sloppy kiss to paige’s mouth. paige moaned into it, and azzi felt a rush of pleasure at the idea that paige was called more to her than the shadow of death at her door. she almost lost her sense of the present, but then ashlynn shifted from where she was watching with an almost detached boredom, and the floor creaked.

azzi grew cold.

“stay down,” azzi murmured. her voice was glacial. “you always take it. let me do it this time. please. just stay.”

she pressed her cheek to paige’s temple. felt her nod.

she rose.

azzi’s eyes are wide, unfocused. her body was already wrecked, always had been. but something sharp is crawling back up through her. 

she remembers the feel of skin giving beneath her knuckles. the split of a lip. what it feels like to mark someone and walk away.

that’s what ashlynn doesn’t understand.

azzi hasn’t survived because she’s strong. she’s survived because she’s mean when it counts. love has never softened her. in fact, love, and paige, were her triggers. she doesn’t feel the blood trailing down her own leg until she sees it, shiny against her thigh, a relic from paige's wound that she hadn’t registered. 

her hoodie is a makeshift bandage, and she’s left in her sports bra, which clings to her ribs, soaked through with sweat. her shorts hang low. her whole body hums like a struck wire. carefully, azzi turns to look at ashlynn. azzi—bleeding, breath stuttering, heart thudding like a war drum—laughs. 

ashlynn’s face contorts. 

she hates being humiliated. 

“you’re such a piece of shit, ash,” azzi says. “on and off the court. you want me, but you can’t even make the proper effort to kill me. there’s always somebody else you go for.”

“tread carefully, az,” ashylynn says, her voice deceptively easy.

“or what?” azzi asks, head falling to the side like a dog. “you’re going to kill me? stab me? go ahead. at least then you’d finally fucking do something to me.”

ashlynn’s mouth twists into a sneer, and her hand tightens its grip around her blade. she wipes the strip of metal on the white of her skirt, the contrast jarring. azzi steps back, feet still slick. she moves toward the locker room. 

“and here i was, trying to be nice and give the two of you a chance at saying goodbye,” ashlynn hisses. she’s moving away from paige. “this could’ve been sacred, azzi. you ruined it. again. but hey, at least you’ll be together in the end.”

azzi slides into a crouch, her body keyed up. she locks their gazes together, calls to the beast.

“eat shit, bitch.”

she turns and runs.

azzi knows she isn’t a fighter. but she also knows she wants a kill.

the lights flicker, buzzing and half-dead. steam coats the mirrors, and the floor is slick with water, blood, and shattered glass from a kicked-in fixture. she skidded into it when she burst into the room. somewhere, a towel drips blood into a puddle.

azzi is crouched low between lockers, her breath stuttering. she’s bleeding from her thigh, her side, her shoulder—flesh opened like peeled fruit. her hands are slick and shaking as she pulls another shard of glass from her side. it’s long and jagged, and her tattered skin flutters as she tugs it out like fleshy butterflies.

her shorts hang low on her hips, threatening to fall right off. her v-line is soaked. her sports bra clings to her chest, black and wet and shining in the low light. from outside the door: a thud. then another. footsteps.

azzi’s vision narrows to a tunnel. the fluorescent lights above flicker like a dying star, casting fractured shadows across the locker room tile, smeared with blood. hers, probably paige’s, maybe even someone else’s. who knows how long ashlynn has been here?

the air reeks of sweat and iron. her eyes are burning. her bare feet slip slightly as she takes one step forward, then another. she carefully snags the towel on the floor, wrapping it around the bottom of the piece of glass she just pulled from her side. she stands there with her makeshift blade trembling in her hand.

ashlynn moves like a ghost. calm. confident. as if none of this matters.

“she told you to run,” ashlynn calls out, her voice syrup-slow, tilting her head like a curious predator. “you should’ve listened.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she can’t. every word lodges in her throat behind a scream that hasn’t broken free. she pauses, closes her eyes, licks her lips, and tries to place ashlynn’s location.

she takes a leap and lunges. she’s off.

the blade barely grazes ashlynn’s thigh. just enough to tear fabric. just enough to draw a bead of blood. enough to enrage her.

they crash into each other: teeth gritted, knees hammering into ribs, fingernails clawing through sweat-slick skin. ashlynn’s knife goes spinning across the tiles. gone. azzi doesn’t care.

she slams her shoulder into ashlynn’s sternum. the pain is immediate and electric, sharp enough to make her vision go white for a split second, but she doesn’t stop. doesn’t stop when her elbow cracks against the corner of a bench. doesn’t stop when ashlynn swings the bat—where the absolute fuck did that come from?—and beats it against her forearm. doesn’t stop when the bone splits like a breaking tree branch.

azzi keeps going.

not because she thinks she’s primed to win. but because she refuses to lose.

they end up near the showers, and ashlynn uses azzi’s weight against her, slams her hard into a wall of mirrors and porcelain sinks. azzi feels an army of glass go into her, and she shrieks. ashlynn’s smile nearly overtakes her face. her teeth are pink with her lip gloss.

blood slicks the floor. they fall into it. slide in it. roll.

ashlynn is strong. but azzi is meaner.

azzi headbutts her. a sickening crunch. blood gushes from ashlynn’s nose. she rears back, and azzi strikes again. ashlynn catches her this time, pushes her back, and kicks her hard in the ribs. glass pushes in. azzi lets loose a horrible wail of pain.

god, she hopes paige can’t hear her.

“you’re not like her,” ashlynn hisses as she pins azzi to the floor, their limbs tangled in blood and water and broken tile. “you’re soft. paige is out there, gurgling like a pitiful little insect. she’s killed for you. and you? you can’t even protect yourself.”

azzi meets her eyes. something dead and ancient opens in her chest.

