#I really like seeing the evolution of the lore like this

[destielaureversebb]

Coming soon for the @destielaureversebb: “The Armageddon Code” 

Author: @blackhorsedances | E.L. Artist: @marvfortytwo

Rating: Explicit Archive warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, major character death Length: 53,774 words Tags:  Space AU, Major Character Death (Temporary), Canon-Typical Violence, Unreliable Narrators, Happy Ending Relationships: Dean/Castiel, Cain/Colette Mullen; Charlie Bradbury/Dorothy Baum; Benny LaFitte/Garth Fitzgerald IV; Archangel Michael/Adam Milligan

Summary:  Dean Winchester didn’t expect to fall in love with an Angel when he joined the PanGalactic Space Force to fight monsters and bad guys. Now he’s in a bigger fight than he ever could have imagined: the fight to unlock the Armageddon Code and save the Universe.

Excerpt: 

Dean pauses as he’s typing, knowing he’s going to lie to Sam.

We’re in our 2nd “evolution” of OCS, so we’re up and doing PT at 0430. In addition to the usual calisthenics and running, now they have us swimming. For real, what the fuck use is swimming going to be in space? But, whatever. When we’re done with that, we move on to hand-to-hand and edged weapons. I mean, Dad taught us a lot about knife-fighting but this is also swords, and these big claymore looking things, and some other things that I probably shouldn’t try to describe. Oh, and get this: today we were allowed to use an “Angel” blade. I’m telling you, I’m revising ALL of my opinions about Angels if this is what they fight with.

Speaking of Angels. I didn’t tell you. I’d just gotten off the FLT Courier that brought me here and the pilot was picking up their next passenger to take out to the Rift. He walked right by me and I swear the ‘coat’ he was wearing was really wings. I could see the feathers ripple. He had this sort of weird gold ring around his head like a halo and this–I dunno how to even describe it–it was like this rainbow spilling across his face. I tell ya, Sammy, it gave me the shivers, but not in a scary way, just really intense. The pilot called him Casti-El, which is an Angel name, so I guess he was the real deal. Remind me to ask Bobby if he still has that old book of Angel Lore in his library, or did he give that to you?

Posting date:  February 21, 2025

[exhausted-archivist]

Sloth vs Despair demon

So I'm cleaning out my drafts and I found this post deep in my drafts. But I did a poll back in June about favorite demons in Dragon Age. In the tags I saw these:

#also I feel sloth shouldn't be on here #its the same as despair #if you read the codex entry it says they were reclassified

I really wanted to talk about sloth and despair cause it was an interesting take for me. I never read the despair demon codex saying that it was a reclassification of all sloth demons, but that it (the despair demon) was a subgroup being elevated to its own specific group. Like how we've had plants and animals that got classified as their own species when they learned more about anatomy, structure, or behaviors.

But the TLDR is that sloth demons are still a thing in the Dragon Age universe, they are mentioned in World of Thedas Volume 1 (WOT v. 1) which was published in 2013 and was a byproduct of BioWare putting together their internalized wiki and updating their lore (a project they started in 2011 post DA2 release). It was also stated by David Gaider prior to Inquisition that despair demons were another "group" of demon. That the other "groups" such as: despair, envy, fear, and remorse, weren't mentioned prior because they didn't want to talk about demons they didn't show. He also specifically calls out despair demons being a new "type".

In regards to in world lore, the difference between sloth and despair demons is what they feed on: sloth feeds on the doubt, apathy, and entropy of a person while despair demons feed on despair. Another difference is the fact that despair demons actually create despair while sloths do not create sloth. Despair demons are named after what they make and feed while sloth is named only for what they feed on.

Which seem to be common differences between demons. They are either named for the trait they feed on, the trait they create, or both. Another example of this is envy, a demon that is named not because it seeks out those who are envious, a person doesn't have to be envious of another for them to attract envy. In fact, they have to have status, power, or influence that makes the demon itself is envious.

Lore about both demons:

For sloth demons we see mention of them in World of Thedas Volume 1 (WOT v. 1), which was published in 2013 and a by product of BioWare actually putting together an internalized wiki and updating their lore. You can find mention of the sloth demon under the bestiary section and again under the possessed creatures with corpses.

Sloth demons are themselves not slothful - they are so named because they feed upon the slothful recesses of the psyche: doubt, apathy, and entropy. A sloth demon weakens, tires, and tears at the edges of consciousness and would much rather render its victims helpless than engage in true conflict. Sloth demons can disguise their appearance outside the Fade so as to more covertly spread their influence. It is said that they can influence entire groups of people. A community afflicted by a demon of sloth could soon become a dilapidated pit where injustices are allowed to pass without comment and none of the residents are aware a change has even occurred.

