#I just make shitty comics let me live

[snekdood]

i think what pisses me off about my abuser stealing mj and trying to force her to be transmasc is that they essentially robbed me from discovering that on my own if it ended up being true and kind of solidified in her to be even more of a #girlboss bc someone else apparently thinks they know her better just bc they imprinted on her..... she doesn't dig that coercive controlling shit srry

[lazy-ahh]

CHAOS LIKES COMPANY. A.K.A I LIKE YOU

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

you always imagined your grand exit would be more dramatic - maybe a hail of gunfire, a building collapsing in slow motion, at least a decent fucking punchline. instead you're testing a theory: if you disappear now, will mark grayson (your idiot, your disaster, the love of your shitty life) even notice? were you gonna be a tragic loss that haunted him forever, or the weird stain on the couch he learned to ignore?

this is for you MM (mohawk mark) anon! hope you enjoyed this one <3

you’re standing on a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath you like a toy set some rich kid smashed in a tantrum. the wind’s tugging at your hair, the strands whipping across your face like it’s personally offended by your existence. not that you mind—gives you that "tragically windswept" look, and hey, maybe the audience is into that.

"nice view, huh?" you say, grinning at no one in particular. "seriously, take a screenshot or something. this is prime wallpaper material."

mark—mohawk mark, because this universe just had to make him extra—lands beside you with a thud that cracks the concrete under his boots. his black-and-blue suit is all "look at me, i’m edgier than the original", complete with that ridiculous "i" logo stretching down to his knees like it’s trying to escape. his mohawk’s practically defying gravity (and common sense), and the bags under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept since the invention of energy drinks.

"who the hell are you talking to?" he asks, squinting like he’s trying to spot your imaginary friends.

"the audience," you say, like it’s obvious. "you know, the people watching our lives like some messed-up reality show? hi guys, love ya, don’t forget to leave a like and reblog."

"the… what?" his nose scrunches up, and oh, that’s adorable.

"don’t worry about it." you wave a hand. "they’re cool. mostly. some of them probably ship us already—oh, and spoiler alert, they’re gonna love the angst fest coming up."

mark blinks. "what does that even—you know what, never mind." he shakes his head, but you can tell he feels it—that weird shift in the air when you break the fourth wall like it’s made of wet paper. he doesn’t see them, but he knows something’s off, like the universe just glitched for a second.

"you’re weird," he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. just that same fond exasperation he’s had since you were kids throwing rocks at mailboxes (okay, you threw rocks—mark just watched and panicked, because back then, he was a "rules" kind of guy. boring).

"and you’re rocking a haircut that screams ‘i got into a fight with a lawnmower and lost’," you shoot back, reaching out to flick his mohawk. he swats your hand away, but he’s grinning now, all sharp edges and "i could kill you but i won’t (today)" energy.

"shut up," he says, but it’s half-hearted. then, quieter: "you’re the only one who gets to say shit like that and live."

and oh, that stings a little, doesn’t it? because you’ve known each other forever—since back when he was just mark, not invincible, not this version of him with blood under his fingernails and a smile that’s too wide to be sane. you know him better than anyone, even when he’s pretending he doesn’t care.

and yeah, maybe you’re a little (a lot) in love with him. maybe you’ve always been.

"lucky me," you say, forcing a smirk. "guess that means i’m special."

"guess it does," he says, and for a second, his eyes flicker with something almost soft.

(too bad you won’t be around long enough to enjoy it. because let’s be real—this is mark’s story, and in every universe, the best friend always dies. you’ve read the comics. you know how this ends. but hey, at least you’ll go out in style, right? saving this idiot’s life like some tragic, self-sacrificing idiot. classic.)

"so," mark cracks his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet before chaos, his fingers flexing like he's already imagining them wrapped around someone's throat. his grin is all teeth, too wide, too eager—the kind that makes normal people back up slowly and call the cops. his boot taps impatiently against the rooftop ledge, vibrating with barely-contained violence. "wanna go wreck some bad guys?"

you sigh, dramatic and long-suffering, like he’s just asked you to help him move a couch instead of commit several felonies. "oh, sweetie," you drawl, flipping a knife between your fingers just to watch the way his eyes track it—hungry, amused. "i was already doing that. you’re just late to the party." you tilt your head toward the alley below, where a bunch of armed goons are currently trying (and failing) to look intimidating. "see? they even brought balloons."

mark rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck, but before he can fire back some half-assed insult, he’s already leaping off the roof, arms spread like he’s embracing the inevitable chaos. you don’t even hesitate—just tuck your weapons back and dive after him, the wind screaming in your ears.

(you always follow. you always will. that's how you'll die, remember?)

the fight starts before your feet even hit the ground.

you land in a roll, coming up with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, already firing before the first thug even registers you’re there. the bullet takes him in the knee—"oops, guess you won’t be running anymore. well, not on that leg, anyway."

mark, meanwhile, doesn’t bother with weapons. he is the weapon. he plows into a guy twice his size like a freight train, sending him flying through a storefront window. glass shatters, the guy screams, and mark just laughs, kicking him in the ribs hard enough to crack bone. "aw, what’s wrong?" he taunts, tilting his head. "thought you were tough?"

one of the half-conscious goons on the pavement groans, dragging himself up on trembling elbows. his face is a mess of blood and regret as he glares up at you through one swollen eye. "what the fuck?" he slurs, spitting out a broken tooth. "i thought you guys were supposed to be heroes- AGH!"

your boot connects with his family jewels before he can finish that thought - a picture-perfect punt right to the baby factory, the twig and berries, the ol' troublepuffs. his voice cracks into a shrill, eunuch-like squeal as he folds like a lawn chair, hands cupped protectively over his now-useless crown jewels. "heroes?" you echo, tilting your head with mock sympathy as he dry-heaves onto the asphalt. "aw, cupcake. we're the guys your mom warned you about."

a bat comes swinging at your head from the blindside - amateur hour. you duck without even looking, feeling the whoosh of air ruffle your hair as you pivot and sink your combat knife deep into the guy's meaty thigh. he screams like a banshee as you twist the blade, feeling tendon grind against steel. "shhh, it's okay," you coo, patting his sweaty cheek with your free hand while he trembles. "you're doing great for someone with the fighting skills of a concussed koala."

then - classic move incoming - another meathead charges you with a crowbar raised high. is this also a reference to the author's other fictional crush? you sidestep like a matador, snatching his wrist mid-swing and using his momentum to yank him face-first into your rising knee. the satisfying crunch of cartilage tells you his nose just became abstract art. as he wheezes through the blood bubbling from his nostrils, you grab a fistful of his greasy hair and introduce his forehead to the nearest car hood. DING. "and that's the dinner bell!" you announce as he slumps to the pavement. "congrats, you just failed villainy 101. solid d-minus for the effort."

another shrill scream tears through the alleyway, high-pitched and desperate enough to make you pause mid-swing. you glance over your shoulder just in time to see mark - your personal hurricane of violence - plant his boots against the pavement, grip some poor 6'2 bastard by the waistband of his jeans, and heave. the guy goes airborne with a comical yelp, flipping ass-over-teakettle before crashing windshield-first onto a parked sedan. glass explodes outward in a glittering shower, the car alarm immediately wailing like a wounded animal.

"ohoho," you purr, letting your (new) bloodstained bat rest against your shoulder as you backpedal toward the nearest brick wall. you prop yourself against it, crossing your ankles with deliberate casualness as you watch mark work. the way his muscles flex under that skintight suit should be illegal. the way his mohawk bobs with each brutal movement? downright obscene.

mark doesn't even pause for breath before stomping toward the next threat, those unfairly thick thighs straining against his suit with each step - god, the way that fabric clings to him should be classified as a war crime. his fingers curl around a dented street sign, biceps flexing obscenely as he wrenches it free from the concrete with a screech of protesting metal. when he swings, it's with the practiced ease of a major league slugger, his whole body twisting in a way that makes his ass look absolutely sinful in that skin-tight suit - and then the aluminum connects with some mobster's jaw in a spray of saliva and enamel, three pearly whites skittering across the asphalt like tiny dice.

you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. it's ridiculous how good he looks like this - all coiled violence and barely-contained power, his mohawk sticking up in every direction like he just rolled out of bed (your bed, preferably). the way his shoulders bunch under the fabric when he lifts the sign again, the way his thighs flex as he plants his feet - christ, you could write poetry about those thighs.

but then something tightens in your chest, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from your lungs. you turn to glare at no one in particular, pointing an accusing finger. "woah woah woah, hey! don't you dare. i know what you're going to write in the next paragraph and i swear to god-"

because one day - soon - you won't be here to see this. won't be here to watch the way the streetlights catch the sweat on mark's neck, or the way his nose scrunches up when he's trying not to laugh at your shitty jokes. one day, you'll just be... gone. and mark will keep fighting, keep living, with some other poor bastard at his side who isn't you.

the thought hits you like a punch to the gut. fuck...

(you hope, when it happens, it's quick. you hope it's saving his stupid, reckless life. you hope he misses you, just a little.)

"homerun!" you crow as you look back at mark, pushing off the wall to deliver slow, sarcastic applause, trying to erase your negative thoughts. no need for allat when you're still alive and breathing, right? one of your gloves comes away sticky with someone else's blood. "ten outta ten for form, but i'm deducting points for lack of showmanship. where's the flair, grayson?"

"shut up," mark growls through gritted teeth, but the way his lips twitch betrays him. he chucks the ruined sign aside like trash before lunging for his next victim - some meathead who clearly skipped neck day. mark's fingers close around the guy's throat, lifting him clean off his feet until their faces are level. the thug's sneakers scrabble against empty air, his face blooming an impressive shade of eggplant as mark just... watches. his head tilts slightly, eyes dark with something between scientific curiosity and outright glee. it's the same look kids get when they poke dead things with sticks.

you whistle low through your teeth, nudging an unconscious goon with your toe. "y'know most heroes don't commit felonies on the daily. pretty sure throttling dudes counts as excessive force."

"we're not most heroes," mark snarls, finally dropping the gasping thug in a heap. he wipes his palms on his thighs, leaving smears of red across the blue fabric. "and i literally saw what you did to those guys back there," he jerks his chin toward the alley mouth where four bodies lay in increasingly creative positions, "so don't even start, hypocrite."

your grin stretches wide enough to hurt. he's got you there. while mark was playing fast and loose with the geneva suggestions, you'd been busy turning a switchblade into a modern art installation in someone's shoulder socket.

"touche, mohawk," you concede, flipping your bat in a lazy arc. "but in my defense?" the aluminum cracks against the skull of some sneaky bastard trying to flank mark. the guy folds like a lawn chair. "my felonies have panache."

mark's answering laugh is all teeth and no remorse. the sirens wailing in the distance mean it's time to bounce, but neither of you move just yet. not when there's still blood in the air and that electric hum of violence buzzing under your skin.

(and if your eyes linger on the way mark's chest heaves, on the wild light in his eyes - well. that's between you and the audience. you can't judge him, can you? perverts.)

luckily for the two of you, the universe apparently decided this shit-show wasn't over yet, with one final act left. with a running start, you plant one boot against the side of a overflowing dumpster and push off, tucking into a neat flip that would make any olympic gymnast weep with envy. you land in a crouch behind two meatheads who clearly skipped villain orientation day - their matching "we do crime" energy is almost cute in its patheticness.

the first guy telegraphs his punch like he's sending smoke signals. you catch his fist mid-swing, twisting his wrist in one fluid motion until the bone gives with an audible snap. his scream is high enough to shatter glass. "dude," you sigh, shaking your head as he crumples to his knees, "you gotta warm up first. this is just sad. i'm embarrassed for you."

his buddy takes this moment to make a terrible life choice, fumbling a glock from his waistband. the barrel wavers wildly as he tries to aim.

you blink. "oh, rude."

the gunshot cracks through the alley, but you're already moving - twisting sideways just enough that the bullet parts your hair like a fucked-up comb. before the echo even fades, your knife is airborne, burying itself to the hilt in the guy's shoulder with a meaty thunk. his shriek is music to your ears as the gun clatters to the pavement. you saunter over, planting a boot on his chest for leverage as you yank your blade free. "thanks for the target practice," you muse, wiping the blood on his shirt before he passes out. "tell your friends."

meanwhile, mark has apparently decided physics are optional. you turn just in time to see him grab some poor bastard by the belt and collar, muscles straining under his suit as he heaves - the guy goes sailing through the air like a ragdoll, crashing through a fruit stand in an explosion of splintered wood and flying oranges. before the first body even stops rolling, mark's already pivoted to grab another thug, launching him ass-first into a trash can with enough force to dent the metal. the clang echoes down the alley like a demented church bell.

"having fun?" you call, spinning your pistol around your finger before slotting a fresh magazine home with practiced ease. the click of it seating is downright pornographic.

"shut up," mark pants for the umpteenth time, but there's no heat behind it - just that breathless, unhinged laughter that makes your stomach do funny things. he grabs the last guy by his collar, hauling him up until they're nose-to-nose. for a heartbeat, they just stare at each other - then mark slams their foreheads together with a crunch that would make a butcher wince. the guy's nose practically explodes in a crimson spray, his eyes rolling back as he collapses in a boneless heap.

suddenly, it's quiet.

the aftermath looks like a tornado hit a butcher shop - bodies strewn about like broken dolls, glass glittering amidst pools of darkening blood, the distant wail of sirens growing steadily closer. mark's chest heaves with each breath, his knuckles split and dripping onto the pavement. his mohawk's gone full hedgehog mode, sticking up in every direction, and there's a smear of someone else's blood across his cheekbone that you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to lick off. weird. last you checked, you were a picky eater.

when he turns to look at you, his eyes are alive - pupils blown wide with adrenaline, that manic grin still tugging at his lips. it's terrifying. it's beautiful. it's so mark that your chest aches with it. so mark that you can literally feel the blood in your veins start to make its way down.

"so," you say, holstering your gun with a flourish, "same time tomorrow?"

mark scoffs, rolling his shoulders as he turns to leave. but he doesn't check if you're following - doesn't need to.

(you always do.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"i feel like i'm going crazy. like my brain's been stuffed with cotton and set on fire at the same time." you stare at the water-stained ceiling talking to no one in particular, fingers digging into your pillow hard enough to tear seams. the eyebags under your eyes have gotten so dark they look like bruises (at least now you and mark match, his from violence, yours from... whatever this is). your hair's a disheveled mess, strands sticking to your forehead after days of bedrotting and only wearing t-shirts and sweatpants. you need to do your laundry soon, you were about to run out of t-shirts and sweatpants from your closet. you can feel death crouched at the foot of your bed like a stray cat waiting to be let in. "i'm literally about to die and what do i do? play fucking martyr instead of just... just..." your voice cracks as you press the heels of your hands against your burning eyes.

this was supposed to be some noble gesture - giving mark a trial run at life without you. you'd dove into the plan half-delirious, imagining how he'd come pounding on your door by sundown, all wild-eyed and vibrating with barely-contained panic. he'd drag you out of bed by your ankle, that adorable angry crease between his brows as he yelled about how you can't just disappear for hours, how he'd torn the city apart looking for you, how maybe - just maybe - he'd been a little more brutal than usual with the criminals today because what if something had happened to you and -

except that's not what happened.

three days. seventy-two hours of radio silence. the notifications on your phone have tapered off to nothing. you keep checking it like a pathetic loser, thumb smearing fingerprints across the cracked screen as you scroll through increasingly distant messages:

sidehoe #1 🐈💨 2:43 AM

we both know you don't got other sidehoes, so why is there a number next to my nickname??

manwhore <3

why would i tell you who the others are? you'd just kill them anyway, so i gotta keep the huzz safe, you feel me?

and don't worry, marky, you'll always be number 1 in my heart <33

sidehoe #1 🐈💨 7:58 AM

oh shut up

8:02 AM

okay when i said shut up, i didn't mean literally

8:15 AM

you alive?