“you’re right,” she says, her voice flat. “i’m not like her. i’m not even like you.”

her eyes slide down to her thigh, to where a jagged chunk of mirror is protruding at a grotesque angle. her hand closes around it. she screams, raw and loud, as she drags it out.

the world tilts.

azzi grits her teeth, sobbing through the pain as she finally frees the shard and slashes it across ashlynn’s neck.

the sound ashlynn makes isn’t human. it’s not like she was one.

“i’m worse,” azzi finishes, her voice monotonous. she’s an animal now.

blood sprays across the wall. ashlynn gurgles. falls back. grabs her throat. tries to stand. but azzi tackles her. ashlynn worms her way out, still desperate to keep going.

azzi is so fucking tired of her.

somehow, the fight spills into the gym. azzi barely registers her surroundings anymore. it’s all just shapes and echoes and blood. the bat has been dropped. the wood shines red and begging.

azzi picks it up with her broken arm, pain lighting up her nerves like fireworks. doesn’t matter. she spits blood from her mouth, tilting her head back to breathe.

ashlynn is up. she’s stumbling. gasping.

rage floods azzi. she pushes herself forward, steps slow and heavy. she is aware of paige just off to the side, her body writhing to life as she sees the ways in which azzi is destroyed. the gym lights are strobing, or maybe that’s just azzi’s vision going in and out.

ashlynn is swaying. still moving. still swinging. so determined not to die.

azzi follows. she is her harbinger.

she hefts the bat. cocks her shoulder back and raises it high. her shadow elongates past ashlynn’s bloody, burbling body.

here they are—framed center court. azzi stands, slick with gore and sweat, chest heaving. her body is shaking, the bat trembling in the air. she’s frozen for only a moment. not with fear, but with the aftershocks of violence, like a bell still ringing long after the strike.

she looks savage. beautiful.

her shorts ride low on her hips, exposing more bruises than skin. patches of raw flesh bloom across her thighs and abdomen; a cruel constellation of survival. her stomach rises and falls sharply. blood traces the curve of her spine.

her mouth parts, lips raw, a streak of crimson trailing down her jawline like war paint. her eyes are half-wild, rimmed with salt and pain.

she is radiant.

she is herself, finally.

behind her, paige coughs, wet and broken. azzi doesn’t turn. she’s focused, but she can feel her. she knows paige is still on the ground because she made her promise to stay down. to let her fight. to let her win.

ashlynn turns, her knees beginning to buckle. her eyes widen. there’s a flicker of fear. azzi’s face twists into a snarl. her teeth flash, and she swings.

the first strike lands in the ribs. the crack is beautiful. next swing: the side of the head. then the shoulder.

the bat rises and falls. again.

and again.

and again.

she beats ashlynn down with everything she has.

azzi is screaming now. she doesn’t remember starting. the raw, bestial sound claws out of her chest. she drops the bat mid-roar and keeps going. keeps wailing like her body has become a speaker for everything she ever buried.

her grief. her love. her shame. her fear. her rage. it all comes up at once, ripping through her like a second spine.

she screams until her throat gives out. until she vomits. she falls to her knees, hands holding her up as the bile falls. she looks up, remnants dripping from her mouth.

ashlynn is unmoving. she’s finally stayed down.

azzi looks away and blinks blood from her lashes.

behind her, paige lets out a rattle. it’s moist and weak.

azzi turns. her injuries scream. agony spears through her. still, she crawls over.

paige is alive, but barely. azzi begins to cry.

the doors crash open. the police—late as always. she wonders what finally clued them in.

sirens scream outside. floodlights streak in through broken windows, blue and red flashing against the blood-slicked floor. a crowd is gathered just inside the gym entrance: cops, students, and jana, stunned and silent.

azzi stands, heaving.

she steps forward, bare feet flexing, each move unsteady but deliberate, like her body weighs more now. her breath drags out in short, shattered exhales.

“mmm,” she moans, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from fainting.

she places herself in front of paige.

one step. then another. she turns to the crowd.

her eyes lock with theirs. someone is sobbing. someone else whispers her name like they barely recognize her. in azzi’s face: no remorse. no apology. only choice.

the bat glints on the floor next to what used to be ashlynn, still wet.

azzi raises her hands, palms open. blood pools in the creases. her arms shake.

she’s drawn the line. they can think what they want.

azzi’s already decided.

paige is trying to sit up, always trying to take the fall for her. but azzi is different now.

but she doesn’t mind. 

she will do anything to keep paige alive. to keep them both alive.

final girl stands alone. one killer behind her. one in front. she loves the one behind. their instincts are twinned. the other is gone. final girl has survived. but there is no peace inside her. only the hum of violence, like rabid bees. there is an aftertaste. almost holy. final girl with her blood-stained hands in the sudden silence. final girl declares: i did this. i would do it again. i had to choose, and i will always choose her. final girl stands cut open. many things bleed out. from her: a red river of love, but no peace.

𓇼 the hospital is quiet at 3 a.m. everything is bleached and humming.

𓇼 paige has a private room. no visitors allowed for now. but rules don’t apply to girls who almost died for each other.

𓇼 azzi’s got six stitches along her ribs, butterfly bandages blooming down her forearms where glass sliced her open. her body is stiff as she rises. a nurse tried to stop her from leaving her bed. azzi didn’t stop walking.

𓇼 she finds paige propped up in bed, pale but awake, one arm bandaged tightly against her body. the stab wound missed anything fatal by an inch. azzi has replayed that inch in her head a thousand times.

𓇼 paige blinks as if to check if she’s dreaming when azzi shuffles inside. “hey, princess,” she says. soft, so soft.

𓇼 azzi doesn’t speak. she just crawls in beside her, every joint aching. she presses her face into paige’s shoulder, careful not to touch the dressing, and exhales for what feels like the first time in days.

𓇼 paige tips her chin, kisses azzi’s hair. “i’m so proud of you, mama,” she whispers. “thank you for saving my life.”

𓇼 azzi barely breathes. paige pretends not to notice her hospital gown growing wet. “you’d do the same for me.” it’s quiet. not solemn. bone-deep.