-- World of Thedas: Volume 1 p. 170

A dead body may be possessed by a demon. Generally, weaker demons posses corpses or skeletons, unable to tell the difference between the living and the dead. The possessed corpse may act differently depending on the kind of demon that has possessed it: Corpses possessed by rage demons attack residents of the walking world mindlessly. Corpses possessed by sloth demons weaken and fatigue their prey. Those held by hunger demons feed upon the living.

-- World of Thedas: Volume 1 p. 171

At one point there was even suppose to be an encounter with a sloth demon in Inquisition. Something I recently learned while working on something else.

Then, in regards to the despair demon, it is not only mentioned in the codex, below but is also mentioned in World of Thedas Volume 2 (WOT v. 2) bestiary. WOT v. 2 was published in 2015, so it is as up to date as the first volume.

Codex: Despair Demon Once upon a time, we classified these as demons of sloth, but we learned that despair demons are something quite different. They are not the antithesis of justice or valor, but rather of hope. They form nightmares tearing away the foundations of self and purpose. When brought into the world, they are most attracted to places the downtrodden populate: alienages, slums, prisons, and the like. The miasma they spread can lead to extreme behavior. We look for a rash of unexplained suicides, men and women so filled with grief they lash out. The most intelligent of these creatures are to be feared, for they not only feed on despair, they understand its causes… and seek to bring it about. From the shadows they ruin lives, drinking the tears of those who have no idea the cause of their misery is not random chance. —From a lecture by renowned hunter, Ser Hayward of the Templar Order

A young girl wrapped in rags. An old woman trying desperately to shield herself from the cold. Who wouldn't want to help these poor creatures? When someone gets close enough, the despair demon envelops a victim in a cloak of ice and unleashes torrential frozen gales. These demons not only feed on despair but cause it.

-- World of Thedas: Volume 2 p. 297

I want to say, it does make sense that despair demons would be mistaken for sloth demons, given the societal interpretation of what despair manifests. How symptoms of hopelessness/depression will manifest behaviors of apathy and doubt, even entropy - a state of disorder, lack of energy, decline in cognitive functions in some people.

But those in Thedas realized that despair demons actually create despair and seek out environments where they can foster such things, which is in stark contrast to sloth demons who only feed on those three aspects of the psyche and so they seek out environments where sloth already exists in people but the demon doesn't actually create/bring out sloth in people.

[canonically47]

“im sick over how inhun is so similar to sangihun” i say. suddenly i trip and fall and hundreds of old pictures of aliwoo fly out of my pockets. “wait!” i frantically cry out. “these aren’t mine!”

[tinydefector]

Do you think cybertronains get a bit uncomfortable at senses humans have? Like uncanny valley or being able to sense when something is staring you to long. Maybe just primal senses showing in general that no longer should show in modern society. I've always had the mild idea that cybertronains "evolve" in the sense of what's necessary and once it's obsolete it starts to fade away until needed again. But humans don't work like that. Which raises the question as to why we have such strong sense that warn us of dangers like mimics or sensing a stare of something that isn't there. I just would find a funny of bots and cons wondering wtf traumatized humanity so bad we never got over it. As well as them losing their mind over the disgusting random wonder that is evolution.

Ohhhh, i love this. I might have to do something with it in the future in a fic. But I can totally see the bots just watching a human for a little, and next thing their head snaps in the direction of the bot, and they both just stare. And the bots are just there thinking. "Primus they are so cute when they get focused like that," and the humans out here staring down the bot while having goosebumps and the scene of dread going. "Why are they looking at me? Do they want to eat me or something?" And it slowly gets to the point many of the bots begin to realise it. Watching what seems almost like a prey drive in humans. Something that cybertronians don't have, but they know of. And it begins to get to the point that they are really on guard around their human. But the human scene is very handy with the cons, rogues, or DJD. The human just goes. "Wait, something doesn't feel right," and the bots listen.

But also imagine humans explaining some of the crypitds monsters and lore of their planet, and Cybertronians are just horrorified. Ans the first time a Cybertronian feels that kinda feeling is when there is a sparkeater on ship, and it really makes them wonder if their programming is upgrading to have the same hidden scene the human's have.