9:29 AM

you haven't watched the tiktoks i sent yet watch them or you're going to get it tonight

9:31 AM

when i said you're going to get it tonight i meant i'm going to grab you by the throat and glue your phone screen to your eyes or sexual intercourse don't even make fun of me for calling it that whichever one gets you to answer my fucking messages

8:16 PM

whatever

"it's like..." you rasp to the empty room, throat raw from disuse. "like when you stop texting your boyfriend first to see how long it takes him to notice you're gone. except you're the idiot who breaks after five minutes because the silence makes your chest hurt, while he's just... fine." you let your phone clatter to the floor, screen-up so you can watch it stay dark. "fuck. that doesn't even make sense. i fucking hate myself."

outside your window, the city keeps turning. somewhere out there, mark's probably elbow-deep in someone's ribcage, not even realizing there's a you-shaped hole in the world. the thought makes you laugh - a wet, broken sound that turns into a sob halfway through. you roll over and bury your face in the pillow that stopped smelling like him days ago.

(you always knew you'd die for him. you just never thought you'd have to watch him stop needing you first.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

that suffocating dread finally lifts one night - not because it's gone, but because you've grown too tired to carry it anymore. it had clung to your ribs like tar for days, weighing down every breath no matter how many shitty jokes you cracked or how many bad decisions you made. hiding in your room didn't help either, the walls pressing closer each day like they knew what was coming. part of you wondered if the danger was you all along, if you'd somehow become the villain in this story. but no - you know how this ends. you've always known. you'll die saving that reckless, mohawked idiot who still doesn't realize you're in love with him.

after your first proper shower in days (the water scalding your skin pink), you crack open another soda and watch the bubbles fizz against the can's rim. the carbonation burns your throat as you gulp it down, the sugar rush doing nothing to steady your hands as you strap on your gear. your suit smells like old blood and gunpowder when you shrug it on, the familiar weight of weapons settling against your thighs as you step out into the night.

you take your usual patrol route - yours and mark's route, the one where he always complains about stopping for hot dogs but eats three anyway. every shadow makes your pulse jump, half-hoping you won't see him, half-terrified this might be your last chance if you do. the city stretches below you, all glittering lights and oblivious crowds. it looks peaceful from up here. you almost feel peaceful after finally accepting that you only have a few pages left before your book ends. (liar.)

"but of course," you murmur to no one in particular, gloved fingers tightening around the rooftop's edge, "you've got different plans for me, right?" the wind doesn't answer. then -

a rush of air colder than the night itself. the scent of leather and that cheap citrus body wash mark refuses to stop using.

"where the fuck have you been?" his voice loud like a gunshot, raw with something between rage and devastation. you don't turn. can't. the city lights blur beneath you as you focus on keeping your breathing even. "i said," mark snarls, closer now, "where the fuck have you been, you stupid son of a bitch-"

"you've been doing fine without me." your mask hits the concrete with a dull thud when you pull it off. the smile you force feels like a death rattle. "see? proof you won't completely lose it when something does happen to me-"

"will you fucking quit that?" mark's boots scuff against concrete as he storms forward. when you finally turn, his face is a mess of anger and fear, eyes glassy under the moonlight. "you always - fuck - you always talk like you've got one foot in the grave. why do you keep talking like that? are you- " his breath hitches, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to shake you or hold you or both, "are you planning on killing yourself?"

the laugh that tears from your throat sounds alien even to you. "what? no, i'm not-"

"stop lying!" mark's shout echoes off the rooftops, his composure shattering as tears finally spill over. your chest caves in at the sight - mark never cries, not even when he's bleeding out in some alleyway. his hands find yours with desperate urgency, calloused fingers trembling as they squeeze yours hard enough to bruise. "just... stop. if you're hurting, tell me. am i - " his voice breaks, "am i really not someone you can trust with this?"

he drags your joined hands up, pressing your knuckles to his forehead like a prayer. his breath brushes your wrists as he leans into the contact, hot against your skin. when he speaks again, it's so quiet the wind almost steals it: "i might be a disaster, but i fucking care. so please... let me in."

the dam breaks.

"i'm sorry," the words spill out in a broken whisper, saltwater dripping off your chin as tears carve hot paths down your wind-chapped cheeks. "god, mark, i'm so fucking sorry."

your hands slip from his trembling grip, moving on instinct as you drag him into the tightest embrace your battered body can manage. one hand finds its way between his shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide over the familiar topography of his suit's fabric as you rub slow, grounding circles into the knotted muscles beneath. the other settles at the dip of his waist, thumb tracing absentminded patterns against the curve of his hip through the thin material - that same spot you've secretly ached to touch for years, now warm and solid under your palm.

his breathing hitches when you pull him closer, his forehead coming to rest heavily against your shoulder as his hands fist in the back of your jacket like you might vanish if he lets go. (and he's almost right.) the scent of his shampoo mixes with gunpowder and copper as you tuck your face into the mess of his mohawk, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear when you murmur another apology into the space between you.

but it wasn't enough to just whisper apologies into his skin, not when you still hadn't told him the crushing truth - that soon you'd be nothing more than another ghost haunting his memories.

his breath is warm against your neck as you hold him, his heartbeat thundering against your chest in a rhythm you've memorized through countless battles. you let your fingers card through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, smiling faintly when he shivers at the touch. "hey audience," you murmur silently against mark's shoulder, your voice barely a thought, "funny how i can take a bullet without flinching, but can't say three stupid little words to the guy who actually gives a shit if i live or die, huh?"

mark shifts in your arms, his calloused palm sliding up to cradle the back of your head like you're something precious. the moonlight paints silver and blue along the curve of his cheekbone when he tilts his face up, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your throat tight. you press your forehead to his instead, breathing him in - the citrus of his shampoo, the iron tang of blood from split knuckles, the unmistakable scent that's just mark. your thumb traces the arch of his cheekbone, wiping away tear tracks you pretend not to notice.

(you don't say i love you. but when his lips brush yours in something too soft to be a kiss and too tender to be an accident, you think maybe he knows anyway.)

OH MY GOD 4.5k WORDS??? THIS MIGHT BE THE LONGEST ONE-SHOT I'VE EVER WRITTEN, and honestly... i think i might have cooked with this one-

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

High School Reunions are never great. Mark fucked you over and you fucked his evil clones, which makes things a whole lot more awkward. Oh, and the death and cannibalism part. Doesn't matter though, none of it was meant to last. 

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

We playin' fast n' loose with canon. Wanna know what happened with Eve and Angstrom? Read da comic, baybe.

[Part one]  [Ao3] [20] [22]

21 *  The Asshole [9.9k]

"I never thought that I should start praying, 

I'd rather take a more murderous step."

Forensic Sweetheart - Go Hang

        Mark flew back, the lens over his left eye shattering with the force. Teeth vibrating in his mouth as his momentum slowed. He dodged Lensless's next lunge only because he had to be careful with you glued to his side. It wasn't that you were wiggling around- he actually liked that- but it made fighting clunky.

        Mark's fighting was slowed with thoughts of Eve. Stuck alone powerless with Angstrom after going through months of space-induced separation that put their relationship on the rocks- more than it had been following what the media joyously called The Invincible War. He really hoped some of those journalists had shitty home lives. 

       When Mark was home, which was rare, you were a constant point of contention between him and Eve. Despite being gone and presumed dead, she was still angry on your behalf. Forced Cecil to show her the tapes of you facing off with the Marks and Angstrom Levy. She admitted that what you said to that girl you killed was messed up but still- she didn't let Mark sway her opinion that what he did was shitty. 

        Despite his worry, he dodged Lensless. Punched Scars into a dune. Held his own because these last few months he'd been put through the ringer. It'd all been hell but it'd made him stronger, better. 

        Scars scowled as Mark blunted another blow. "You gonna fuck around all day or are we gonna kill him sometime soon?"

        Lensless took a stupidly long moment to realize Scars was talking to him. 

       "Oh! Sure, one sec!" He dropped out of the sky like a bullet and set you down on a dune. You were loopy with blood loss, from being in the sun, and from being flown around like some doll.

       Lensless knelt by your feet, trying to get you to look at him, "I'm gonna do something real quick and it's gonna hurt really, really bad but just know it's for your own good, okay?" He tilted his head like he was waiting for you to answer, god you hated this guy. He wrapped one hand  around your ankle, and rested the other on your thigh. "Can't have you running away and getting lost on me!"

        He barely had to move. 

        The pain was white hot, immediate. Your whole body jerked, which only made it worse. You let out a scream so curdling it made your throat taste blood-raw. You blinked through tears, the visual was no better. Your kneecap was awkwardly swerved to the side under the solider pants. 

        "I know." You could hardly hear Lenless's coo over your own screaming, the adrenaline rushing through your body, "I know, poor baby." 

        You tied hands reached for your knee to set it back in place. Your fingers barely brushed the fabric before a pulse of agony made your leg involuntarily twitch and your vision blur. You tried scrambling back, wanting to get away from him but you couldn't bend the knee. You were forced to move back on three limbs, dragging the fourth through the sand.

        Lensless watched you like you were an ant under a magnifying glass. A particularly loud, "Shithead," from Scars got his brain back into gear.

        "Oop! Gotta go!" You didn't see him move but you felt the second dislocation soon as he did it. You were left hunched over your thighs, crying into the gag. Both your knees swollen, caps facing in the wrong direction. You hardly hear his, "Love you, bye," as he took off. 

        The sun beat down your back. Air so hot and dry it evaporates the tears off your cheeks as fast as they come. The battle rages on, two on one, you can't tell who's winning. You have to sway it. Have to get the fuck away from them.

        You straightened, trying to best the pain thrumming through your legs. You wriggled your arms, trying to get the cloth to loosen but it doesn't budge. You attempt breaking it against your chest with no luck, somehow realizing despite your pain addled brain that there was no way you’d be able to break Viltrumite cloth. You settled for hooking your arms behind your head, pushing back against the restraints in an effort to dislodge them. You pushed. Scars caught Mark, holding him in place for Lensless's attack. You pushed. Mark is punched in the dick. You pushed. Mark is punted into the sand. 

        You feel the cloth shift, give. With some more pushing and wriggling, the bindings started to loosen. You're so relieved you let out a cry. Legs throbbing like they never had before. Misery pounding in every slight shift of your body. 

        You don't know how long you’d been sitting there, how long it’d been since Lensless dislocated both of your knees. The only thing you knew was that it was not looking good for Mark. He was getting shown just how much Scars and Lensless had gone through- how it'd made them stronger too.

        Blood flowed hotly back into your hands. Indents throb on your wrists but there was no time to admire them. You clawed at the gag and the thick lump of its knot tied at the base of your skull. Tracking who was who, who was where, while you dry swallowed nothing. Wondering if you'd be strong enough to kill them all. You hoped you were. 

       The gag fell into the sand. Stretched and bloodied. You pin it as hairdryer breeze comes. It's the last of Gray, you can't find it in yourself to let it go. You breathe in, gathering power. 

        "Hey!" Your throat stings. None of them pay you any mind. Too far, too engrossed in killing each other. "Hey!"

        Lensless turns, catches your eye, solidifying himself as the first victim.

        You know just what to do for him, "Break your legs!"

        He does it almost as fast as he did yours. Except instead of dislocating knees, he lifted up his shins one at a time, snapping them in the middle. The bone shot up and out of the skin. He winced through the haze of control yet went on to the other, broken in the same spot. He hovered, swaying in the air until the last dregs of control slipped away. To which he said, "You've got a mean sense of humor b-" 

         Mark knocked into him from behind. Sending him deep into the dunes. Scars isn't far behind him, arm raised, ready to lop his head from his shoulders. Mark dodges and despite Scars aggression, never goes for the kill. Only aiming to block and knock out while Scars slings taunts. 

        "You know- I thought you were the gay one at first."

        "The what?" 

        "Doesn't matter. Cuz I figured it out." He feinted left, Mark fell for it going right just to run into a kick that sent him into the dunes. Sending sand skyward and shaking the ground, making the hill you sat atop shift. You slip down the dune, unable to stop yourself slowly sliding closer to Mark. Laid in the sand, and Scars hovering over him. "You're that loser she's obsessed with." He laughed nastily, "Can't see why though." He leaned down, getting in Mark's freshly bloodied face. "You're pathetic." He reeled his foot back, ready to send it through the bottom of Mark's jaw.

        He'd lost. 

        "Wait!" You try lacing the words with power but it's like a lighter that won't spark. 

        Scars looked at you anyway, smirking. "You want the honors yourself?" You do, he can see it on your face. "Well, ya should'a thought about that before letting the others fuck y-"

        "Fly into space!" It's the first thing you can think of. Thankfully, it works, sending Scars up, up, and away. 

        Mark leans up onto his elbows, starting to hover over the sand. "What the fuck is going on?"

        You wiped the roll of blood coming down your lip. "Lord of The Flies bullshit. Get us the fuck out of here before he comes back." You look to the still dune where Lensless lay moaning in the sand. "Or he gets up. They'll kill you." 

        You didn't have to tell Mark twice. He regathered himself quickly before swooping toward you and scooping you up under the arms. If you were Eve, still his girlfriend, he'd hold you like a glass artifact. But you're not. You get the 'generic criminal about to be dropped in a cell' hold. Your legs dangle painfully as the dunes pass below. 

        "What happened to you?" Mark's breath wafted over your head, looking down at you, trying to be inconspicuous. You'd let Markus do the same thing, didn't mind but with him it was worse than a gas station creeper. 

        "Since when do you care?” You snapped as you pointed, "Go that way." 

        He follows your direction. "Where are we going?"

        "To the others."

        Mark's eyes took in the surroundings. Not an oasis in sight. He'd been here less than ten minutes and his back was already slick with sweat. "There's more of them?” He thought they'd all be dead. Was surprised to see two of them alive- more surprised to see you alive.

        "Guess you wouldn't know since you let me go alone." You say bitter.

        "Look (Y/n), I-"

        A hot wave of wind rushed by. Making you both wobble in the current. Gone soon as it came with Markus and Seb turning right around the second they realized they'd passed you by.

        Markus rushed in close. Assessing as he gets closer- he doesn't recognize this variant, not for a moment. Not until Mark looked at him and his mouth fell open. Memories pass between them. Their fight in Japan. Markus breaking Eve's leg. Mark being so scared for her, he thought he'd puke as he rushed her to help. Markus remembered watching him retreat, thinking what a coward he was. He dislikes him even more now, knowing what he'd let happen to you. He wants to wring his neck for holding you so carelessly. Mark wants to return the favor he gave to Eve. 