𓇼 then paige mutters, “she got me early. she knew i’d shut that shit down.” azzi huffs, a crooked little laugh. “i am so gonna fuck you when we get out of here.”

𓇼 paige blinks, surprised, then breaks into a smile. “yo, chill,” she grins, hand curling into azzi’s. azzi smiles too, but paige can see through it. this is all bravado.

𓇼 they lie there a long time, and eventually paige falls asleep. azzi listens to the monitor beep steadily in the dark.

𓇼 she brings a hand up to her neck, where the sleek gold evil eye jana got them both for protection glints against her collarbone.

whether it’s that—or paige’s lips dragging across her throat—that’s the only line azzi wants drawn across her neck.

© hcneymooners.

[mars-syndrome]

sooo if ur somehow stumbling across this randomly nothing about this post will make sense unless youve read this fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/57909193

but hey, that promised bingge pov post! (full disclosure i am writing this before ive written the sqh scene so some info may be repeated!)

binghe was aware of sy’s nature from the very beginning. he knew it was demonic, but meng mo was the one who let him know about the concept of demon dolls and how theyre created. when he chose sy for qing jing, he was fully convinced it was actually a demon doll with sqq’s exact soul/copy and wanted to get ahead of whatever revenge he and/or yqy may be planning.

meng mo also told him that since sqq’s been dead yqy had probably used his own soul to help ‘create’ sy so both of them were hesitant to use their dream manipulation incase it let yqy know something was up since they could be spiritually linked and lbh’s half demon status was unknown plus he’d be the first person yqy would want to blame. while he wouldnt use dream manipulation since it was spiritual based, he would use the blood parasites as insurance since it was fully physical.

upon meeting sy, he began to have doubts about whether it was sqq’s soul. hence the fungi mission. he used that mission to judge just how human or demonic sy’s body is and also gauge his reaction to not being affected by the spores if his body was demonic to tell how “in the know” he was. when sy was genuinely confused and just accepted whatever explanation lbh gave him, he concluded sy knew absolutely nothing at all and shifted his focus to actually making sy care for him.

his confrontation with yqy after the fungi mission was basically yqy and lbh trying to psych each other out about how much the other knew. it ended with lbh implying he knew what was up, that he could reveal yqy for colluding with demonic cultivators and/or demons, and that he wouldnt let sy get found out unless yqy does some shit bc hey, thats his disciple. so up until now (chapter whatever this is linked on) they’ve operated under a strained truce that yqy stays away from sy and lbh wont reveal them.

for lbh getting close with sy was just a fun little side project. after all, a little sqq who adored him more than anything in the world? sqq would be seething and rolling in his grave. it doesnt hurt that sy was so earnest and cute either and him being on the peak made nyy happy so he was fine with getting some revenge like that.

in the fic’s og pidw, this grows into lbh desperately craving affection and validation from the kid who looks so much like his shizun who withheld it. he’ll grow codependent with sy, but the relationship stays very much master/disciple. on some level he’s aware that though sy does genuinely care for and admire him, hes playing out a role to receive lbh’s protection.

but in the fic our sy, earnest and naive, found the jade pendent.

this is bingge, two decades removed from the abuse he suffered. he’s had two decades to get stronger, to realize the world bends to his whims. to realize no matter where he goes he’ll have women falling over themselves to get into his bed but none of them will ever truly love him and what they give him is shallow. to realize he’ll have men envying him and wishing him harm just for being better. this bingge doesn’t have mobei-jun or any wives to share even the illusion of closeness or companionship with. he has nyy yet she’s been relishing in her role as da-shijie and hes happy for her truly, but he’s been alone in the bamboo house for 20 years.

when bingge meets sy!sqq in svsss who shows him just two days worth of normal domestic kindness, he immediately wants to leave with him. so how would our bingge feel with our sy, who he’s had unrestricted access to for 2 years, who holds genuine affection for him with no ulterior motive, who admires him openly and unashamedly, when he returns the very symbol of his happiness and the last bit of true love hes ever felt?

“precious fake jade indeed” he said

this fake sqq, this flawed copy of the man who tormented him, gave him back this fake pendant that he held most dear, that he lost hope of ever getting back again.

was that not symbolic? did that not make shen yuan his as well? did that not make shen yuan another symbol of love for him? did shen yuan not hand himself over to binghe when he handed over the pendant?

he begins objectifying sy almost. this was his person. obviously if sy was defective for yqy’s purposes, then wouldnt it make sense for sy to have been made just for lbh? after all, who else could cherish and protect sy like he could? yqy let him out of his sight long enough for him to becomes lbh’s so he wasnt fit. sy cant look after himself. only luo binghe could.

the mission he took just after sy’s 16th birthday was to track down the demon clan responsible for sy’s creation and learn more about it to see if he could sever and/or work around yqy’s connection. as soon as he learned everything, he returned and used dream manipulation (after he figured out it was safe) to walk through sy’s memories like svsss bingge did to sqq. he realizes sy’s memories are gone, he and meng mo conclude it was probably an error in the connection to body and soul bc of the nature of demon puppets. but hey, a wins a win. sy has no affection for yqy and the fact sy is loyal to only lbh remains unchanged.

speaking of, he should probably make sy his head disciple officially so yqy cant make any accusations about lbh’s inappropriate closeness to his disciple, no matter how true they are.

[sleepytiredbum]

DD:DNE!MOUTHWASHING || Dark!Older!Jimanya x Jimanya!Reader

CW//TW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, PHYSICAL ABUSE, EMOTIONAL ABUSE, PARENT/CHILD INCEST, NEGLECT, AGE DIFFERENCE, UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS, CODEPENDENCY, BULLYING, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, ETC.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy and Mama!Anya where they're both abusive to you in different ways.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy where he's physically abusive whereas Mama!Anya is emotionally abusive towards you.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy where he would openly abuse you whenever you did something "bad" while Mama!Anya opens neglects you whenever you did something good.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy who would leave bruises on your body out of frustration whenever he's really in a bad mood and Mama!Anya would cover all those bruises up out of necessity.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy who would tell you repeatedly to not get knocked up/knock someone up so young or else he'll just straight up kick you out of the house.