[draconic-desire]

🔥 Let the World Burn 🔥

Yandere Scar x Reader

Trapped in his Elysium, you’re ready to fight to the end to avoid the “evolution” Scar so desperately wants from you. But you’ve underestimated that he’ll let it all burn to ashes in order to get what he really wants—you.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, forced imprisonment, brief depictions of mild violence/gore. Ends in a cliffhanger so lmk if I should write some follow up content… Also because WuWa is so new I’m not familiar with all the lore yet so bear with me!

Sweat drips down your face and into your eyes, blurring your vision. Your breathing is shallow, too fast, and you can barely hear over the sound of your pounding heart and rushing blood. The grip on your broadsword tightens as you ground yourself back into reality and face your opponent.

Just in time; the next attack thrown at you is dodged with milliseconds to spare. Claws graze your skin as you twirl and swing your weapon down, seeing your opening—only to be met with a kick that sends you flying back once again.

Your worn and bruised body tumbles along the ground, littering your skin with even more injuries. Something rips across your back as you roll, and you cry out in pain at the burn. Your broadsword flies in the opposite direction, leaving you defenseless.

The world spins, and sounds fade to a dull ringing in your ears as a pair of red boots fills your line of sight.

“Awww, giving up so soon? And just when we were starting to have fun!” The sensation of leather against your chin as your head is lifted upwards by the toe of the boot. Gritting your teeth, your eyes lock with heterochromatic red and black, the gaze that has been haunting you, hunting you.

Scar tilts his head, peering down at you with a smug, lopsided grin. A glowing card twirls on the tip of his index finger. He thinks he likes you like this—at his feet, peppered with scars from his claws, at his mercy. The color red suits you; he imagines licking up the blood from your wounds, and his smirk grows.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, slapping his foot away as you struggle to your knees. Coughing, you turn your head and spit, staining the ground crimson. You quickly wipe your forearm across your mouth and begin to stand, only to be met with the edge of a searing card to your neck. One wrong move and you’re sure the Overseer won’t hesitate to burn that ram insignia into your neck.

In fact, he’d probably prefer to brand you. You’re well aware that this man views you as his prey, delusional enough to think that he has a claim over you.

Scar clicks his tongue sympathetically, but his smile reveals he’s relishing your suffering all too much. “You understand how futile this is, right? My Elysium can only be disrupted by coordinated attacks from both sides—and believe me, my dear, I ensured that no one is coming to save you.”

For a moment your stomach drops, before you steel your nerves. No, you have to hold onto the hope that your allies—Rover, Jinhsi, Sanhua, all of Jinzhou—are alive and fighting to free you. Without that belief…you swallow thickly.

As if sensing your thoughts, the Overseer sighs loudly. “Even when it’s just the two of us, you can never focus solely on me! It hurts my feelings, you know.” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the domain in which he’s had you trapped for Sentinels’ know how long. “I even whisked you away on this little date for my big proposal! So how about you finally listen to me?”

“I’m listening,” you grind out—as you swiftly unsheath the dagger at your thigh and swing it up towards his ribs.

The weapon is immediately severed in two by his flaming card, likely thrown even before you reacted. The pieces thud uselessly to the ground.

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, kneeling down and gripping your chin in a vice that makes you squirm. He barks out a laugh as you thrash to no avail. “So stubborn! Do I have to crush you to make you behave for once?”

Teeth bared, you lunge at his hand with your teeth, but he as you pinned. “You’re a maniac!”

His grin only widens, pulling taut to the corners of his mouth. “Self proclaimed!” Scar leans in, so close you can feel his breath on your sweaty skin, too hot from the heat searing around you. Your heart plummets as he scours over your face, eyes lingering on your lips for far too long before he tilts his chin up and away teasingly.

After numerous encounters, countless clashes of ideals and battles later—all of which he orchestrated, just to see you again—Scar has learned your patterns, your tells. He knows exactly how to rile you up, and it’s when your emotions get the better of you that he gains the upper hand like this. He finds you utterly irresistible wearing that glowering scowl on your lips, though he’d prefer to kiss it away…or bite those lips until they bleed.

“Well, now that I’m down on one knee,” he giggles, “how about we get back to the reason I brought you here, hm? My proposal?”

“I told you before,” you growl, “you’ll have to kill me before I willingly join the Fractsidus.”

By this point, you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve “serendipitously” crossed paths with Scar—his way of phrasing stalking—and heard this same speech. How the Fractsidus, how he, wants you, needs you. How he sensed the difference in your frequency, how you’ve been selected to lead the new line of humans, capable of fusing with Tacet Discords. That you should abandon your principles, your friends and city, to stand by his side as the true Lament brings about the next evolution of your species.