        They are frozen in the air, tension zapping between them.

        Seb breaks the silence, flying up over all over you. "The fuck's going on!?"

        Markus's voice was ice cold, "Give her to me." He doesn't know what's happening exactly but he can see you're hurt. Sees blood leaking down your chest, soaking your tank top. Can see the way Mark is treating you like a stray cat. He didn't deserve to live, let alone breathe your air.

        Mark shifted back a degree. Not knowing if this guy was still bad news. Confused, scared, almost getting his head bashed in left him suspicious of other people. "I don't think-"

        "Just do it, asshole." You say under him. Already reaching out for Markus. 

        Mark looked down at you, stunned. He knew you weren't on good terms but this was downright confusing. This guy got you trapped here. This guy murdered hundreds of thousands of people. 

       "No." He said, because this was all too crazy. "We're not doing that."

        "You gonna make him kick your ass for her, dude?" Seb said. "Gonna feel like a real hero when she gets fucked up in crossfire?" Markus wouldn't attack for that very reason but he let Mark believe he would. 

        Mark frowned. "You're really okay with this?"

        "Yeah." You snip, "He won't treat me like shit." You should be afraid of retaliation but you know he wouldn't drop you. He's too hero, too pussy. 

        Mark held you tentatively out. "If you say so." You were gone from his hold before he could finish.

        Markus readjusted you carefully in his arms, fully supporting your body instead of letting you dangle. Voice going soft as you hissed in pain, "I know, I'm sorry. We'll fix it when this is over. Just hold on."

        Watching himself be so gentle with you was a confusing sight. One Mark didn't have time to process because the situation hit you all at once. 

         You said, "We have to go to the hole Maskless found me in. Gray's still in there, he-"

        "We know." Markus said. "The others are searching for him now."

        You wondered how he knew but now wasn't the time for questions. "Then let's go!" 

          He didn't move. Goggled eyes set on you. Mark nervously checked around, still no sign of Scars or Lensless. Having no idea how hard you were fighting to keep Scars controlled. No idea how scared you were to see Lensless again. You knew you should've killed them but a selfish animal part of you wanted to do them all in long and painful. You didn't have the reserves left for that, so you settled for incapacitating in the moment.

        "No." Markus said, "You're hurt. We should get you back to camp." Seeing your inflamed knees made him want to kill.

        "No." You say, "I need to know if Gray's okay." Maybe it was the time spent building that shitty storage box, maybe it was him coming in your mouth, maybe it was his fucked up stories or how he looked at you or his stupid skirt- but you cared about him the tinniest bit now. Your grip tightened around the cloth.

        Markus's jaw hardened. Eyeing Mark and his bleeding nose and hunched posture. "That's the first place they'll look." 

        "Then we kill them there."  You say. You're not the only one who wanted them dead. Not the only person who deserved a slice of that cake.

        His brows furrowed at the idea. You could get hurt. But Markus knew you were the revenge-taking type. He knew you were only tolerating Mark's presence so long as danger was present. When it passed, that'd be a different story. He also couldn’t bring himself to say no to you and your tear-reddened eyes. 

       More than anything he wanted to kill the person, "Who hurt you?" He eyed your still bleeding neck, teeth marks sunken into your pink flesh.

       He had two guesses who, though he hoped you'd say Mark so he could hurt the fucker right here, right now. Kill him after he found out how he got here.

        "Look, this is touchin' n' all but are we gonna get movin?" Seb said, antsy staying still so long.

        Mark didn't care about that. He only cared about, "Seriously, what the fuck is happening?"

        Markus glared as he started to move again. Such an unnecessary use of vulgarity. So useless.

        "I already told you." You sneered. At least you were both on the same page.

        "Obviously we're going to help our bro, asshole." Seb dog-piled, not liking Mark and how he fought dirty, slinging Markus around by the cape when they first fought. Not liking the few times you talked about him- Seb was a tool, sure but Mark was a next level douche. 

        "Are we not worried about those guys back there? You said where we’re going is the first place they’ll check?” Mark looked behind him to find no tails.

        You bristled. "Maybe you're cool with abandoning people, but I'm not." 

        He had nothing to say to that, feeling like he was back at home with Eve. Mark kept his mouth shut the rest of the short flight. Stopping dead over the canyon of a cave in. Sand still slipped down the new incline to fill in the gaps. 

        Markus moved past him. Lost in thought. Thinking that; This is about to be it. This is the big brawl where we all team up then devolve into killing each other. I have to be ready. I have to be smart. I have to be the last one alive for her sake. 

        He's pulled out of his thoughts by Maskless bursting up from the sand. Holding Gray by the armpits. Sand shedding off both of them in sheets. Mohawk isn't far behind. Protecting Gray's guts the best he could by awkwardly hugging him around the middle.

        Mohawk came down to the cave as soon as he'd woken up in the black of space, horrified by the collapse and no you. He flew back to camp as fast as he could, told the others before rushing back to the cave. He dove into the wreckage, Maskless not far behind. They were expecting a body recovery mission, not a rescue. He'd been yelling at Gray when he found him, asking where you were but Gray wasn't there enough to respond, only bat his eyes and stare at them blankly. Maskless jumped in, started dragging him up. Gray winced as his gore got caught around a boulder. Empathy wasn't something Mohawk felt, not really. He killed for work and leisure like any other Viltrumite emperor would, but seeing his own face twisted in pain like that- made something inside him ache. Gray being gored kinda sorta was Mohawk’s fault and the guy didn't deserve to die. So he stuffed Gray back up the best he could because if he was going to kill himself- it wouldn't be some stupid accident. He was a man of purpose.

        Now he was in the sun. Realization that you were dead or worse deep in his bones, he had no idea where else you could be.

        You watched Mohawk's back as he talked with Maskless. The both of them trying to find the best way to keep Gray's insides inside. Mohawk was bleeding from the ears and flying like a newbie but he was fine. Whereas Gray has nearly gone gray with bloodloss. Head lolling back against Maskless's shoulder. Eyes fluttering under the harsh sun. The cave hadn't claimed another after all.

        "You're okay." Not really but still, alive was good. The scrap of cloth fell out of your hand. Who needs a token when you have the real thing, living in the flesh?

        Your voice made heads turn. 

        Mohawk was so lost in relief, he let Gray go. Let guts slip loose and be Maskless's problem while he rushed to you and Markus. 

       "You're okay!" He parroted before he stopped, seeing your knees, the indents in your wrists and cheeks, the bleeding wound in your shoulder. "Well-" He wanted to hug you but Markus didn't look in the mood to share. 

        "They're coming, we have to prepare.” Markus said. Mohawk knew in the pit of his stomach who they were. Knew they were the reason you looked so awful.

        "Good." He sneered, eyes flicking up and over to Seb as he said it. 

        "Yo, cape guy, you should like- give that to him." Seb pointed at Gray.

        "Good idea." Except Markus's hands were full. So were Maskless. Gray wasn't well-enough yet to fly on his own, especially this high up. The next best person he trusted with you was definitely not Seb so... He held you out to Mohawk, "Be gentle with her. Give her back if they show up."

        "I'm right here, you know."

        "I know, my love."

        Mark made a sound, not of disgust, just pure shock. All of these versions of himself were too much. The cherry on top was the guy dressed like Dad of all people calling you his love. Mohawk noticed him then. Eyes went cat-in-the-dark wide. 

        "You." His muscles rolled under his suit. Every fiber of his being told him to kill because he recognized him as the same guy that turned you into an ice queen. Suppose he should thank Mark for not churning out a goody-two-shoes but still- man's gotta defend his girl's honor or whatever. "I'm gonna-"

        "Mark." Markus snapped. They both looked at him. Markus still held you out to Mohawk. The only one of the two he thought worthy of that name. 

        Mohawk's hackles fell. He gave Mark one last nasty sneer before rushing to Markus, hooking his arms under Markus' for an even handoff. 

         "Come'ere." He said pulling you into his chest. "Mark's got'cha."

        That name said above this place, around that man, after the last time you'd moaned it, stung. You try not to let it show in the cringe you make.

        "Talking in third person now, are ya?" You scanned the horizon but saw nothing. Your connection on Scars had gone loose in the flight. You were so preoccupied with the pain you couldn't pinpoint the exact moment of his escape. That meant he was coming, and soon.

        "Picked it up in the few minutes I went batshit crazy thinkin' you were dead." Mohawk tried to smile but couldn't. His grip on you firm but careful not to bruise. He almost lost you again. Let you be taken, hurt. 

        You sense the brooding boiling under his surface. "Takes a lot more than that to kill me."

        Mohawk has nothing to say for once because he knows you're wrong. Can remember the feel of your guts in his fingers. Saying it out loud felt like a bad omen.

        Mark watched you two, thinking of Eve. Thinking of what you'd tried to do to him. Wondering how any version of him could treat you with such reverence past the age of seventeen.

        The desert is still while Markus approached Gray, tearing off his cape at the neck. 

        "This will be uncomfortable." He said as he started to wrap the cape around Gray's torso. Gray nodded, lips pressed together as him and Maskless maneuvered him. 

        Maybe, Markus thought to himself as he wound the red cloth, maybe this isn't the big brawl where we kill each other. Because they were working together, surviving together. They were more than strangers now, the lot of them. Except Gray was the only person, besides you, Markus thought was worth letting live. The others could live a little longer, help keep you alive until all they were good for was meat. 

        In the end, Gray was wrapped up tighter than a birthday present. Guts not where they were quite supposed to be inside him, but at least they were inside him. Alone in the dark where they could work with the agent fourteen you'd given him. It worked quick. Sealed the blood vessels, stopped a lot of the flow. You'd saved his life.

        "Thank you, my friend," Gray says.

        Markus nodded. "Anytime."   

        ***

        His head rose, fell, rose, fell. Sleep a heavy chain shackled to his ankle, always dragging him down. He's been fighting a loosing battle these past few hours to stay awake. If Phantom could just hold onto consciousness long enough, he could save you from those animals.

        It's in one of these moments he's awake- struggling to stay so-  he heard it, even from his prison. The hurried yelling of his own voice (before Dad beat it out of him) telling the others something had happened. At first, he could not surmise as to what had gone down. Mohawk's words were blurred by distance and how fast he was talking. His head dipped, consciousness going under as it so often did- his body and mind low on energy. 

        Then he heard "(Y/n)," followed by "attacked," and all the wounded sleepiness was torn from his body. He heard them leave, blasting off in two groups in different directions. He couldn't know which direction would lead to you. Before he could follow anyone, he had to get up and out of this scorching rock.

        Phantom hadn't risen on his own in weeks (before Mohawk defiled you in front of him), always being dragged or carried or thrown. He floated up, the feeling familiar but off. His balance wobbling, He leaned hard to one side, his limbed side, which felt so much heavier than his other. Though the limbs were gone, he felt the ghosts of them, throwing themselves out for balance. 

        He made his way out of the rock and into the scorching sun. The others hadn't bothered to tie him down. They knew he wouldn't leave, so long as he got the chance to see you. They assumed he wouldn't pull anything, that he'd roll over and die but that was never the plan.

        His plan was tucked secure inside the waistbelt he still wore. Most of the contents ignored, taken, or destroyed by Scars and Lensless. Luckily, they thought the ringer wasn't of note. They let him keep it. But he’d been tied down with layers upon layers bent rebar when he was well enough to function but still weak with beatings. When they released him, his arm was already gone, torn from the bone, too delirious with pain. From that point on he was either tortured or unconscious when they were around- but no he'd been biding time in his waking moments, thinking of when would be best to use it again, thinking of how he'd take you away. 

        He thought of it often when he was being carved up for fresh meat. Thought of it as he heard the distress signal beeping inside his cast aside mask- knowing for days something had gone horribly wrong. The beeping went on until Scars got annoyed by the noise and crushed the lenses of his mask. He heard it in waking nightmares. Heard it now under the perpetual summer sun.

        He was flying low and as terrible as a baby bird. Wondering where you were. Wondering if he could find you in time. Wondering if-

        They flew by fast and into the distance. Two dots moving so quick they kicked up a vicious dust storm behind them. 

        Dread hit him in the gut at the sight of them, even from so far, knowing they hadn't seen him. Dread because he knew that they knew where you were, and they were going to beat him there. Phantom sped up much as he could. Flying often into dunes, only to drag himself back up, fighting pain and the carnal pull of unconsciousness. He stayed awake and mostly upright for you.

        ***

        Everyone but you can hear them coming, a collective rigidity passed through the group. And though Mohawk doesn't want to let you go, he knows you're better off in Markus's hands- who he shoves you into. He'd failed to protect you once. He promised he wouldn't fail again. 

        Markus moved both you and Gray down and away. He set you down while letting Gray hover weakly out of his hold. Gray was pale, shivering but he stayed upright, hovering inches over the ground. Neither of them left your side, your own personal sentries. 

        "Are you sure you can fight?" Markus said, watching the sandstorm grow closer.

        Gray rose his fists, knuckles cracking. "I can defend."

        Markus nodded to himself, "Good man."

        The others weren't so team oriented. Scattered far from each other, waiting for the fight as individuals. The perfect opening that Scars and Lensless were hoping for. In the weeks they'd spent alone together, they'd passed topic after topic together. Mostly violent ones. Neither of them willing to show their belly to the other. They talked how they'd kill the others if they ever saw them again. What they'd do to who and how. They only lost because they hadn't had a plan for that pussy, hadn't considered that you'd escape. They wouldn't lose this time. Talked shop while they flew, absolutely sure that you'd be back here trying to dig up that useless loser. 

        Lo and behold, you were. You all were. 

        Fine by them. Six birds, two stones. Seven if they counted Phantom but they didn't, they were sure he was dead by now or maybe an apparition after all. 

        They were nearly attached at the hip as they came close, splitting apart at the last second. Attention followed one or the other, distracting the group from the sandstorm before it came down. A wall of tan darkness that got into mouths and dug into eyes. 

        Shouts echoed through the storm. You covered your face in your hands. Heart thrumming, terrified they'd get at you again, that you wouldn't have the power to fend them off. 

        "We're right here," Markus said, still beside you. Through the protection of his lenses, he saw Gray still in place. Wounded and weak, but determined to stay by your side. For that, he respected him more than he already did.

        They waited for attack to come but it never did.

        Everyone waited in their collective pockets of blindness. Quiet. 

        Seb was never one for watching and waiting. "Where are they!?" He spun his head this way and that. Searching. His mask fluttering hard against his face. Lenses thankfully blocking out most of the sand. 

        His only warning was the snap of Scars' cape behind him before his fists came down. In their time together making plans that'd likely never come to fruition, Scars and Lensless also occupied themselves by voting who was the weakest link. There was much debate on who would be the biggest problem but it was nearly unanimous who they thought the weakest- still living that is. Seb was at the top of that list.

       So it was no surprise to Scars that Seb folded like paper over his knee. Or that he was planning to run, as Lensless smacked him down as soon as he shot into the air. Seb hurdled to the ground unable to stop himself from being punted up again by Scars. Lensless cackled, raising up his arms to shoot him back down. He was more of a kicking kind of guy but you'd erased that possibility. God, if he thought about it too much he'd be hard all over again. Fighting with a boner was great and all, but awfully inconvenient.