Gimme Mama!Anya would tell you not to wear clothes that's not too revealing or provocative or else she'll won't help you if you ever get into a horrible situation.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy, who despite always seeing you as a parasite, calls you "Kid", "Brat", "Squirt" or even "Pipsqueak" whenever he acknowledges you or you approach him.

Gimme Mama!Anya, who despite always seeing you as a parasite too, calls you "Dear", "Child", "Sweetheart" or even "Honey" whenever she acknowledge you or you approach her.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy and Mama!Anya, who in rare instances, takes care of you where you least expected it such as Papa!Jimmy letting you cry on his shoulder when your first partner cheated on you because you weren't ready for sex yet or Mama!Anya letting you stay in bed and giving you medicine because you had a really bad stomach bug.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy who suspiciously comes home with bloodied knuckles and Mama!Anya who suspiciously comes home with bloodied nails whenever you get bullied by your peers/teachers and the bullying stops all together later on in your final year of school.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy who would beat up anyone that has ever hurt you physically or emotionally with his fists. Gimme Mama!Anya who would beat up anyone physically or emotionally with her words.

Gimme Papa!Jimmy and Mama!Anya, who deep down, see you as a lifeline— a tie to whatever humanity they still have left inside their blackened hearts....

Gimme Papa!Jimmy and Mama!Anya who eventually starts showing you affection with subtle touches, kisses and more to make you forget the years of abuse and neglect. By whispering calculated, loving promises of treating you for good.... In order to make sure you won't ever try to leave them even when you're already well into your early twenties.

(this is hella messy but fuck it— we ballin)

[stars-and-inkpots]

True Love's Embrace | Gale x Reader

Finding those rings gives you the chance to protect Gale. Sure, he would never agree to you putting yourself in danger for the sake of himself, but he doesn't have to know.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: Canon-typical violence, blood and injury, codependency, self-sacrifice, forehead kisses, hurt/comfort

Notes: Inspired by some combat in my playthrough and thinking about the reactions some things may have caused. I simply think that Gale would have an opinion on using those rings, and it wouldn't be a good one (mildly hypocritical, of course).

Ao3 Link: True Love's Embrace

Word Count: 1,785

You know what those rings can do. You know what the wife who gave her husband the matching ring did. What she did was horrible, but you aren’t going to use them like that. 

You know Gale won’t approve of it at all; but the thought of the ring's magic protecting him (even if it was at the expense of yourself) gave you peace of mind. The thought of his safety is enough to drown out the thought of his disappointment if he does manage to find out. 

He didn’t question when you placed the silver ring in his hand. You almost worried that he would know what it was, that he would immediately see through your plan. You gave a relieved sigh when all he did was thank you for the gift and slip the ring on his finger before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. 

When you put your hand on his shoulder later, it was simple to let the magic of the rings flow through you. You feel the invisible thread that connects you to each other. Gale doesn’t seem to notice.

“Is everything alright? You seem distracted,” Gale asks. 

Guilt runs through you once more, urging you to tell him, but you ignore it. You needed every reassurance you could get to keep him safe here. You could take a few extra hits in battle, it wouldn’t matter. As long as he was safe. 

“I’m fine, just have a lot on my mind… and well, in it, I suppose,” you say, hoping the joking tone will hide the real concerns you have about the danger that surrounds you; and despite the distaste you have for the parasite that has made its home in your skull, you aren’t one to give up the opportunity for an admittedly awful joke. 

Gale groans, but huffs out a reluctant laugh all the same. 

“Hold on-” All of you hear Karlach begin to warn the group from her place in the front, but she isn’t quite fast enough. 

Creatures of vines and shadow shamble out of the bushes ahead. The biggest of the group creeps quickly out of the shadows as it towers over all of you. You barely have enough time to dodge the first round of thorns it shoots at you. 

Karlach is quick to start rushing at the nearest monster, axe swinging wildly as it cuts through wooden tendrils. Astarion manages to get himself further back where he can shoot safely. You and Gale, can’t move away quick enough before the ground erupts into a swarming mass of roots that entangle around your feet, trapping you. 

You do your best, blocking most strikes when you can, swiping your blade across the roots and vines that try to reach out, but your lack of movement makes it increasingly difficult. Several hits make it through your defence, thorns cutting through your armour, pinpointing the weak spots. You can feel the ring working its magic when pain blossoms from phantom wounds as Gale is hit behind you. You endure, knowing that Gale’s injuries would be far worse if you didn’t have these rings. 

You can feel the heat from yet another fireball launched into the thick of the trees. Gale is doing his best to avoid catching anyone else in the crossfire of the blaze. 

When the last creature finally falls, you can take the time to untangle yourself from the roots at your feet. You finally notice the sheer amount of blood that coats the ground around you. Despite the lightheadedness you feel, you push on. 

Gale, though still injured, looks far better than he could have been. That makes this worth it , you assure yourself. It’s nothing that Shadowheart’s magic won’t be able to fix. 

---

Hoping for a simple excursion through the Shadow-Cursed Lands is a laughable desire.

The next day is much like the last. You and your companions are walking through the darkness, ready for some new horror to lunge out from the shadows; and are entirely unsurprised when they do. 

You’ll never get used to the shadow creatures. The tall and imposing beings of pure shadow, but still very much physical and capable of hurting you. Their claws are sharp when they dig into your flesh, and there are so many of them that it’s hard to keep track. They suffocate the light around them, plunging anyone nearby into darkness. 

You can feel each time one of them slashes at Gale. You are made painfully aware of each time the wizard isn’t quite fast enough when jumping out of the way. Even though the pain is lessened by the magic of the ring, combined with the strikes that you’re taking yourself, it leaves you struggling. Standing on unsteady feet, hands shaking as you hold your sword out in front of you, you realise that you might not be strong enough to protect him like you wanted after all. 