No matter how many times you told him off or sparred with him, he persisted. Almost as if your rejections only fueled his obsession with you and your abilities, the urge you had to fight every time you encountered an Echo.

“That hunger,” he’d said, stalking towards you as he gazed at the top of the Tacet Mark between your collarbones, the rest of which disappeared vertically down your sternum, “I felt it too. If you would just embrace it, like me, you’d know what true power feels like. Join me, and we can usher in the future.”

“Tsk, another missed opportunity.” That round, you whirled around to find him perched on a rooftop, observing as your Pengu Terminal sucked in the golden Echo of a Fusion Dreadmane. “Imagine having those abilities all for yourself! Does that really sound so bad?”

“I’m getting impatient, my dear.” You’d been expecting him that time, but not so close, chest pressed firmly against your back—and certainly not the talon-tipped finger he’d sensually traced up your chest, lining your Mark. “You’d better start seriously considering my deal, or else there may be consequences. And I’d so hate to hurt you.”

Today must have been your ultimatum.

“Normally I would just dispose of you,” he shrugs, as if chatting about the weather and not murder, “but you’re a special case. I have different plans for you, my dear.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “You’re even crazier than I imagined, then, if you think I’ll consider anything you have to say.”

“Are you sure? I thought a hero type such as yourself would be begging to know.”

He’s baiting you, and like a fish to a fly, you fall into the obvious trap. “What, you’ll keep me imprisoned here until I give in? Pull out a diamond ring?”

Your attitude falters at the devious smirk he flashes you. “Not quite.”

The sound of snapping fingers, and the Elysium domain rapidly melts away—only to pull away the curtain and reveal the horrifying truth behind.

“No,” you breathe as the reality of his plan sinks in.

The outline of the city materializes around you. Not Jinzhou. In fact, based on the sheer level carnage—buildings in ruin, bodies strewn across the streets, blood painting the ground in splatters of bright crimson—you’re positive there are no Resonators for miles. No one is coming to save these people—it’s as if they were placed here for the slaughter, lambs delivered to the beast that rages before you.

Sensing your arrival, the Tacet Discord known as the Delirium Lioness spins and snarls, baring saber-teeth smeared with the gore of its latest victim. It claws at the ground with massive purple and grey paws, readying to charge. That is when you notice the teddy bear crushed under its gait, and your mind shatters.

It was all an illusion. The whole time you were trapped in Elysium was to stall for this—Scar had the Lioness dropped into this innocent town, knowing that you would stop at nothing to eradicate it and save those whom you still could. And you know exactly what the asking price will be.

You don’t even think twice before you react. Broadsword in hand, having reappeared once the domain broke, you lunge to meet the TD in combat—and in doing so, you sign your own fate.

The sound of steel meeting bone rings through the air as the Delirium Lioness parries your first strike with its fangs. You strain as it bites down on the blade, attempting to crush your weapon. With a roar, you send a shockwave of Spectro through the blade, blasting the TD backwards. Bystanders scream as the creature quickly recovers, and you yell at them to flee. No one else will die today.

The entire time, you can hear Scar chuckling behind you.

The Lioness prowls forward. As it prepares to pounce, you see your chance. You stand your ground, not moving a muscle as it lunges towards you. At the last moment, you drop onto your back and slash the broadsword across the beast’s belly as it careens over you. It screeches as you eviscerate it, exploding into a million golden particles above you—an Echo.

Clapping reverberates through the now still streets. “Bravo!” Hands pull you up, and a shockingly gentle finger brushes your cheek. “(Y/n), my little hero. Seems you’ve figured out my proposal before I could pop the question myself.”

The Tacet Mark on your sternum flashes, calling to the Lioness’s Echo. Up until now, you’ve been able to suppress the call for your body to absorb the TD’s afterimage. But now, you have no choice. If you don’t give in to the desire that Scar has expressed all along, then today will just repeat itself over and over until you do. He said he wouldn’t kill you, but that future, with the promise of so many more lives lost, would be worst than death.

Shaking your head, you drop your sword and pound your fists into his chest. You can’t look at him directly. “Why?” You choke on your own words as tears stream down your cheeks. “I would have listened to you. To avoid this, I would have—” Another sob wracks your body. “I would have given you anything, everything.”

Scar angles your chin upwards so you have no choice but to look him in the eye. His expression is surprisingly collected, his touch too light for a man who just committed such a heinous crime. “My dear, I would let the entire world burn to make you mine. You can’t have evolution without extinction, after all. This may be the end for them, but it is only the beginning for us.”