        Seb tried stopping himself but the momentum Scars punched into him was too much. How was the starving freak still stronger than him- he didn't understand. Worse, he was going to die without fucking you again. Lame.

        Lensless grinned, balled hands over head, ready for impact. 

        "No," a shout made him turn his head just in time to see Maskless burst up from below, "you don't!" 

        Lensless was fast but not gay-fast. Maskless had him by the broken shins, shooting new pain up his legs. He screamed in delight as Maskless tossed him to the sandy wind. Seb finally spun to a stop. Seeing Scars coming for him, completely ignoring Maskless who was waiting for a fight. 

        Maskless tore after Scar's yellow-flapping tail. Not one to wait for things to happen, Seb surged forward, fist raised. He caught Maskless's eye as him and Scars grew closer. A plan passed between them. 

        Scars was on him now, reeling back a gut-punch. Seb threw his fist forward the same moment Maskless did. Their fists shoved into the front and back of his head so hard it made Scars go still. 

      Seb laughed, "That's it?" Because honestly, how could a guy that weak have him on the ropes?

        Scars started to move. Chest hitching with growing laughter. Seb rolled his fist back to find Scars staring at him. Both lenses smashed out now but not a drop of blood squeezed out of him from their joint attack. "What the fuck?"

        "Guess we were wrong about you." Scars sounded like he was congratulating Seb but Seb didn't know what for. Scars spun around lightning-fast to drive a fist into Maskless's solar plexus, "you're the weakest!" The impact sent him spiraling back into the hazy air. Scars shot off, leaving Seb spinning in his tail wind. Dizzy and confused by the time he stopped. Looking for where he'd gone but only seeing dust. 

        Maskless hit the ground only to bounce back up, ready to fight, though his eyes burned. Scars came out of the dust swinging. Sent him back into the sand, fists pummeling, not letting up. Part of him wondered where Lensless was, part of him didn't care.

        Lensless was entangled in a new fight with Mohawk who'd followed his shadow as it was thrown. Mohawk growled as he missed another grab, "Stop running!"

        Lensless cackled, behind him now, "But it's so fun!"        

        Mohawk spun, fist out, only to punch the air. A fingerless glove tapped his shoulder. He spun around into a headbutt.

        Markus watched the chaos through dark lenses. Able to make out silhouettes but no more detail than that. He heard every impact of fist, every pained grunt as Maskless and Scars pummeled each other into the dunes. He moved not a muscle to help. His station was here, by your side with Gray standing guard. Doing the very same thing he shamed Mark for except he had no world to defend. Only you.

        Sand burned at your raw skin. Your ears strained to hear who was where, but you had no idea. Giving orders without knowing who to direct them to was a dangerous business. You didn't know if it'd help or hurt. So you waited for the sand to subside or be given any clear obvious sign to attack but none presented itself. 

        Maskless remembered the taste of blood being forced to the back of his throat. Cartilage shoved flat into his face. Tears unwillingly streaming. But they weren't Maskless's. 

        He'd turned the fight around. The punch he threw with Seb only weak because of the awkward angle. Maskless took Scars punches like an MMA champ. Lord knows his own father hit him enough, hit him harder. He still wasn't strong as dad, never would be but still- the sun reflected through the sandstorm, turning yellow to red. He saw his Dad beneath him. Cape and all as the fists came down. One after the other.

He thought he'd become stronger since that bloody, awful day but Dad always managed to prove him wrong. 

        Dad tried and fails to blunt the attack. Maskless feels the stasifying crunch of something breaking in his face. This must've been how Dad had felt. Vicious in such a strange way. Still, he didn't stop. Thinking of what he said all those years ago on the bloody, awful day, "I'm gonna stop you. I'm gonna make you pay." 

        Dad made him eat those words and his own teeth as they were knocked to the back of his throat. He was forced to stand in his cape-flapping shadow. Forced to listen to the man who killed his boyfriend. Now he was the one on top, the one winning, finally taking the revenge William deserved.

        Dad blindly threw a punch, tried to dislodge Maskless from straddling his waist. Maskless didn't budge. Feeling a teenage smugness in his power. He thought he should end it. Kill the fucker. Let William finally rest in peace. Death came for Scars in a fist flying for his face.

        Death never came. "Stop!" 

        A vice grip stopped his fist at the last second. Maskelss looked up to find a better, more just version of himself defending Dad of all people.

        "You're gonna kill him!" Mark knew he was stating the obvious, but the obvious was a safe option when in a stuation this stupid and insane and implausible. 

        Dad was hurt enough, Maskless could delay his death a minute. 

        "That's the-"  Maskless pulled his fists in, reeling Mark close for a headbutt, "-point!"

        Mark fell back, stopping himself a few feet away. Maskless glared, still sat atop a seemingly unconscious Scars. Mark spoke, hoping to make Maskless back down. "You don't have to do this." He just wanted to go home. Just wanted to rest in Eve's soft, sweet arms even if they were in a bad place. He needed her, not this insanity.

        Maskless blinked sand out his eyes, and saw Scars for what he really was. Then he looked at Mark through the storm's haze and saw a pig-bellied loser who whined at the sight of violence. He regretted a whole lot of things in life, but he didn't regret who he had become- Maskless wasn’t weak and obnoxiously moral, unwilling to do what needed to be done. Obviously holding back despite the situation. He was better than that. 

        He was so stunned by Mark's words he neglected the danger that was waking below him. 

       "(Y/n) was right." Maskless sneered, "You are a pussy."

        Mark ogled at him, mouth open. So thrown off he didn't think to move when he saws Scars shift.

        When the fist came through Maskless's chest, it glistened red just like Dad's gloves. Maskless looked down, meeting Scars eye, crinkled with delight. His jaw worked but no sound came out. He took some solace, knowing at least Dad hadn't killed him. Sucks he didn't get to avenge William but he'd always been forgiving. He'd just hug Mark and rub his back and tell him he tried his best and that's what mattered. It didn't, not really, humanity was fucked because he was weak but he'd melt into William anyway. Except he knew he wouldn't. He knew William was with the angels and he could feel the ground opening up hotly under his knees.

        Scars pulled his bloodied hand back. Maskless fell forward. Scars dislodged himself quickly, letting Maskless fall onto his face without a sound. Exposed heart beating out thick spurts of blood into the sand. Slower and slower until the pumps were twitches and the twitches were stillness. 

       "Thanks for the assist." Scars said. 

        Seb heard it, didn't see it, but he felt the shift in the air. He found them standing yards apart. Mark doing nothing. Scars with a bloody arm. His friend dead in the sand. Red blooming on his back, the same shade as Rex's shitty old band tee-shirts. He saw Rex lying there instead of Maskless for a moment, impaled on a pink spike of solid air. Gasping as his left lung collapsed. That ginger bitch got away. Rex bled out in his arms saying something Seb had never repeated. He'd been thinking of talking to Maskless, maybe you too, about it these past few weeks. Finally opening up to someone who could really understand and now he was dead and Mark was doing nothing. 

        "You let it happen." He said. 

        Mark turned his head, still taking no action as Scars stuck bloodied fingers into his mouth and sucked. "No, I just-"

        Seb's voice cracked when he spat, "Fuck you, asshole," as he lunged for Scars. 

        He didn't make it. Smashed into the sand by Lensless hopping on his back. Mohawk lost him, spinning around in the sand, screaming, "Fight me, pussy!” into the wind.

        Scars converged on Seb. Stomach growling, thinking of the flesh feast he'd have tonight. Mark finally moved, screaming, "Stop!" Nobody did. He threw Lensless off Seb, went to grab Scars,"I said-"

        "Stop!"

        Phantom was close now. At the end of the lifting storm. Close enough to hear your command and freeze up. He barely stayed upright in your hold but at least he knew it wasn't too late. He waited for the control to pass.

       Blood shot out both your nostrils in a near pressurized blast. You hunched forward, groaning, but holding on for dear life. You had no idea what was going on but it sounded bad- like your friend was in trouble bad. 

        Your hold didn't stay long. It was weak with pain and overuse but it was a new record. 

        Scars broke free first, accustomed to your powers being used on him in self-defense. He should've re-gagged you first but he always had been over exciteable in a fight. 

       "Don't think I forgot about you!" He licked his lips, tasting your fear as he hurdled closer, closer, clos-

        He was smacked down into the sand, "Stay away from my wife."

        Scars recovered fast. Happy to see Lensless hopping on Markus. The man was an idiot but one that followed him like a lost puppy. In another life, they would've made good friends and a better team. Here, they were wolves in the same small pack. 

        Scars leapt for you. Face pounding and bleeding. There was something so satisfying about shoving his hand through Maskless's chest that he wanted to do it again. This fight seemed climatic enough, like the last of something. He knew he was either going to die or come out on top. If he was going to die, he wanted to take you with him- to be the one to kill you this time. And if he lived? He'd do what he did to your body the first time- eat it. Force you to be part of him forever in a sort of flesh marriage. In a way, he was more married to you than Markus was. 

          Lensless's fingers slipped under Markus's mask, shoving thumbs into his eyes. Blinding him from the incoming danger heading your way, saying, "Let's match!"

        Markus flung him off his back only to see Scars nearly on top of you. He was fast but Gray was closer. Catching Scars reaching hand, stopping his momentum outright. Scars snarled, "You should be dead."

        "So should you." Gray did it again, the dishonorable knee to the balls that had Scars crumpling. He reeled his leg back, feeling his gore shifting under the cape before he kicked forward. Launching Scars backward. He would've killed him if he hadn't felt so weak, so stupid with panic from earlier. He looked back at you to make sure, "You're okay?"

        You stare up at him with wide, terrified eyes, "I think so." You saw it on Scars face. He was honest to God trying to kill you. Gray just saved your life, no bones about it. Him and Markus stay put beside you, scared if they're not within ten feet from you, one of those freaks would actually get to you. 

        Lensless rushed for the three of you but was sniped to the ground by Mohawk. The two of them landed in a dusty tussle. Lensless laughing all the way, sand digging into his exposed flesh and bone. 

        Mohawk snarled, punching him in the mouth, "Stop being so happy while I'm trying to kill you!"

        "No!" Lensless laughed.

        Scars rushed down, ready to put a hole in Mohawk and keep his one ally alive. A blue-yellow blur tackled him from the side, pistoned punches to his face fast as Seb could. "Still think I'm weak!?" 

        Scars laughed in Seb's face. "No shit!" His arm came up, ready to pierce. 

        Seb wasn't fast enough but Mark was, grabbing him and getting him out of the way before another person died on his watch. He was nowhere near far enough away as he'd like from Scars when Seb shoved him off. "I don't need your help, asshole."

        "I just saved your life!" 

        "Yeah," Seb looked down, the dust was no longer a wall but specs floating in the sun. He saw all the exposed broken ribs Scars broke inside his friend. "But not his."

        "I'm sorry?" Mark was but a part of him said not to be. That version of himself flattened cities. Killed thousands. He didn't deserve his grief, yet here he was, feeling awful just the same.

        Seb sneered at him. "You think that fixes shit?" He flew down before Mark could respond.

        Scars threw Mohawk off Lensless's bloodied face. Lensless was left behind as the two of them locked in a brawl that sprawled through the dunes. Lensless followed for backup but Seb threw himself onto his back. Two separate prize fights unfolded in the air. 

        You watched from below, lips hot with blood. "You gotta help them." You say to your guards.        

        "No." Gray grunted, feeling his insides shifting and slithering wrongly with every little twitch of muscle. He needed to lay down, recover, but he wouldn't give into need like some human-raised piglet.

        You watched as Mark inserted himself between Mohawk and Scars. "Stop! This isn't helping!"

        "Neither are you." Mohawk moved around him and cracked Scars head to the side with a punch. He went in for another but Mark grabbed his wrist.

        "Listen to me! I think I know how to get out of here. I can help you, just work with me!" Angstrom was intent on revenge. Angstrom would bring him back to his own universe just to gloat that he'd killed Eve. Mark felt like he was going to vomit at the thought.

        "Been there." Mohawk ripped his arm back only to shove his forearm in Mark's throat, sending him gasping backwards, "Done that!" Mohawk had lost all hope for escape. To him, everything out of Mark's mouth was hot gas.

        Mohawk was back on Scars. Without his lackey to give support, they were almost evenly matched- Mohawk just edging him out. Fine by him. He'd be disappointed if Scars talked all that game and had nothing to back it up with. They went pummeling each other back and forth until they were both sweaty, blood pouring from blunt-force cuts in their heads, rolling in the sand, scratching and biting at each other. Mohawk ended up on top. Standing over Scars, kicking and stomping at it. Enjoying the darkening of his boots with every blow.

        Mark was stuck between stopping that murder and the next. Lensless doing something similar to Seb, except he was playing with him. Letting Seb get some space between them just to invade it again. 

        You turn to Markus, pointing at Seb. "Help him." Markus stayed put. You say again, remnants of power mucking the side of your throat. "Help him!" Your vision blurred.

         Markus didn't budge, "You know you can't control me." You turn to Gray but reconsider. What if you sent him to his death? 

        You look up to Mark, yelling, "Help him!" Again the lighter won't catch. Your head pounds.

        He doesn't know which him. Can't tell who's the least evil and most reasonable. He figured probably the guy almost getting murdered twice in a row. Actually, about to be murdered. Mohawk was just about done playing with his food. It was high time he bashed Scars face in.

        Mark grabbed his arms again. "No!"

        Your voice shocked him into stillness, "Let him." 

        Mohawk watched you a moment. Eyes set hatefully on Mark who was slipping fast out of your weakening grip. "And when he's done? I'm siccing him on you next." God, Mohawk loved you. Mark didn't know what to say. Hadn't you wanted him to save this guy?

        "Don't," Markus said, "We need to know how he got here."

        You threw your arms out. "You see any obvious portals around? You see any rescue coming? He was dumped here to die like the rest of us!" Your eyes meet Mohawk's, "Kill him, save Seb, then kill Mark for me, yeah?"

        "Could go without that guy." Mohawk said, watching Seb zip out of Lenless's claws just to be caught again. He was a weakling, he should take his time with Scars and let Seb get killed. Plus, that was one less set of hungry eyes on you. 

        "I'll suck your dick." You don't care who hears. You just don't want another person you care about dead.

        He chuckles before giving you the obligatory, "Yes ma'am!" Mohawk tore his hands free and shot his knuckles forward. Kill shot coming hot for Scars teeth.

        He intended to do it, really he did- but that noise made him go steel-beam straight one moment, collapsing with his hands uselessly clawing over his ears the next. The sound pierced through his body, rattled his bones, especially those small specialized ones so important to Viltrumite ears. 

        They went down like flies. Leaving you the only one partially upright. You and the man cresting over the dune. Barely upright himself. The thing about being tortured and eaten alive, it hardens a person. There was nothing worse than feeling the muscles being pulled off your own living bone. Feeling your tendons slowly being pulled from your insides. The ringer blaring in his hand made him ache, but it was nowhere near as bad as everything else. He couldn't ignore it completely, no, his flight was even more unbalanced than before but he could still move unlike the others. All twitching and screaming, too weak and crazed to fight the sound off.