Exhaustion takes hold of you quickly. It pulls at you; your muscles feel weak. You let yourself collapse to the ground, unable to hold yourself up any longer. Stars dance across your vision, the world blurs and darkens at the edges. You keep your eyes open as long as you can. Distantly, you can hear someone yelling your name, frantic and scared. Sleep overtakes you, and you slip into the oddly comforting darkness of unconsciousness. 

---

The world returns to you in moments. In one, you are held tightly against someone’s chest, their arms wrapped around you, warm and strong. It is Karlach, you recognise vaguely. You drift away again. In the next, you can hear Shadowheart speaking to someone. Her hands are warm on your arm. You can feel her magic seep through your body; the wounds closing steadily. Then darkness once more. 

The next time you wake up, you aren’t sure where you are for a moment. 

You try to sit up, immediately regretting it as your whole body is wracked with pain. You lower yourself back down on the bedroll which has been covered in many plush blankets. It is then that you recognize the blue fabric of the tent and the books around you that are stacked neatly along the walls. 

With a sudden clarity, you feel the absence of the ring on your finger. 

Shit.  

Pushing through the entrance of the tent, is none other than Gale. He looks down at you, relieved, but also clearly upset. 

“Care to explain what these are? And perhaps, if you would be so generous, tell the truth this time?” Gale holds the two rings in his hand. 

You’re quiet for a moment. You feel awful for lying to him. 

“The rings we found. I thought maybe they were just normal rings, but after reading the diaries we found with them, I realised they could cast a one-way warding bond. I just wanted to protect you. It was something I could actually do to help keep you safe. I’m sorry, I know I should have told you, but you wouldn’t have let me if you knew-” 

“Of course I wouldn’t have let you!” Gale cuts you off. “Why would I let you do something like this? It doesn’t matter what the rings do, I’ll have none of it if it hurts you.” He sighs, frustrated, but clearly only because he is worried about you. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is quiet, wavering only slightly. 

Gale kneels down beside you, putting the rings aside and taking your face in his hands instead. “I care about you. I care about you a lot, in fact. When I saw you fall out there, I was terrified. I never want to get that close to losing you again. I know you had only the best intentions, and I am not angry with you; I love you, so very much. I never want you to put yourself in harm's way for the sake of me. Promise me.” He sounds desperate, like the thought of you doing something like this again physically pains him. 

“I promise.” In all honesty, you aren’t sure how much of the truth it is. If there was ever a moment where you would have to make a decision between him and yourself, you can’t promise that you won’t protect him then too. 

But Gale can’t fault you either. He isn’t sure that he wouldn’t do the same for you. In all honesty, if he was in your position, he might have used the rings very similarly, and he can imagine you giving him much the same lecture. 

Both of you are too ready to bleed for the other, for just the chance to keep each other safe. It seems that’s all one can do in this world right now. 

“I love you,” Gale whispers before kissing you, soft and careful not to move you too much while you’re still healing. 

“I love you too,” you answer, covering one of his hands on your cheek with your own. 

“I’ll go and get you some food. You’ve been asleep for a while, I kept near the fire to keep it warm for you.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead before leaving the tent again. 

For now, the rings are forgotten. Your earlier guilt dissipates slowly as you wait for Gale to return. He helps you sit up when he gets back, pain still very much present, but fading the longer you lean against him. He’s quick to wrap an arm around you, letting you put most of your weight against him, which you’re grateful for. 

The entire rest of the night, there isn’t a moment when he’s near you and touching you in some way. While you eat, he’s talking to you about another one of his books, but his arm is around you, hand resting on your hip. After, when you’re laying down again, he’s running his fingers through your hair, or resting his hand on your arm. Guilt returns momentarily when you realise just how much your injuries must have worried him. 

When you finally feel sleep tugging at you again, though less demanding this time, he lays beside you. The pain has subsided for the most part, and you’re able to move yourself to cuddle closer to him. He holds you close to his side, chin resting on the top of your head. 

You can’t promise something like this won’t happen again. Gale can’t promise that he won’t do the same thing. But both of you can promise to try to keep your self-sacrifice to a minimum, at the very least. And you can promise that you’ll always come back to each other at the end of the day. 

[notedchampagne]

One thing I think might be becoming a pet peeve for me is the idea that a perfect lyctorhood is attainable and, more importantly, desirable.

Don't get me wrong, I think Perfect Lyctorhood is something that is technically achievable within the setting, but that it would be like sewing two persons together. Anything necromantic is a negative sum game that relies on taking and taking and taking. It would be hard, it would be grueling, it would be hollow, even more than other Lyctorhoods.

Petty lysis is about power inbalance, about being willing to take and give more than it would be healthy or morally correct do so, being the fuel to a eternal furnace and a furnace willing to burn forever.

Major lysis is about forfeiting both of yourselfs and the world to make something new that may live on without you, carving out a silver lining with your own hands in an imposible situation. Using the already burning coals to forge something to leave a mark on the world.

Perfect lysis? Between equals? A mutilation, a cowards way, wanting the other to live but unwilling to pay the price of being the fuel, holding on to each other like parasites slowly consuming each other, the porcupines dilema but the porcupines are so close and embedded in each other any attempt to move away will make both of them to bleed out, so the only option is to get closer and closer until their bodies stop working from the damage and stress. Like cracking two eggs swapping the contents and putting the shells back together and expect to not leak and rot.

... Dang it I ended up doing meta

treat. you ended up doing a half a poem while youre at it but yeah i agree. i like that tlt interrogates the concept of love. ive seen a lot of people - me included - romanticize the codependent aspects of necrocavery... playing with codependency and enjoying it has its positives but i think it tends to hinder genuine analysis when a "happy ending" is all you can think of. lyctorhood as a whole is not only unhealthy, it continues to perpetuate the imperialism and the exploitation that ended up killing nearly all the characters in tlt

[keeksybee]

Just watched ‘Fear no Mort’ and wow was it a gut punch, I mean ooft “You’re irreplaceable” being the thing to tip him off, but that’s already been done to death, I’m personally more fascinated with Morty’s subconscious interpretation of his Grandmother, IMO it was a curious direction for the writers to take her, she’s a little too much like Rick for my taste, her her being intellectual definitely tracks, I doubt Rick would have married stupid but I always imagined she’d be…gentler, kinder, Rick’s grounding point.