        "(Y/n)." Blue eyes mist when they spot you sat there so perfect. Knees swollen under your pants and strangely you're not getting up to run. He knows you're hurt but also knew this was a good thing for him. Makes everything that much easier. He gets faster the closer to you he gets, like you're both magnets. "You're here... You're okay... You're-" You almost don't hear him over the noise. Near deafening by the time he's feet away. 

        You spit out power, "Turn that off. Get away from me." But there's nothing left. You scramble backwards into Gray's fallen body. "Get up!" You tell him in a desperate panic but you know he can't. You pull out the only defense you have, the taser from so long ago. You let the prongs fly free and connect with his chest but just like that first night, it does nothing.

        Phantom reaches out for you, smiling soft. 

        Green light falls over you. Both your heads turn to a familiar portal. Neon and pulsing. You never thought you'd see one again. Never thought-

        Phantom doesn't think. Just grabs you hard and rips through the portal with all his remaining strength. You're useless against him. Feeling the portal envelop you with warping light. Watching as the others' heads raise, faces distorting and then you are gone.

        The awful screeching stopped as soon as Phantom went through the portal. The Mark's that can rise, do, not believing their eyes. Markus wasted no time. Grabbing Gray, the only person worth saving and shot for the portal. Mohawk on his tail. Lensless went for Scars bloodied in the sand, on Mohawk's heels, dragging his only friend along. Mark rushed after them, only stopping to grab Seb, groaning bloody in the sand. He wouldn't leave someone behind, he thought as he looked back on the desert, dunes stretching endless to the horizon.

        Maskless didn't move as the portal closed. Meat already cooking under the sun.

        ***

        You collapsed onto the ground, gasping as you recognize Mark's living room. The gasp ending in a whimper as something inside you was squeezed too tight in Phantom's excited hold. Something that made every breath ache, made your insides pulse. Phantom was laid on top of you, heaving with exhaustion, making the pain worse. The screeching stopped, device shorting out as it crossed dimensions a second time. Both of your bodies warmed by the now-gone sun. You lifted your head to find the bay window. It was dark outside. Across the street you could see the neighbors lights, above that you see stars. You could cry.

        But you don't.

        Angstrom Levy stood over you. Eve Wilkins by his side, looking at you like you were an alien. She bent down, rolling Phantom off of you, much to your ribs relief. She winced at his state but goes to help you up, holding out her hands.

        You don't take her hands, legs useless behind you, propped painfully up on your elbows. Blood pulsing hot from your neck. All you can do is scowl at her sweet, concerned smile. She who took your place in Mark's life. She who got to be a hero and good person while you were never given the opportunity.

        You slapped her freshly manicured hands away. You hated how pretty she was. Hated how her skin was aglow with health and wasn't blistered and peeling from sun damage. "Don’t fucking touch me."

        Her face fell. She looked sad. You were so much different than she was expecting. Wrecked, angry, ruined. If only she could've found you years ago, maybe things would be different. 

        The open portal warbled as Markus and Gray came through. Markus took quick stock of the situation. The traitor Angstrom, the hero girl he killed months ago, Phantom half-conscious, a familiar living room, you laying in its center. He tossed Gray to the couch and converged on Angstrom, hand shooting out. A swarm of drones held him back. 

        "I surrender!" Was the last thing Markus thought he'd hear. 

        But he didn't care, needed to get control of the situation. "You-"

        Mohawk shot out of the portal, slamming Angstrom into the wall. The plaster wall cracked behind the man. "You backstabbing fuck! You left us there to die!"

        Mohawk's head was jumbled like everyone else's. All he wanted to do was hurt Angstrom for stranding him. Stranding you. You all could've died out there. Hell, you'd come close so many times, all because Angstrom was a coward. For that, he'd die.

        Markus slapped at the drones, "If you kill him, we can't get back to our dimensions."

        He was infuriatingly right. Still. Mohawk gave Angstrom a well-earned gut shot that made him double forward and heave. A small swarm of drones pushed him back toward Markus toward the portal. Animal panic thrummed in his blood at being back there- alone, without you. But Angstrom doesn't push him through. He holds the portal firm, wiping blood off his lip as Lensless drags Scars through. He unceremoniously dropped his ally to the floor and lunged for Angstrom. There weren't enough drones left to hold him back. One fist screwed into Angstrom's cheek, the other jabbed at his engorged brain. 

        "Stop!" Eve shrieked, "Stop! He surrenders!"

         Surprisingly, Lensless paused. Eyeing her suspiciously. "Haven't I killed you before?" He went right back to beating Angstrom. On one hand, Angstrom betrayed him, on the other, Lensless hadn't had nearly enough bloodshed. Hadn't properly gotten started.

        He was pried off Angstrom by Mark. The last through the portal, Seb slung onto his back. Mark tossed Lensless aside into the drone wall. Let Seb slide down onto the floor, groaning and half-conscious. Squaring nose to nose with Angstrom. “You surrender?"

        "Yes." Angstrom heaved, looking from Mark to Mark trying to catch their eyes and make his conviction known. "I see it now. I... I've done you and this dimension a great wrong." Mark sneered. Knuckles cracking but making no move to strike. "I was bombarded with lifetimes of memories. In so many universes, you are dangerous, ruthless, evil- it says something about your nature. It should concern you."

        Lensless tried to fly forward, yelling, "I am!" Markus held him back by the ankle. Only hearing out Angstrom's blabbering because he had an idea where this might be going.

        "But I know now you're not one of them." Angstrom's eyes flickered to the portal. "Still. No one deserves to be out there. Where are the others?"

        "Dead." You said from the floor. The drones parted slightly so he could see your face. You, just a regular human caught in the middle of this. So normal in so many dimensions. The others here deserved a little suffering, sure, but you? At his silence you spit, "We ate them, motherfucker." Jesus, what had he done?

        "I'm..." He blinked back tears. He'd strayed so far from his righteous path. Ruined things. "I know it counts for nothing, but I'm sorry." He looked back to Mark, "I accept whatever punishment I've earned and..." He held out his hand. Mark flinched back but no mouth of green opened beneath his feet. The door to the desert closed and another reopened. "Number One, it's only fitting you return to your world first." 

        Mohawk bristled.

        He thought he could look sad and that'd fix things? He thought he could walk back all those promises of other dimensions for him to conquer? Send him back with nothing?  No. No, Mohawk didn't think so. He swooped down, grabbed you first then moved fast, shattering the drones, grabbing the other person that deserved to suffer more than Angstrom Levy. Mark Grayson. It was his stupid ass that started this in the first place. Him who ruined your life, who made you so resistant to Mohawk. He'd suffer for everything. 

        He rushed through the portal, not thinking entirely straight. Knowing as soon as he passed through, he should've grabbed Angstrom Levy but the deed was done. He was over inter-dimensional takeover. He just wanted you and the chance to bond over torturing Mark to death.

        Angstrom was so shocked that he didn't immediately shut the portal. Eve turned on him, "Get him back!" 

        Phantom half-crawled, half-wormed his way to the portal. Slowly disappearing into the green. A dog after your scent. 

        Gray and Markus shared a look. Then they were going through the portal together. Lensless left forgotten on the floor.         Angstrom wasn't fast enough to close the portal, to stop what was happening. Lensless grabbed him by the cape in one hand, holding up Scars pulpy face in the other. He rushed for the portal. Seb only managed to grab onto his boot in the nick of time, because no way in hell was he going to be stranded here. As soon as Angstrom was through the portal, it collapsed in on itself. Leaving Eve alone with a horde of drones.

[elliespassagerprincess]

Owens gaydar is so bad lmao thats a fay woman ✂️

Can you please make a abby x reader where abby and owen are dating and abby meets reader and just gets consumed by her presence (thinks about her in her sleep, stares at her all the time in and out of patrols, only gets turned on while thinking of her) and reader has no idea until they are on patrol (her, owen and reader) and abby just lets it all out and they bang while hes sleeping 🧍🏻‍♀️

Unspoken Tension - abby anderson x reader

hi anon!! i kid you not the first time i played tlou i thought abby was gay. That weird ass sex scene of her and own confirms it lmao. I hope you enjoy:)))

pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader

requests are open!! send me your thoughts and ideas:)

warnings: NSFW/Explicit sexual content 18+, semi-public sex, cheating, slight dubcon elements (due to secrecy, not coercion), mild voyeurism implication, emotional repression

summary: It should’ve stopped at glances, silent yearnings, stolen smiles. But it doesn't. Not when you keep smiling at her like that. Not when her body aches for you in the middle of the night.

masterlist

Abby doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it was the first time you tied your hair back in front of her, or when you offered her half your rations on a supply run like it was nothing. Or maybe it was the way your laugh cracked through the tension of a long patrol, the kind of sound that made something in Abby’s chest ache.

All she knows is that it’s undeniable now.

She’s dating Owen. She knows she is. Knows the kind of love they had once, maybe still could have—but none of it compares to the chaos you plant in her chest just by existing. You, with your calm voice. Your smart mouth. The way you looked at her once when you didn’t know she was watching.

Now she watches all the time.

Abby lies awake in bed. Owen's breathing is deep, even. His hand is on her hip, but her mind is somewhere else entirely. She bites the inside of her cheek as her hand slips under the waistband of her pants, silent and guilty.

She thinks about you.

Your laugh. The way your eyes drop to her lips sometimes. The curve of your body under that shitty WLF-issued shirt.

She comes hard, biting the inside of her wrist. And she feels empty after. Not satisfied. Just aching.

She knows this is wrong.

but she couldn't stop.

You, Abby, and Owen get assigned a two-day patrol outside the gates. Usual recon. Sleep in shifts. Cold nights, canned food, and one too many miles. Abby volunteers for night watch. She always does.

But this time? You offer to stay up with her.

You sit close around the fire. Close enough that your knees touch, but not quite enough to be obvious. You’re talking about something meaningless—comic books? Ancient sitcoms? Abby's not listening. She's watching your mouth.

You offer her a sip from your canteen. She takes it without a word, lips brushing the exact place yours were seconds before.

Your eyes linger.

Owen calls it a night. The tent is tight, meant for two. But no one says anything when all three of you crawl inside. You and Owen lie on opposite ends. Abby is in the middle. You’re all still for a while. The only sound is the wind against the tent walls.

But Abby isn’t still. Abby’s vibrating with need. With want.

It starts with your hand brushing hers in the dark. Just a touch. A whisper. Maybe you were shifting. Maybe it was accidental. But Abby feels it like a live wire straight to her core. She holds her breath. And then you do it again. You don’t say a word. Neither does she. But her fingers hook around yours, just barely. The contact is electric. Forbidden. And so, so dangerous.

She waits until Owen's breathing becomes deeper. Slower. That telltale snore.

Then, without a sound, she shifts.

Her hand moves over your hip beneath the blanket, slow and uncertain. When you don't flinch, she dares more.

She mouths your name, barely audible. "Say something if you want me to stop."

You whisper back, voice low and cracked: "Don’t stop."

Abby doesn’t waste a second. She drags her hand up your stomach, slipping under your layers like she’s starving for you. Her fingers are calloused and sure, but reverent—like you’re something holy and she’s about to sin.

She’s breathing heavily now, even though she tries not to. The guilt’s there. It’s screaming. But your skin is warm and your eyes are wide and your thighs are parting for her under the sleeping bag.

Abby pushes two fingers into your underwear and curses low under her breath. You’re already wet—soaked, actually. She bites her lip hard enough to bleed. You cling to her wrist, not pulling her away—just holding her, grounding yourself.

Abby works slow, deliberate circles over your clit with one hand while the other cradles your face like she’s trying to memorize you in the dark. You're trembling. She can feel it. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, trying to muffle the moans. Trying not to wake him.

But Abby wants to ruin you. Right here. Right now.

She sinks two fingers inside you—deep. Your gasp is swallowed by her mouth. She kisses you like she’s starving, tongue sliding over yours with barely controlled desperation.

Her rhythm is unforgiving. It’s obscene, the wet sound of her fingers moving inside you. The tent is silent except for the ragged breaths you try to hold back and the slippery sounds of her fingers working you open.

"That's it," she whispers, forehead pressed to yours. "You feel so fucking good... I’ve thought about this for weeks."

You’re clutching her shirt, trying not to cry out. Abby hooks her fingers just right, and your thighs shake around her hand.

Owen stirs once. You both freeze. But he doesn’t wake.

When you finally come, it’s violent—your body arches into hers, mouth open in a silent cry, nails digging into her biceps. Abby groans against your ear as you fall apart in her hands.

When it’s over, you collapse into her. Both of you breathing like you ran a marathon. Abby kisses your temple, cheek, lips, jaw—anywhere she can reach.

You whisper, “What now?”

Abby doesn’t answer right away.

She pulls your hand to her chest, presses it over her heart. It’s thudding fast and erratic.

“We figure it out,” she says. “Whatever it takes.”

Owen snores behind you. And Abby kisses you again. Slow, deep, like she means it. Because she does.

You wake first.

Abby’s still beside you, her hand tucked under her jaw, brows furrowed even in sleep. You watch her chest rise and fall, steady, unbothered. But you’re not steady. You’re anything but.

The memory of her fingers is still hot between your legs. She stirred something in you. Something sharp and addicting.

But Owen is still here. Breathing softly. Oblivious.

And you hate that this is the first thing you think about when you look at her: When can we do it again?

The return to the stadium is uneventful on the surface—but beneath it? Tension clings to the space between you and Abby like fog. No one else seems to notice. Not Manny, not Mel, not even Owen.

But Abby notices. And so do you.

Every time you catch her eye across the mess hall, you feel her. Like a shadow burned into your skin.

You avoid being alone with her. Until she corners you in the supply locker one afternoon—just after you finish stocking medkits. The door shuts. Locks.

You don’t even get a word out before her mouth is on yours.

It’s bruising. Desperate. Her hands are all over you—cupping your ass, pulling you flush against her body. You gasp as she grinds her hips into yours, and it only takes seconds before you’re kissing her back like she’s oxygen.

Abby spins you around, presses your chest to the wall. Her body blankets yours. You feel her breath at your ear.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, her voice low and dangerous.

You try to speak, but her hand is already sliding down the front of your pants.

“You didn’t seem shy when you were cumming on my fingers with him sleeping next to us.”

You whimper.

“Tell me to stop,” she growls.

You don’t.

You can’t.

She fucks you against the wall with her hand, the angle sharp and possessive. Her teeth sink into your shoulder as you moan her name, and she mutters how wet you are, how you missed this, how she thinks about you constantly.

It’s quick. Filthy. Raw.

And when you collapse into her arms, shaking, she doesn’t let you go right away. She holds you there. Face buried in your neck.

“Tell me you feel it too,” she whispers. “I need to know this isn’t just me losing my mind.”

You nod. Barely.

And that’s enough for her.

Owen grows suspicious. He’s not an idiot. He knows Abby pulls away after patrols sometimes. That she shuts down when she’s struggling. But this feels different.

“You okay?” he asks her one night.

She nods. “Just tired.”

But he watches her eyes flick across the courtyard, toward where you’re laughing with Leah.

He sees it. And something in his chest goes cold.

Abby starts dreaming about you. You’re everywhere. In her sleep. In her showers. In the middle of a sparring session with Manny, where she zones out mid-punch because she swears she hears your voice.

She jerks off to the thought of you every goddamn night. But it’s not enough. Nothing is.

She doesn’t want to hide you. She wants to claim you. Wants the world to know what you look like falling apart in her arms. But instead, she walks past Owen in the hall and pretends she doesn’t flinch when he touches her arm.

One evening, you find her alone in the armory, cleaning weapons. You say her name softly. She turns, and she’s on you before you can breathe.

There’s no patience now. Just raw hunger.

She unbuttons your shirt while biting your lip, pushes you onto the table and hikes your skirt up. Her tongue is on you in seconds. You’re already dripping. She doesn’t give you time to process.

You come once from her mouth. Again from her fingers. You’re still shaking when she stands and kisses you slow—filthy and sweet and full of guilt.

“Say you’re mine,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

You do. Even though you shouldn’t.

Even though Owen’s footsteps echo somewhere outside.

You think it can last like this. That you’re careful enough. Quiet enough. But things are already unraveling.

And the worst part? You don’t want to stop.

Neither does she. Because for Abby, this isn't just lust.

It's an obsession. A fire she can’t put out.

And it's going to burn everything in its path.

[buggieboyofficial]

I made a reverse au for @void-dude 's Shapes and Pines au!

Their au makes me so happy! :))) I thought it would be interesting to see them reversed. (I wrote a LOT on here so I'm going to transcribe it all at the end of this)

Honestly this was supposed to be a joke and then I kept drawing and thinking about them. This admittedly got out of hand.

To make up for it, have some Tad Strange and Bill!

Tad: Ow.

Bill: Look, Isn't it beautiful?

Tad: Bill, I shouldn't be seeing anything but a doctor right now.

(Full transcription under the 'keep reading')

1969 Tad Strange is 15 years old. (He looks old for his age and uses this to his advantage) He lost his eye in a firework accident when he was 12 and now, he has a fear of fire and a glass eye. Billium is 12 years old and is about to make a really bad mistake. His eye was missing at birth and can't get a glass eye without surgery. Their parents work together and Bills Parents asked Tad to babysit Billium when they are away to help with his bullies. They become friends. (Mini Comic 1) Billium- "You don't GET IT TAD!" Billium- "I was BORN a freak." Billium- "I can't pretend to be normal because I don't know HOW." Tad- "… Huh."

2012 Bill is a Biologist After his family home burned down, killing both Tad and Bill's families, Bill became interested (obsessed) with necromancy. He started with studying human biology, but his work hit a wall and he became desperate for more knowledge. He summoned Sixer for answers after searching for years trying to find a being that could help him. Who knew that the demon of knowledge could be so susceptible to flattery? It's probably because Sixer doesn't get summoned very often.

(Mini Comic 2)

Dr. Bill: Looking extra dexterous today Sixer~

Sixer: *AHEM* Thank you Dr. Bill, let's get back to work now.

Tad is a Car Salesmen He lives in his tow truck just in case he gets chased out of town for selling shitty cars at an increased price. He had lived alone for a long time before Bill tracked him down 4 months ago. Bill apologized and said some cryptic shit about fixing everything. Then he looked around at Tad's tow truck/home and left a paper with weird circles on it and an incantation. He said "Use this to get a better place, you'll need one soon" Then he left. Tad didn't summon Ley until 2 months ago when he almost got shot selling a fake Lamborghini to a gang leader. He was then chased out of town again.

1 Trillion years ago, Sixer and Ley were in the 2nd dimention.

Sixer created a safe(ish) portal to the 3rd dimension which he was able to do because he had one eye that saw in 3d and one that was in 2d.

Ley could see it out of the corner of his eye like Tad did, but doesn't like to look at the world beyond. He accidentally broke the portal Sixer made while trying to use it and now everyone is gone.

(Mini Comic 3)

Sixer: "Look Ley, a Shooting Star!"

Ley: "WTF is a star and why is it shooting at us?!"

[scramratz]

Hi mister scramratz

My name is Alejandro and im a 14 year old bisexual transman. Ive been watching your videos on tiktok foorr about a year now? Or atleast several months. I really love and relate to your content alot. I love hearing about your anecdotes and just your experience with this whole trans thing. You make me feel like im not alone and that there is hope even if life is dookie bum fart. I currently live in a VERY red and unaccepting neighborhood and am constantly teased for being an "emo lesbian" if i see someone who used to know me in middle school, god forbid. But i watch your videos alot after school and keep watching because of the relatability, honesty and humor you throw in the mix. Im an artist too and i hope soon, or when i get the experience, i can make comics/videos like you. You rock my guy. Dont let up!

From Ale

Thanks for this, Alejandro! I'll admit I teared up a bit. It's nice hearing how much my art means to others! I've been In a bit of a rut artistically this last month. To know that you and others not only like what i make but keep going back to it, puts my mind at ease. I wish I could post more often, but alas, I must work.

I'm sorry you live in an unaccepting environment. It's hard enough as an adult, I can't imagine how hard it must be as a trans kid. The fact that you are so sure of yourself so young leaves no doubt in my mind that you'll survive, though. If no one else believes in you, at the very least, believe in yourself. It makes life much more bearable. The good thing is, you're not alone! The world is filled with good people around every corner. People who will accept you without debate. People who will love you unconditionally. But you have to find them, and you have to let them know you, and that's the scary part.

Don't wait to make those comics. Do it now! Even if the anatomy is off and the lineart is shitty. The world needs more art, especially from folks like you! The scramratz comics started as doodles from the psych ward.

Just start, man. Start now and you'll be a pro before you're my age.

[sam-keeper]

Hey Look At This Comic: Smut Peddler Presents Pitch Black

I can't remember how we got on the subject of the comics that my friends Iris Jay and Nero Villagallos O'Reilly did for an old Iron Circus april fools bit. maybe we were chatting about Megan Delyani's blank frame comic Spaces, which I wrote a whole review of last year, but it might just as easily have been talking about comic structure generally. cause we're huge nerds. being a huge nerd, I was all over the premise of the joke: a fake kickstarter for a Smut Peddler volume full of comics with all blacked out panels.

it's a great gag, a full webpage duping the Kickstarter layout, with a fun tongue in cheek explanation: comics don't leave enough up to the imagination, there aren't enough interpretive gaps for the reader, so to fix that Smut Peddler will publish a bunch of Pitch Black comics where YOU have to provide the visuals. Joke, maybe, but it lends credence to frame-focused models of comics reading: it's not the images that make something a comic, but the breakdown of page space into discrete units. So goes one theory, anyway. How do these pages fare without their images?

Lin Visel deploys a regular grid of long, thin columns, with a kind of horizontal capital at the top. The speech bubbles drive a lot of the action here and there's a sense of simultaneous movement across the bottom, with the bubbles breaking the panel borders at the top and the sound effects flowing into each other below. So, there's an interesting division between the upper strip, which is relatively subdued, a moment of reassurance that exists almost in its own zone before the rush of the bottom. And, as we'll see with a bunch of the others, in the absence of images the style of the text, the shape of the word balloons, and the font colors all become more crucial to conveying what's happening (sex, to be clear). That's already a lot going on with a series of black panels.

I love how Iris's comic bakes an explanation for the blacked out panels into its narrative. The apparently dominant character gloats that her streaming site won't let her actually display the brutal force-fem pegging she's giving to some shitty gamer bro. Sure enough, at the bottom of that panel there's a black and white video control interface and LIVE signal. Text alone and the design of the speech bubbles transforms the whole diegesis of that second panel, from the floating omniscient "camera" of the other panels to a webcam. Which is crazy because don't forget, there is no diegesis at all. It's all black!

There's so many great touches in this. I love the fact that the tongue in cheek panel containing the "guy's" internal monologue ("I can feel my epic skills draining away with every thrust... along with my masculinity!") is not just a second panel on the upper strip but an inset, separating out this moment of more intimate first person experience from the more remote view of implied fucking. And look at the flowers in the final orgasmic speech bubble! This is a total tangent but I feel like a lot of older attempts at structuralist comics decomposition wanted a firm line between the panel, the image, the characters, the speech bubbles, and so on. But comic elements can constantly interpenetrate, with the apparent domain of text becoming more complex graphical elements. Also, what a cute way to depict orgasming so hard you get turned into a girl. Head full of flowers. :)

It's incredible what you can achieve without breaking Tumblr's draconian terms of service at all.

Robin Tess offers a more straightfoward humorous panel, which lets me catch my breath after Iris's hot and heavy speech bubbles. Yet, this could have been a straightfoward 2 x 3 grid, couldn't it? 6 panels? Instead, this joke about over-engineered jargon names for what could just as easily have been called a "fuckmachine" (left delightfully up to the imagination) gets its core pacing from an irregular panel format. The premise is introduced in a big splashy full-strip panel at the top, the elaboration takes up the middle row, and then the bottom, in two equal panels, displays the two part punchline. I like the subtle way the middle row panels get progressively smaller. It increases the tension as we move toward the release of the punchlines, in a way that could be easily obscured by the panel contents if the page wasn't all blacked out in this way. Like Delyani's work, it makes me want to see notable comics blacked out. It could offer a whole new perspective on the medium's language.

Speaking of which, Nero uses a series of tall regular panels that suddenly POP into one that seems to squirt across the page, the other panels moved to allow for the white negative space to show off the irregular splash of the panel edge. This could be the silhouette of literal fluid, but I also like the idea of a frame that just has this kind of irregular energy. The comic structure itself becoming unruly and fluid to highlight a climax is a staple of many comic genres, but I'd say that I see it deployed most consistently by adult creators, who seem more willing to throw page literalism to the wind in order to achieve heightened expressivity. And once again we've got this escalation to a climactic panel. Typing this up I actually realized I don't have a specific idea of what I think the visual for these panels is or should be. Part of the excitement comes from filling in the blanks, to be sure, but that's true of any comic, which requires us to engage in closure to make sense of the transition from panel to panel. No, it's the drama of the reveal of the vibe plug one character apparently has been hiding, the invitation to intimacy, and finally the release, all achieved through dialogue physically arranged on the page. I don't think this would really make sense at all without the visuals that ARE there--the buzzing sound effect that moves across panel borders and is simultaneous to rather than sequentially arranged between lines of dialogue, and the incredibly suggestive final panel shape. Even without apparent visuals, this is visual storytelling.

Abby Howard wraps things up with the most abstract of the pieces, one that doesn't use frames at all but implies panel contents simply through the convention of word balloon tails. The result is a disorienting dark mass. It's hard to know what exactly is happening here and actually I'm having a hard time imagining what the last visual is "supposed" to be. It sort of is what it is: groping claw marks raking a black void. It's part of the april fool's joke, but it's a creepy one, and it feeds into the final joke of the page: that all this overthinking, all this trying to make sense of black panels, has worn you out, made you vulnerable to the Dark. Well, looking at everything I typed up here, I can't deny the inevitability of this end. Time to get in the maw!

Actually I think this end uncovers the close relationship that comics and hypertext narratives or more experimentally formatted texts have to one another: the space on the page becomes, itself, a signifying element and a way to direct the flow of the story. It's a shame that this is, I think, still considered a bit gimmicky in the realm of professional publishing and criticism. We have all these tools we've barely employed for storytelling, made far more accessible than in the days of having to manually set type!

Well, maybe it'll all have its day in the sun, or I suppose night in its new moon, soon enough. With an increasingly puritanical treatment of sexuality in society and on the internet, maybe we'll ALL have to black the action out of our comics and leave the frames to imply what we socially no longer want to see.

Pitch Black: Comics Code Authority approved!

you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon at least until they get my ass for being an adult writing about comics for other adults.

[shapelytimber]

Wanted to paint some of my favorite characters, nothing more nothing less

[COMMISSIONS]

Way too much yapping like an embarrassing amount, the individual portraits and the template I used below vvv

I shouldn't be allowed to talk about my favorite characters- especially to people who (presumably) don't know them xjfkdk apart from the very popular ones ofc

ILLYA KURYAKIN (The man from U.N.C.L.E)

gay ass little Russian spy I love him he is so *dramatic* and a huge nerd and a Beatles fan and into fashion design- perfect pocket size blorbo ;w; also seeing a Russian character being given a positive leading role in an American tvshow from the 60s ?? Yes he lives in New York and works for UNCLE America.... But he is still a communist ?? Incredible ! Also I really like the fact he isn't given the cliché personality traits often given to Russian characters i e anger issues drinks a lot violent ect (looking at you shitty(imo) modern remake... What did you do to my little guy ;;). In a close contest with Spock for the "gayest man from tvshow" of the 60s..... And in my heart he is winning djdkd for me the gay subtext of muncle hits so much more because it's not a scifi show- it's closer to home, Napoleon and Illya were *like that* in the present day of the 60s, they were both human, and no alien fuckery made them go to the village more than once or play house in the suburbs or get attached ass up to get pegged on a regular basis... Truly a show that feels written by an old queen and a guy with the biggest fem dom fetish jkvjjkb (don't get me wrong tho I adore star trek tos and spirk too <3)

KUROO HAZAMA and PINOKO (Black Jack)

sometimes I rewatch some of the oavs from the 90s when I'm sad :) I had a huge phase a couple years back when I read nearly all the manga (should really finish it... Or reread the whole thing frankly), watched *all* the shows (bar young black jack, hated that shit) and idk I just love this venal bitch so much- him and his daughter and his conflicted feelings for his tboy ex that he still loves kfkfkf btw I'm dying for a modern take on this like please please please I'd love to see Kei Kisaragi's story rewritten a bit (trans character in the 70s sure was progressive but oh boy-), because him and black jack's relationship makes me so *weak*.... And maybe see him a bit more than in one story- anyway ! When it comes to his daughter Pinoko, it's very hit or miss- when the writers lean on the cute father adoptive daughter relationship it's great, when they lean more on the whole "she has a crush on him" (very much like a child in most case, and he *never* reciprocate thank god) and bring up the fact she is technically 18 a lot (she was an evil tumor trapped in her sister before he created a body for her- black jack shit dw), and she gets jealous of other women.... Well it's terrible and I'm uncomfy :(

EVA KANT (Diabolik)

Look.... You just can't show me danger diabolik 1968 and not expect me to become insane djdkdkdk she is so cool ;; !!! Her and her devious eel of a man (here as a panther, because even tho I haven't read the comic yet, I'm taking an educated guess that all the panther imagery is here to represent him, the lethal twunk always in the all black gimp suit... And if it's not then fuck my entire life ig fjfkkd), the cuntiest het couple you've ever seen, such freaks I love them ! Partners in crime that will blow up the tax offices of the whole country if you try to put a bounty on them <3 they are in the guilty faves category only because I'm this invested in these characters after 1 (one) movie fkfkf watched the first two remakes and was hmmm let's say underwhelmed, could have been worse but going after the 60s one ie peak cinema was hard... I went in fully invested in these heterosexuals and they still fucked up their romance and relationship ;; (don't spoil me the third one btw haven't seen it yet ! I know it's the yaoi one- which doesn't give me much hope for Eva tbh...) I'll soon start reading the comics tho ! Managed to find all twelve volumes of "Il grande Diabolik" in french for pretty cheap so I'm excited for that :D (might scan them and upload them online because omg I tried finding scans in *any* language and only found a dubious website that sold digital copies for 7€ a volume ??? What is this)

UTA (The Void / Тургор / Turgor / Tension)

Apathy girlyyyyy she just like me for real for real nfkfk what absolutely charmed me about her is yes her design, but more importantly her chamber's design (if you've never played the void, a sister's chamber is a space that represent her. You get a sense of who she is by exploring her chamber before finding her and talking to her soul it's great). The lonely island out at sea, her laying down on a suspended steel boat in a grotto, looking passively at the moon by a crack on the ceiling.... And the moon is looking back. Incredible ! I love this game so much

KIM KITSURAGI (Disco Elysium)

Do I really have to explain this one ? When I played the game with quiji I remember I kept saying "when Kim talks, we *listen*" djkdk we did get a good grade in Kim Kitsuragi and got him to dance in the church <3 this fucking centrist cop wormed it's way into my heart and many others because of course he did. The only Kim K in my eyes. Also funny anecdote : before I played Disco Elysium, I had one concept art masterclass where a kinda famous concept artist came to give advice, make us really stressed then give us a shitty grade.... And when I tell you this man looked so much like Kim ??? Same haircut, glasses, face with a scar *exactly* where Kim's portrait has a stark shadow on his cheek and he was dressed in an orange top- truly uncanny. Anyway, Kim is so fucking cool how does he do it

DARK VADOR (La guerre des étoiles)

*sight* not surprising if you know me... and to be clear when I say Vader I don't mean Anakin Skywalker, post barbecue only zouz here. I refuse to yap about this man djdkdk I already do that way to much in ao3 comment sections

And here is the template I used ! Don't know who made it tho sorry...