They were happy when they were married, he loved her, there’s no reason for her to be a drinker or cruel or have that mean streak like Rick does because he didn’t really do those things before her lost her, she was the catalyst for his self sabotaging behaviours, I can see her being witty, knowing how to reel Rick back but I never thought she’d be like him, then I realised this *wasn’t* Diane it was Morty’s subconscious creating what he thought his Grandmother was like and since he’s never had any other reference for Diane except Rick’s anecdotes, nor seen Rick when he was healthy it makes sense he assumes Diane had to be like Rick for them to have been compatible.

He can’t actually fathom that Rick might have married a perfectly normal, intelligent woman and stayed in their small Washington town, raising their daughter in their little suburb, in their little nuclear family and he would have been content with that, because Rick can’t be content, he’s always chasing the next physical or metaphorical high, the exceptional, something he (Morty) is not, as Rick takes great relish in reminding him, I found it kinda sad that he sees Diane as competition for his Grampa’s affection rather than a new figure to create a relationship with, this is his Grandmother whom he’s never gotten to meet, that most children would be ecstatic to get to know a long lost family member, especially one held so dear by another close to them, but he doesn’t seem to want to get to know her because she takes Rick away, and let’s be honest Morty doesn’t have anyone else, his life is intrinsically tied to his Grandfather, he doesn’t have friends that we can see, his family either treat him like a burden or ignore him completely so the only person to give him attention, positive or negative is just Rick, they’re parasitically codependent to the point he is nothing without Rick. He’s more competent than he ever was and yet he still doesn’t get half the care or consideration that a fake simulation of his Grandmother gets.

I honestly interpret this version of Diane as not canonically how she was as much as this version is what Morty’s jealousy over Rick never moving on from her manifests as, he’s jealous that Diane got normal, family man Rick, that there was a time when he was decent and good and selfless that he’ll never get to experience, Rick won’t even help with his damn homework and he’s just willing to die for HER, she doesn’t even EXIST, Rick who never gives up, never accepts failure, will happily walk like lamb to the slaughter for HER, he’ll just stay in the hole until it consumes him. Why isn’t Morty good enough? He deals with all Rick’s Bullshit ALL the time, he’s the one losing limbs, he’s the one Rick leaves at the drop of a hat for two crows, he’s the one that he trusts less than Summer, he’s the one taking the blame for too many of Rick’s fuck ups to count and he won’t LEAVE THE DAMN HOLE.

He doesn’t see himself as important enough to leave the hole for, he makes Diane mean and selfish because it makes her easier to resent, because if she was sweet and loving and considerate she’d be so much harder to despise so he makes her selfish and compatible with the Rick *he* knows so he’s not forced to think about who Rick would chose if push really came to shove because he has a nauseating feeling it wouldn’t be him, that Rick wouldn’t hesitate.

I wonder what Rick would think if I’d he’d gotten to see just what his Grandson thought of himself.

[bcowlick]

Ramble about Zeus and Metis!Curiously, i don't see myself doing more MetisxZeus after TitanomachyWAT

Not because the lack of ideas. Contrary, i have WAY too many ideas.

And all of them are bangers and i just can't choose. So any content after TitanomachyWAT about them i made, won't be cannon (Or cannon on its own AU. You decide!)

Is just, there's so many delicious routes this ship can take after Zeus swallows Metis.

- The first possibility is that Metis dies. But not completly. A little part of her lives on inside of Zeus, but it is not quite Metis. Not completly at last. Is more a reflection of her, what she used to be. For Zeus, a memory that his Metis will never come back and all that its left of her is this kind of spirit thing that lurks around his mind and exists only to give counsell to Zeus. Its your usual plot of "I uploaded all the memories of my loved one in this AI. But this AI is just not them!" Kind of vibe. Its torture but Zeus can't get rid of it. Metis IS dead. This is all you have left and its an emotionless shell of what you used to love. This is my "She's gone" AU

- The second possibility is that she doesn't. She keeps trapped inside Zeus and both of them live together in the same body. This can be taken many routes.

- Symbiotic; They get along pretty well. They're brain roomates. Metis may have some feelings of longing for freedom but... Zeus needs her, he's asking for advice and counsell all the time! And, if she gets out of Zeus' mind there's a high chance she might not survive being in the outside world after years inside Zeus' brain. So, they have this kind of Venom/Eddie Brock situation. There's some dread to it, but they make it work. This is the case in which the toxicity is there. Is their codependency in their most elevated state (Pushing aside how uncomfy the situation is for both of them for the sake of at least being together). This is my "Could be Worse" AU

- Parasitic: Metis is absolutly not content with living inside Zeus. She feels like a prisoner and she would rather die already than have Zeus being too much of a coward to pull the plug on her. She's in constant pain and Zeus and her are in constant discord. Have you heard the song "Evelyn Evelyn"? Is something like that. They both think the other is the parasite, but Zeus refuses to set her free because he won't let go of the past. Because he needs her to make a good king. This one is the most toxic one of their AUs, which i call "Parasite"

- Taking Over; Metis ends up fed up with Zeus and decides to test just how much control she truly has over him. In the figth for control they might end up as an amalgamation, a whole new god, or one of them could die and the other take control. "Confrontration AU"

And what about the chances of Zeus actually bringing her back to the real world tho? That's a whole other can of worms to explore and i haven't given it too much thought but i would love to do it!!

In general, Zeus and Metis are such a good ship, they have so many possible routes that its impossible for me to choose one jsksjsk ("Could Be Worse" AU is my personnal favorite tho).

[sixlane]

barty reg and Lily?

LISTENNNN. i’ve actually been cooking up this post for a while and you’ve just given me a beautiful opportunity to talk about them. regubartylily, as i’m calling them, is a classic love triangle with barty at the crux. this ship hurts so bad and, at its core, is about letting go.

imagine, barty and regulus are childhood friends turned codependent parasites. they have never dated but they are each others first everything. they kiss and fool around occasionally but they never talk about it. their relationship just is what it is.

enter lily, who is regulus’ secret arch nemesis (read: reg&lily post). reg holds a deep dislike for lily because she is everything he wishes he could be and vice versa.

at some point barty develops an interest in lily because she wears this beautifully cracked mask that he cant help but want to see under. lily likes barty because he’s the only one who’s noticed she’s wearing a mask in the first place. after a while of orbiting around each other, barty and lily start dating… <- devastating for regulus, the guy who has never gotten a single thing he’s wanted his whole life. losing his best friend to the girl who has everything already. the boy reg is using to replace his brother being stolen by another fucking gryffindor…. he is HEARTBROKEN. it’s just another reason he’s inadequate. (and it’s different from jegulus/jily because james will always be unattainable to reg but barty is HIS. and now he is being replaced by the Better Version of himself). but he refuses to go down without a fight. he will not let go if he can help it. he will not allow his relationship with barty change. they probably still kiss sometimes while barty and lily are dating because that’s just what they do but lily knows barty and reg are weird with each other. and this is the girl who lives in a world where everything she has is balanced so precariously, ready to topple the moment she isn’t living up to Expectations. and now she feels like her relationship with barty (the one actual good thing in her life) is about to fall apart too because regulus can’t appreciate the things he has. he wants more. it’s a constant game of tug of war with barty in the middle (who btw is not oblivious to this. he just doesn’t understand why he can’t be something for both of them and he refuses to choose).

so anyway it’s about letting go. reg letting go of the codependency he shared with barty. lily letting go of insecurity and needing someone else to tell her who she can be.

enter evan (yes he’s here too). when barty meets evan everything clicks into place. evan will never need a single thing from barty. this is barty’s happy ending where he learns to let go of being needed. and reg and lily have to let go of barty completely in the contexts they knew/used him.

and that’s where i see reg and lily developing this begrudging friendship where they are both kind of mourning this loss but realizing it’s all for the better. barty could never actually fill the holes they were shoving him into. they gotta fix their shit themselves. and they’re happy that barty finally found a place he can just exist in without offering an inhuman level of devotion and self sacrifice.

this is the good ending. in the bad ending reg and lily murder barty together and help each other hide the body 🥰

[fictional-men-enthusiast]

I like to think the Roy vs Lesley rivalry is a corporations vs creators sorta dynamic. Roy wants DHMIS to be a dark comedy and all the teachers to be silly and wacky and marketable and Lesley wants DHMIS to be a thought-provoking indie horror with there the teachers are actual characters with depth, characters that represent the worst aspects of a certain topic or ideal or said ideal being twisted for malicious purposes.

The show and the series are sort of a mishmash of them both deciding certain aspects, aka, compromising on the vision, and it ending up working out in the end.

To Lesley, Warren (a visually disgusting character who perfectly displays the worst parts of friendship, and how the idea of friendship can be twisted by toxic friends to mean codependency or straight up parasitism) would be the perfect teacher, and to Roy, Colin (funny, energetic, charming, and inoffensive enough to be widely loved and slapped on merch) would be the perfect teacher.

[fallenheroreblog]

11&33 for that sidestep ask game? :3

Thank you for the ask!

I'm so excited to participate in more community events and games!

Plus, I enjoy thought exercises and sharing the behind the scenes of my fanwork.

11. [Is your Sidestep] more self-serving or more focused on others’ needs?

Vivian, due to her origin and the nature of her telepathy, is nearly always motivated by her relationship(s) to others.

ReGene vs Human. Hero vs Villain. Self vs Other.

If Vivian had been allowed to develop as a person before becoming a telepath she might have been able to avoid having parasitism define her. Instead, she was functionally a non-individual when she first came into contact with human minds and even then didn't grow past that until becoming entangled with one.

It's a theme that has been consistent in her character pre-Rebirth to now (post-Retribution).

I like to think her struggle with this in Retribution is an echo of her struggle with it pre-Rebirth: If you are experiencing someone else's pain, is relieving that pain altruism or individualism?

However, she's not all super powered codependency. Vivian is deeply self indulgent, typically of her physical desires, occasionally to a fault. Pre-Rebirth this can be seen in her relationship with Ortega, in Rebirth this comes out in her attack on the museum, and in Retribution money is no object and Daniel is a delight.

33. How do they feel about Herald idolizing them?

In Rebirth, Vivian has a deep self-hatred that gets expressed via her attitude towards Sidestep. She appreciates that his idol worship makes him easy to predict and control, but ultimately resents that he both represents who people thought Sidestep was and is everything she had wanted to be when she was Sidestep. If she wasn't so self-loathing and didn't want revenge on Ortega, Herald would probably be her rival.

During the events of Retribution, Vivian still spends a lot of time resenting Herald's idolization. She is deeply off-put by Herald's insistence that, not only was she an amazing hero, but she could be one again; especially because those conversations often reinforce the opposite.

However things start to change as she spends more time with Herald and builds a positive relationship with him. Once she starts to understand why he idolizes Sidestep, she turns some of that resentment towards herself because a lot of what she admires in Herald was inspired by this idea of her that she could never live up to.

This is exacerbated when Herald starts having feelings for her because she is convinced that he is in love with the idea of her just like he idolizes the idea of her. This comes to a head in their date, Vivian is unwilling to be loved as something other than herself even if she thinks her true self is unlovable.