PS : all these where made in 2-3 hours each :D wanted to challenge myself by painting quickly, and I mostly (looking at the Eva Kant one that gave me trouble) succeeded !

[merinarasauce]

I think a really underrated part of the TF2 comics is the way the relationship between Spy and Miss Pauling develops and falls apart. It's this rich little microcosm of Spy's heavily masked (ha) personality and Pauling's desperation for approval.

During their few interactions in the first three comics, they act accordingly to their given roles- they're coworkers, that's all. Miss Pauling has seven other mercs to locate and manage and Spy is busy wrangling Soldier and Zhanna.

That really changes in the latter half of #4- that's when things start falling apart for both of them. Miss Pauling, of course, is caught up in her hunt for more Australium- unlike Spy, this isn't just a job for her. She wants to impress the Administrator, to get her attention and praise. Both of their motivations shift completely because of their visit to New Zealand.

What I think most gets to Spy here is meeting Sniper's bio parents. One thing we can glean from subtext is that under the surface, Spy is a deeply caring person who's driven by love far more often than he'd like to admit. But he's also a coward, and doesn't see much of himself beyond being a spy. He defines himself by the harm he caused and the lives he's taken. I think what breaks him is witnessing how shitty Sniper's gene donors are- and he sees himself in them.

(One thing I've noticed- Spy smokes a lot, but when he's specifically shown lighting or touching a cigarette in the comics and animations, he's stressed, and when he rolls his eyes, he's hiding something.)

And I think this is the case because...

...he immediately chases after Miss Pauling when she puts herself in danger. And this is, typically, extremely out of character for him! In both Expiration Date and the Jungle Inferno trailer, when he feels he's in danger, he follows a specific pattern- he cloaks, and puts some distance between himself and the problem. (Hell, if you've played Spy in TF2, that's a tactic you'll fall back on all the time.) But, instead of securing the sub, he chooses to run headfirst further into a flooding/collapsing room to make sure Miss Pauling gets out of there.

We don't often see Spy touching anyone else, let alone so gently. He could have grabbed her wrist or her arm, but he's specifically drawn holding her hand. The only other instance that comes to mind is the way he holds Scout as he dies in #6.

This is really interesting to me, because his relationships are usually contextualized through violence. Yelling at or hitting his teammates, murdering to protect the people he cares about- even when giving his mask to Tanya in #7, at the most gentle he's ever been, he encourages her to play "princess assassin". (Worth noting that this is more indicative of his relationship with violence than anything about Tanya- any former little girl will understand the urge to play murder and violence with her dolls.)

Things also change drastically for Miss Pauling here. Her previous relationship with the mercs wasn't really explored, but it's hard to imagine she considered them as friends. She's consumed by her job, and while she recognizes them as people (as shown by the contract lines), it's worth entertaining the idea that she has a bizarre perspective on what a "person" is.

This is a woman who murders witnesses and buries bodies for a living. Everyone besides the Administrator is disposable- and that includes her. And the Administrator is like a goddess to her. Every ounce of her life is devoted to her. At the end of Expiration Date, she shows interest in spending time with Scout- she might've even been romantically interested in him- but that connection is strained and ultimately broken by her obsession. Whether they would've been anything more becomes a moot point. She grows to resent him because she has to be professional with him, and he can't handle that.

Another thing that could explain her perspective in this situation: she's a young, unmarried woman in the late 60s and early 70s. She is almost completely stripped of independence just because of how she was born. She can't even apply for a credit card. Obviously, she wasn't about to marry a man just to be recognized as a human being. But the situation she went into instead isn't much better. She's taken advantage of, made to work impossibly hard 364 days out of the year, for essentially no reason at all. She's not "just someone's wife", but she's "just the Administrator's assistant".

And I think this one act of kindness from the person she least expects opens up a world of possibilities for her. She's an equal to Spy. She's always been an equal to him, even when they were working together. He may complain and make sarcastic remarks, but he listens to her.

I think this is when it hits her all at once. Sniper is dead. He took her seriously, hell, he recognized her as a threat. She can't handle the idea that she's important, that she's worth something, and she threw away someone else who was worth something, too.

(And it seriously doesn't help that Spy has no clue how to speak earnestly to people. I like to think his frustrated expression in the bottom second panel there is him trying desperately not to let his expression slip into "ohhhh i fucked up again".)

Then, Spy doesn't make fun of her, and instead extends an olive branch again- drastic as this one may be. And I think, unfortunately, this causes Miss Pauling to latch onto Spy like she does with the Administrator. Not nearly as badly, but it causes a lot more damage as things go further. Because, after this, she starts looking to Spy for approval and attention.

This might be a reach, but that sort of sheepish, stumbling response feels a bit unlike her. Her speech is usually very quick and sharp, even when she's nervous. (Or dying in a hot dog eating contest.) This relationship has been established maybe a few hours before, and she already thinks she's messed up.

This one's also interesting. Pyro, Heavy, Soldier, Zhanna, Demo, and Spy all came with them, and Miss Pauling is most focused on Spy in particular. The way she says it makes me think she feels hurt. That also looks to be Spy's revolver she's using- take that as you will.

And after everything, she turns to Spy again. Look how happy she is at hearing his approval for the first time! This is probably the first compliment she's gotten that's not from Scout or about her appearance in a long time.

And don't let Spy's neutral expression fool you.

Once again, this is unusual for him. For the entire preceding battle, he was hiding, disguising, trying to avoid getting hurt as much as he could, up until he got shot. But the minute Miss Pauling is on her own and about to get hurt, he does something downright reckless to save her.

But the very nature of this relationship is fragile- once again, Miss Pauling defines herself as a tool for anyone she looks up to, and Spy defines himself as a weapon, something violent and unforgivable. It was always going to be self-destructive. And I think the moment it breaks is when the Administrator dies.

(I'm out of photos BUT I'll reblog with the rest.)

[yawnderu]

Together — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

"In another life, I'd have the privilege of meeting you under different circumstances." His words were comforting as the cold started taking over your bodies, his gloved hand holding yours.

"In every single life, I'll be looking for you, Simon." His name was never sweeter than when it came out of your mouth. Simon was cursed, Simon lived a never-endind nightmare both as a civilian and as a soldier, but right now? Simon was the luckiest man alive, holding his loved one's hand as life began to slip away from them.

"I'll always look for you, love." His voice was weak, yet oddly calm for someone in his situation. They were separated from their group and badly wounded, yet as he began to accept this was their end, realization hit him. For once in his life, he felt deserving of something. All those thoughts about not even deserving to survive after his family was murdered seemed to be pushed to the back of his head. You didn't deserve this. Simon didn't deserve this, and there's no way in hell Ghost is going to give up. He's a fighter, for fuck's sake.

"Stray?" His gaze drifts down to her, taking in the way she's looking at him, the way she's looking at him like he's worth something, like he deserves the world, yet Simon doesn't want whatever the world has to offer.

"Hm?" Came your soft hum, throat sore from screaming into the comms after the mission failed and you were separated from Price and Gaz. It hurt, yet you didn't know what exactly it was. It was a stinging feeling all over that gave you shaky hands. It made you want to throw up, to claw on your skin until you could find what exactly was wrong, and to rip it out of your body once and for all. To be able to feel your body again, to be able to open your eyes without flinching at the harsh light, to be able to hear your own thoughts.

"I just want you to hold me." Ghost replied softly, groaning as he used all the strength he had left to help you up by the waist, making sure you could get on your feet before he leaned on the wall for support, soft groans and pained growls leaving his lips as he limped alongside you. "Don't let go."

Despite all the pain he's suffered, all his struggles and trauma, this moment feels different— it's like a release, a way to soothe the chaos his broken mind faces daily. He'd rather die fighting alongside you than fight alone. Within you, you're holding him together. You hold his heart, his pain and struggles, his mind, his soul.

"What has two legs and bleeds?" He asked out of nowhere, deep voice strained by his pain as he walked alongside you, holding you close. You were about to protest before you remember why he's doing that— he's trying to keep you awake, and he's trying to ease the tension and fear by joking around. Though this is commonly done by SAS soldiers, it's comical to see The Ghost doing it too, so you decide to entertain him.

"What?" You ask softly, a small grin on your face as you prepare for the shitty joke.

"Half a dog." He answers swiftly. Though you can't see his face due to the balaclava, you can see the slight shift on the mouth part of his mask, his eyes twinkling as they narrow slightly. He's clearly fighting off a grin, yet the dumb joke makes you laugh. You don't know if it's the blood loss making you delirious, or if the joke is actually that funny. Probably the blood loss.

"That was awful." You say, yet you're still giggling about the stupid joke. You both manage to make it out of the building, looking around at all the destruction caused by the enemy. No hostiles appeared to be near, luckily.

"Ghost, Stray, do you copy?" The comms break you both out of your daze as you stare at each other, immediately fumbling for the radio.

"Yes, sir." Ghost replies to Price, his deep voice now more professional as he requested medevac. For once in his life, Ghost felt human. Almost dying, yet more alive than ever. Maybe all his torture was finally worth it in the end, maybe for once in his life, he'd be able to have something nice. Something to call his. His hand reaches down to gently hold yours, squeezing it softly. I love you.

[transmasculinizing]

it frustrates me how some of the most iconic versions of batman are still by people who dont really care about the character and just like his aesthetic. snyder and nolan wanna empathize how cool and badass he is and thats fine but they try to make their movies way deeper than such surface level portrayals of batman should be. they like that hes dark and brooding but they dont go in depth on why hes like that. or they try to and fail. its not just about his parents dying its that he never healed from it. he didnt have the support system he needed to process his grief in a healthy way and was raised by an emotionally repressed ex military man who wouldnt let himself cross the line of employee and family. he learned not to show emotion outside anger. batmans stoicism isnt because hes badass, its a trauma response. the nolan movies treat batman not killing like its a moral superiority thing when thats not it at all. its what batman might occasionally tell himself it is but in reality its because if he starts he knows he wont be able to stop. he also has flaw of believing its like that for everyone but thats a whole other discussion. anyways not killing is in fact a mental block and its emotional because hes mentally ill. oh but we couldnt explore that because that would imply the guy were using for our toxic masculinity power fantasy is weak because he cant mentally handle something. its like.we want to hurt batman but we dont want him to feel anything about it other than maybe anger to show how tough and hypermasculine he is. this also correlates in why the live action batman movies dont want robin. they dont want batman to be a dad because thats not cool i guess. if you cant think of your batman comforting a crying child you didnt write batman though. i swear this obsession with not acknowledging that just because batman is bad at showing his emotions besides anger doesnt mean he doesnt have them has bled into the comics to. batman was literally a good dad to jason pre crisis but can you imagine nolans batman being a good dad? i cant personally. hes a man child. so now comics batman was shitty to jason when he was robin in order for batman to feel despair he needs to first feel love. his parents werent the only thing he loved. he loves his city, his friends, justice and doing whats right, his 2 major love interest and he absolutely loves his family im not saying all batman media needs to be a deep deconstruction of his psyche but if youre gonna focus on batman being 2 kool for emotions being badass rather than a result of his trauma dont pretend your movie is deeper than it actaually is

[cartoonistcoop]

ShortBox Comics Member Interview: Sloane Hong

Throughout the month of October, the Cartoonist Cooperative will be sharing interviews with members of the Co-op who have a new comic available at the ShortBox Comics Fair 2024! 

NOTE: The Cartoonist Cooperative is not affiliated, associated, authorized, endorsed by, or in any way formally connected with ShortBox.  

Today’s spotlight is Sloane Hong ( @plaest2k ) and their new comic for ShortBox, Expiry Date.

We’d love it if you could introduce yourself and tell us about your background in comics.

Sloane Hong: Kia ora, my name is Sloane Hong (she/her), I’m a Korean-tauiwi illustrator, comic artist and tattooer based in Aotearoa, New Zealand. I only started making comics professionally about five years ago but they’ve always been a significant part of my life for as long as I can remember.

Tell us more about your new comic?

SH: Expiry Date is an erotic, body horror, sci-fi short story about coming home from a long day at your shitty, minimum-wage job, crashing on your couch and fantasizing about how fucking good it would feel to just die.

I mean, it’s also about transness, labour rights, our relationship with our bodies and death under capitalism, etc but it’s mostly about shitty jobs.

My friend described it as “what if David Cronenberg was a transsexual dyke who grew up reading ero-guro”.

What are some early experiences as a cartoonist that shaped you or your process?

SH: My brother’s also an artist, probably better than I could ever be, and I basically owe any good taste I might have to him. Growing up, I always got home from school first so I’d sneak into his room to admire his drawings and read his comics. He had most of the usual stuff you’d find on any Korean kid’s shelf in the 90’s: Akira Toriyama, Masamune Shirow, Yoshito Usui, etc, and a couple of Korean manhwa that are all now damn-near impossible to find. As he got older, he started getting into American comics and brought home stuff like R. Crumb, Daniel Clowes, Fletcher Hanks, etc from the library.

But it’s not just that I had someone to introduce me to all this stuff, it’s the fact I’m six years younger than him and he was already reading this stuff earlier than most. So I think I started looking at all those misanthropic underground comics by horny white men when I was, like, what… about 10 years old?

Besides my brother, the trauma of working shitty jobs for years on end, The Terrible Boredom of Paradise, and this weird and fucked up miracle we call life are probably the wellsprings of both my inspiration and ceaseless burnout. 

Tell us about your creative process; how did you develop this comic and what are the steps you took to bring it to the final stage?