I find it an interesting dynamic because, while Herald is largely just extrapolating the good he sees in Vivian and correlating it to Sidestep, I don't think he ever really stops idolizing the idea of Sidestep. Even though Herald embodies all of the things he admired about Sidestep, he never accepts the reality of Sidestep being a complex and deeply flawed person like himself.

---

from Sidestep Ask Game

[dreadfulsoup]

I CRY AND POST MY SON ON THE INTERNET

God this page took FOREVER!!!!! I got so many more sketches and content of this man, which I will try to post soon as well. Character description below! 😌🙌

———————-

Mox was raised in Zaun in a commune of anglerfish-women. Despite growing up loved, Mox felt out of place among his kind: unable to relate to or live up to the tough, brawler-culture his commune thrived in, and struggling to find his spot as a transitioning male in a society where males spend their lives as codependent parasites. He left Zaun, and his large family, behind, hoping to escape the violence and hard headed fighter-culture in Piltover.

After a couple of years of residence, Mox joined the enforcers, specialising in search and rescue operations, using his light and natural ability to withstand harsh and trying environments to find lost enforcers or civilians after riots, explosions or the like.

Mox was held back from graduating with the other junior enforcers - mostly because of his zaunite background, which required further background checks - but also because of his lacking skills in reading and writing. He graduated alone, half a year after his classmates, and is usually paired with a senior officer when patrolling or standing guard. He has yet to work a shift without being assigned a handler. His patrols are scheduled mostly during the night, when his eyes can see, but sometimes also during the day, during which he uses an eye cover and is generally blind due to light sensitivity.

Anglerfish-women can speak, though with a distinctively guttural, inhuman voice. Anglerfish males can make stray noises, but has generally underdeveloped vocal chords not suited for speech. Generally, anglerfish-people are a non verbal species.

Mox, having transitioned during his growing years, can say a word or two with great effort, but with a generally slurred, somewhat incomprehensible pronunciation.

Mox is trained in both visual and tactile sign language. (He has been asked kindly but firmly not to attempt vocal speech as his voice tends to unsettle his coworkers and the general public in Piltover. He sometimes follows this request.)

Despite his enforcer-training, Mox hates firearms, and is generally very afraid of all kind of weaponry. He will go a long way to stay out of all kinds of physical conflict. If he’s forced to use a firearm, he will purposely stall the shot, which has resulted in problems with other enforcers. Mox is generally seen as somewhat of a coward.

Mox has an underlying frustration with Zaun, having been raised in an isolated commune to feel lesser than for his lack of interest in physical combat and brawling. Due to the anglerfish peoples closed off nature, he’s seen very little of Zaun, and has yet to understand who the true oppressor really is. He believes it is a city thriving on violence, and felt a sense of pride joining the “opposite force” when he was recruited to be an enforcer. He has not yet realised that he himself is now a direct reason to why Zaun has to fight in the first place.

He naively believes that by simply guiding troops and choosing to stall shots, he can choose to avoid the issue of violence altogether.

Mox is, of course, wrong about all of this, and will have to find that out the hard way. 😌 it will not be a pleasant lesson for him to learn.

Mox’s true goal is to help people. He thrives as a search and rescue guide and navigator, leading other enforcers through dark rubble and finding trapped civilians in collapsed buildings and the like.

Mox is a flawed character with a lot of promised character growth!

and I! Love! Him!!!

————

BONUS Steb and Mox are intended future boyfriends. Except absolutely not yet because Steb is sometimes assigned as Mox’ handler and Mox is afraid of him. 😌

[comics-elianna]

About Me... and What I'm About to Bring to The Table.

Hi guys :) My names Elianna, or Ellie for short. This is my art account, and for now I'll be promoting my current project: To The Ends of The Earth: Prologue. Which will be about a 16-page comic serving as a prologue to a much bigger series in collaboration with @ammstify !

I'm 22 and I use she/they pronouns. I'm a big video game and comic fan!

WHAT IS "TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH?" The general story is a travel and eldritch horror, which represents themes of ostracization and the struggle of self-expression (especially when queer and/or neurodivergent), codependency, forging your own destiny, and emotional maturity.

This story takes place in 2002, America, and follows two protagonists:

Morgan (27, he/they): A mellow optimist who lives life on the road with his old cat, Belladonna (named after a pornstar, not the poison).

Though once confident about his independence and queer identity, Morgan meets a new "friend" that takes away what makes him *him*.

He dies alone from a copperhead bite but is brought back to life hours later by an organic, eldritch parasite who creates a manipulative and codependent relationship with Morgan to keep them both alive. Though he's no longer dead, Morgan starts to struggle with what was once his greatest strength.

Dominic (25, he/him): A closed-off, forlorn ex-mechanic, who lives by himself far from family, stuck in a depressing hustle and bustle city life. He's soft-spoken, a bit pessimistic but thinks he's a realist, and is well-meaning but loves to cover it up with a tough act.

His life turns on its head after encountering Morgan late one night in the streets of Boston, Massachusetts, giving him a much needed change. Dominic holds a major key in the hidden plots surrounding their meeting, quite literally inside him. Unbeknownst to the both of them, their meeting was, indeed, not on accident.

He joins Morgan on his journey, and throughout it, relearns what it means to live, to be confident in himself, and to open up.

This prologue only stars Morgan as the protagonist and his origin with the main antagonist: Bel, an eldritch parasite. While on a road trip in the middle-of-nowhere Washington, Morgan gets bit by a copperhead snake and dies in a grimy bathroom by himself. Hours later, he wakes up thinking he just passed out. But later that night while camping in the forest, they're greeted by hallucinations of the thing that saved him.

WHAT YOU'LL SEE FROM ME!

I'll be posting updates on my progress for the completion of this prologue! That includes what the characters look like, some of the pages in progress, and more. By the time I finish it, you guys will be able to view it on itch.io!

I'll probably make a secondary art account for fun. And there you will see me talk about my favorite stuff outside of my personal stuff. Such as.... Trigun, allll of Red Dead Redemption, FNAF, Resident Evil, and more!