SH: I did something really stupid for the 2023 ShortBox Comics Fair. I have ADHD and one of the many ways it manifests is that I have a debilitating habit of overthinking my stories. “Are the themes too obvious? Is it too heavy handed? Are the motivations for this character clear enough? Is this the right way to phrase this? Is this the right word? Is this the right letter? Is this the right punctuation?” etc, etc.

On paper, it probably sounds like something every writer goes through but when I say debilitating, I mean interferes-with-my-ability-to-live-a-normal-life-kind of debilitating. It’s kind of impossible to articulate how bad it was but it got to a point where I was so sick of myself and all the stories I never finished that I said fuck it–maybe if I just jump into a comic with nothing but a stupid premise, no planning and an impending deadline, I won’t have time to think about all these inconsequential details. So I sat down and forced myself to write, pencil and ink a comic, page-by-page.

It was essentially an exercise in automatism: I was still thinking about draftsmanship, composition, flow and everything but I kinda just let the story tell itself by writing/ drawing whatever felt like a natural progression for the narrative.

That was how I ended up with Marrow, which was kinda funny because the whole point was to make a goofy, low-stakes comic about nothing to circumvent the pressure of having to write anything good. Instead I’d inadvertently made something that was layered and deeply intimate and won the sci-fi category in the 2024 Minicomic Awards. But, more importantly, the whole process helped bring everything together. It reminded me of something I used to tell young artists: developing a style isn’t something you really set out to do, it’s something that just happens. You don’t practice drawing to get better at drawing; you do it to better channel your voice. It’s only when you can stop thinking about how to move your hand that your heart can take the lead.

I’d forgotten my own advice. I was so concerned about the technical details of how to write a story that I was basically assembling components rather than writing anything at all. Marrow helped me realize I’d already internalized everything I needed to write long ago. I just needed to stop thinking.

Expiry Date was a continuation of that process and made in basically the same way. There was just significantly less stress involved now that I knew I could trust myself.

Mostly.

Read the rest of the interview HERE! And dont forget to check out the Shortbox Comics Fair to support these lovely creators!!

[artfulacrostic]

im back in a little kid with a big death wish moment and as always the descriptions of the turtle-ASL have me in a chokehold.

i am Not An Artist but i did take a class on making comics and this would not get out of my brain so i spent some time while sitting around waiting in the booth during tech this week to expel it from my skull. reference credit for turtle hand fingerspelling positioning to @ayspooky1 because i certainly had a brain freeze because i don't know how to draw anything let alone hands.

thank u @remedyturtles for writing turts that live rent-free in my brain, i think about your work constantly.

both (shitty marker) color and just ink bc idk which i prefer.

from little kid with a big death wish, Ch. 3, by @remedyturtles (@ remrose on AO3).

"Leo blinked rapidly and focused on the blur of red, offering Raph a half smile. He rubbed his fist on his plastron, sorry.

'You're good. Where'd you go?' Raph asked, and Leo was beginning to hate the kid-gloves way everyone talked to him all the time. He wanted to be better, he wanted to not be like this either.

And like hell he was about to tell his brothers about the ride-a-long in his head. He still didn't know if the aversion to the thought was his own. But either way, he felt it, and it was there.

The sign for 'hard' needed two hands. He was getting frustrated at his deficit in communication due to the throbbing lack of arm. He finger-spelled it instead. He wasn't entirely sure anymore why trying to verbally talk wasn't on the table. It was just... daunting.

Raph sighed, giving a soothing rub to his shell. 'We know it's hard. You're doing great.'

'You're killing it, bro.' Mikey mumbled.

'Way to remain attached to reality.' Donnie chimed in, voice utterly flat in a way that would be insulting if you didn't know him.

But Leo knew him, he knew all of them, and their support meant everything to him, especially now."

[scramratz]

Hey so if you dont feel like answering this it's fine & chill and all, you're just a stranger who's comics I like after all. But I've seen you get a few more personal asks & the way you answered them always seemed very nice so. Uh. Here I go. Because I've been rotating this in my mind for the last month or so like it's a shitty fish png

So like. I've been on HRT for a good 4 years now, and I love everything about it. I pass more often as a guy now, though it's hard to say how frequently exactly. But It made me feel comfortable enough to become more gnc again, which is something I heavily suppressed before and early into hrt, because it just was a fast lane to misgendering town which destroyed me emotionally back then. It still hurts a lot sometimes now, but im less likely to get me misgendered these days even with make up and a skirt and all that. Which, sounds great in theory! But now it just makes people yell slurs at me in public instead and shit. It feels like my options in society are either

- put on a gender conforming act that feels like I'm a clown performing for the circus just to get gendered correctly without all the abuse (bad, not fun, hate it, love clowns but hate this)

- keep doing what I'm doing, actually maybe fag it up more! It's fun! (Great now the men are spitting at me again in public. And not in a fun kinky way)

Like I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place man. And I love my friends and they support me and make me happy, and my family (at least the ones I care about) just let me dress like a little freak and dont mind, .... so I feel I should just be able to move on. And I dont have much like internal gender problems tm. Like I haven't figured it out beyond vague I'm a transsexual queer thing dude girl sometimes. But I'm fine with that. That's chill. I know what I wanna look like and be called blabla. What isnt chill is what happens when others perceive me, and that's sorta intrinsically tied to the whole transsexual gnc (?) Thing. So it makes me think about it all the time. I'm just so tired of it. I'm gonna have to keep going I guess because what else is there to do. But some days I just wanna teleport to an alternate dimension where cishet people tm at large finally stopped being the gender obsessed freaks they claim 'we' are

I wish this ask couldve just been like.... peace and love on planet trans... life is great, no notes, let's all hold hands and have a cookie w our HRT... but I just needed to get this out someplace that wasnt my diary or irl contacts

Yea I get where you're coming from. It sounds silly but something that helps me is remembering all the trans folks that came before me. I'll watch documentaries from the 60's-90's about these fabulous transsexuals who lived despite the hate, if even for a short time. A lot of them coped by expressing themselves underground, at balls and bookclubs, and bars. Somewhere cis people dared not go. Those places still exist you just gotta look for em. Besides, I take great pride in carrying on a long legacy of being hated!

[nitewrighter]

Witnessing all the suffering caused by the current administration, I’m ashamed to admit it’s affected me on a mental level in the stupidest way- i’m now ethically opposed to some of my favorite fictional heroes.

Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, sailor moon, Steven universe, avatar aang and many others- I’ll always love these characters, but i can no longer believe in their ideals.

Sparing even the worst people, believing everyone deserves a second chance seems noble- in fiction. But in reality, when giving horrible people more and more chances just leads to them doing even more horrific crimes, and real innocent people suffer for it, I can’t stand by that idea.

An alternate Superman killing an evil president was viewed as him going too far. After everything that’s happened, if i had godlike powers, burning him alive would be the first thing i did. I’d even mock him by saying “you’re fired!!”

I’d turn the jan 6 crowd into a tornado of blood and guts.

I’d punch his russian buddy’s heart out of his chest like in mortal combat.

And the muskrat? I’d just lift him a thousand feet in the air and let him drop.

It’s very sobering to realize if i had power I could never be Superman- i’d be the Spectre

I--okay, friend, you're kind of going full Chūnibyō on me right now. I kind of wish you like.. read this ask aloud to yourself before you sent me this and asked yourself, "Does this represent me well?" Because even on anon this is like... yikes. But also you are on anon, so I don't know your story, I don't know how old you are, when was the last time you ate, drank water, slept, showered, etc., so I'm not gonna pass judgment. This was clearly written from a place of frustration, and like, lord knows I've had my share of violent fantasies against an unjust world (mine usually involve me having a sword) so again, not passing judgment.

Superheroes were never meant to be praxis. They're fiction. They're fantasy. Superheroes are the fantasy of "What if power was used to do good" or they're studies in the different forms power can take. Power of hope, power of fear, power of creativity and willpower, etc. But the function of fiction is also escape--We live in a world where those who have power all too often use it to punch down, so we like stories where people who have power use that power to lift others up.

But I also think you're significantly overlooking that, amid the stakes inflation of comics, the most memorable aspects of good superheroes is the contrast of small deeds against the big displays of power. Yeah we saw Superman do the 'World of Cardboard' speech and then punch Darkseid so hard it created a really cool shockwave that went 'fwoooom' and then sent Darkseid flying. But the Superman content I see on my dash over and over and over again is that one bit from All-Star Superman where Superman is comforting that suicidal teen and letting her know she's not alone. We remember that more than the big punches! Because that's something we can do! No, we can't all punch out Darkseid with a super-cool shockwave, but we can reach out to those among us who are deeply in pain and need someone to talk to.

"I can no longer believe in their ideals"

Bro, having to reconcile ideals with unfortunate realities is literally the whole point of existing in the real world. That's why fiction is fiction and reality is hell-fuck but maybe somewhere in that mess I can make someone's day a little better because Naruto taught me that the most powerful jutsu is Talk-no-jutsu. I can't save the world, but I can do the dishes. I can stop my walk and take out my airpods for a few seconds and let that small child pet my dog and smile and tell my neighbors to have a great day. The world is on fire and it is so exhausting but being able to put a little good out into the world, even in the smallest ways, is not a waste. It reassures me of the goodness and dignity shared by all humanity.

Yeah, we have horrible horrible shitty people in power, so we have to ask, "What is the most immediate thing I can do to make things better for those around me?" And maybe the most immediate thing you can do to make things better is to make things better for you--Maybe you gotta take a shower or floss your teeth and spit blood in your sink, or clean your room, or finally do that load of laundry, or get back to that school assignment which I know doesn't feel like it matters with the world on fire, but I promise you is something that can enrich you, even if it's just the satisfaction of getting your teacher's dumb busywork out of the way.

Lowkey this whole ask kind of reminds me of this one comic where Spectre!Hal Jordan shows up to the Justice League and starts ragging on all of them (for very similar reasons to yours! Where is the justice???) and at first they're all genuinely hurt and defensive but then after like 5 minutes they're like "Wait, Hal, you're like, super-fucking traumatized from basically destroying everything that made you a hero back during your Parallax Phase and then dying heroically during The Final Night event. And now you're kind of wrapped up in this Spectre thing, I think, because you're still very guilty about your whole Parallax Phase. It's easier to be Spectre and shower the world (and your friends) in WRATH rather than like...deal with how much humanity is still in you. Like literally what are you trying to accomplish here?" And then Spectre!Hal is kind of like, "Wait... shit."

This ended up very long. I guess my point is, you are 100% welcome to all of your super-powered murder fantasies--but a question I always try to ask myself when I'm in a space similar to the vibes I'm getting from your ask is "Am I letting the fire burn itself out, or am I giving it more oxygen?" And my other piece of advice in the face of all this bullshit is basically, "What can you do right now to make things better for yourself?" Maybe calling a friend and checking in, and catching up (maybe asking for help?) will do a whole lot more good for both of you, than creating a tornado of blood and guts.

[thegirlgraves]

swapgraves thing i wrote in bed on my notes app wow!!!! tw for drug addict behavior from ashley.

ashley had mood swings. this wasn't new, naturally. she's curled up in her bedsheets, her mind a torment to live in, overthinking in circles until she cracks or finds an adequate distraction. she's.... hollow.

she could smoke a cigarette... she still has a couple left, and despite no job, she has the excess money to buy a pack off someone else.

she could get up and watch tv... but it's just too far from her comfortable little bed.

she could... phone a friend.. ? but she's much too exhausted to talk to anyone. and it's too late anyway.

... calling julia?

fuck no, she already has to spend enough time with her as is. maybe that's a bad thing to think about your "romantic partner", but even she's not sure what she feels is romantic for her. or even anything super strong in general... but she's hot enough, and Is an adequate distraction from her brain and her life, so she takes it for what it is.

it's better than attempting to buy anxiety medication off the druggies at school to crush up and snort. ... andy would fucking kill her if he found out about that habit. she should stomp it. but she just can't find the reasons to right now.

whatever, she'll just cut the bitch off once she graduates, surely she won't need her anymore once ashley figures out what she needs in life to make her feel complete and not hollow.

whatever that is.

"it's 5pm, are you already sleeping?" the door cracks open and the one voice ashley isn't upset to hear vertebrates through the dark and cold room. only light being a subtle nightlight in the far corner of the room, and the new light flooding in.

she stays still, curious what he'd say or do when she's asleep. probably just fucks off or goes to relax in his bed. it's not like times wasted either way. all she has to say on her tongue is spiteful and negative vitriol about how she will always feel empty and shitty.

she has nothing constructive or kind to say, she knows that, so she just sits there and waits.

she hears him tsk, and muted footsteps that sound like socks... not barefoot but no shoes on... her back faces the door as andrew approaches the bed. somehow, she can feel his presence like its an aura, a warmth that settles behind her. she wants to turn around and bury her face into his chest.

... and push him down against her bed and ride his thigh. but whatever, that's just impish dreams that'll never come true.

"I even made dinner... you're already asleep, really?"

his hand rubs gently against her back, his fingers feeling each bump of her spine. he doesn't seem to have much direction with the touch, but ashley has to resist the urge to shiver. "it's your favorite, but... if you aren't awake to eat it, i guess i'll have to eat it."

her stomach comically growls in time, and she can hear him snicker.

"shut up, andrew."

its the first time today she's had a smile on her face. not that he can see that.

"oh, so you're just ignoring me, not sleeping, is that it?"

she groans. "i just feel like shit, i dunno."

"leyley..." his fingers dance along her spine and keep making her senses go on high aler when his hand graces towards her lower back.

"don't........" call me that, is what she should've said, but she feels the sheet behind her get peeled up, he's inviting himself into her space.

he crawls into the covers, his warmth pressed against her back as he spoons her and wraps an arm around her waist confidently and the other sliding under her torso to wrap around her waist too, pulling her back into him gently as he spoons her. her mind immediately quiets from the chaos and she melts.

she hums as her eyes fully close, a large sigh of air gets let out as whatever tension in her body escapes her. his hands and his warmth make her feel so... at home. it's her ultimate antidepressant.

just a shame she can't have him stapled to her all the time, considering... the rumors. unsavory, while she doesn't give a shit what people think of her, being bullied relentlessly and called a "victim of a molester" is not something she wants to go through again. it was a miracle through andrew's manipulation in social circles, and ashley ignoring him at school, that everyone backed off.

she feels him breathe into her neck, she is embarrassed to admit that she already starts to feel herself get wet from the action. but at least that shit is easier to hide than a boner. she backs up to get even closer to him.

"what's up?" he utters, it's quiet.

"...... it's just one of those days. i feel like... a hollow cave."

he scratches her hair with his fingers, and it's pathetic how much she melts into the gesture. "maybe you're just hungry?"

... has she eaten today?

"come on, leyley, lets go eat." he backs away, and she whines and turns around to lay on her back as he stands back up. in the subtle lighting of the bedroom, he looks so... handsome.

lost in valentine pink eyes that dote on her like shes the only worthy thing on earth. she can't believe that shes important to someone, let alone someone she...

his hands find her back and her legs, he picks her up bridal style and she doesn't even protest when he carries her out of the room and plops her into one of the dining room chairs, her nose picking up on something in the air that actually smells good, and he sits across from her as he grabs his fork and smiles.

in another life, maybe this is the view she could have in marriage and in death.