He kisses you then, longingly, languidly. Like a man enjoying every last taste and sensation of a final meal. You want to struggle, but what’s the point anymore? Even when he ghosts his claws across your neck, wrapping a hand around your throat and squeezing lightly, you let him without a fight.

He pulls away, smiling at you and your expression, so broken and defeated, and once again at his mercy. Finally, finally you are his, and you will be so much more after your transformation. Ever since he first found you, he knew that only you could ever match his frequency, could join him on his throne of fire and ashes. He drags a claw across your lip, drawing blood, which he quickly laps up with his tongue. You taste even more delicious than he could have imagined.

He can’t wait to taste you in every way possible.

Savoring the flavor of your blood, he motions toward the Echo. “Come now, dear. It’s time you fulfilled your end of the proposal.”

Yes, his proposal. The one he has hounded you with: for you to willingly absorb a TD, becoming exactly like him. A monster. His pet, his prey, his alone to have.

To save others, to protect Jinzhou from this demon, you’ll accept that fate.

You close your eyes and let the reverberation in.

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

What! Are your top five reveals in One Piece! Which ones made you go “holy shit” or “hell yeah” the most!

i'm taking reveal here to mean 'points at which previously-hidden information is revealed to the audience,' not just where we're told something new. so:

THE FREEST MAN ON THE SEA: maybe not as dramatic or seismic as some other things on this list, but to me luffy telling rayleigh that to him being the pirate king just means being the freest in the world is the single most important thing we ever learn about luffy's character, and it defines the themes of the whole series. it recontextualizes everything about luffy and the way he interacts with the world and the way he pursues his goal because now we finally know what that goal actually is, and what it means to him. and for the whole first half of the story we don't know this! it's easy to forget because we're, what, six hundred chapters past it now, but we get all the way to sabaody without really knowing what drives luffy, and then we get it and it slides into place perfectly.

WORLD SANK: a recent one, but so satisfying and well-placed. the sunken world reveal is the best kind of big lore reveal, to me, because it's something that makes so much sense it was completely possible to predict it years ago (and people did), and now that it has been confirmed, it's opened up a massive world of implications and questions that are incredibly fun to think about. i'm really excited to see where the story goes with it.

NIKA: i'm sort of rolling everything we learn about gear 5/nika/joyboy in the 1040 chapters of wano together here; i've written at length before on this blog about why i like the nika reveal so much, so i'll just say now that it takes one piece's most fundamental and powerful themes and symbolism (liberation and joy and the sun) which have been built up across the story and reveals to you that those things are a real literal force in the narrative strong enough to turn a draconic tyrant into a garden snake. and having established what he has now about nika, the way oda has continued to explore the implications of that figure existing in the world has been absolutely fabulous to read.

RAIZOU IS SAFE: a smaller and more arc-specific one compared to some of the others on this list, but i just really like the way this reveal is done. the interval between the dressrosa team's arrival on zou and the reveal that raizou was there the whole time isn't even particularly long, but it's the execution which makes it; the devastation of the city, the solemnity of the whole moment, inuarashi and nekomamushi bowing their heads, luffy and the strawhats' reactions. i like the minks a lot, and this is the moment that defines them as a group, as well as establishing the themes of loyalty and sacrifice that will go on to become very prominent in wano.

ROGER WAS DYING: i've talked before about how i really like the handling of roger as a figure and how our knowledge of him evolves and becomes more personal and human over the course of the story. the turning point in that evolution is the introduction of rayleigh; his reveal that roger was not caught, that he turned himself in because he was dying, and that they found the truth of the world there at the end of the grand line. it shifts the whole presentation of the story; we've been told about roger from the very start of the very first chapter, and it's here that we learn the information we thought we had about him has been woefully incomplete. there's a bigger mystery here, one greater than just 'what treasure did roger leave.' and i really like we get this context about roger in the very same scene we learn what it means to luffy to be the pirate king.

[rogue-healer]

Ugh I gotta ramble a bit about the Cassette Beasts starters.

So the first NPC you meet asks you what your aesthetic is, spooky or sweet, which corresponds to the two starters, but you’re not actually shown what the starters look like.

And instead of an element type thing, you’re asked for your aesthetic. I just think that’s such a fun twist. They’re not even opposites!

And even the two starters tie into the lore of the first people to see the beasts/monsters, calling them angels and demons, bc they didn’t know what else they could be.

But the most fun part IMO is that Sweet actually gives you Candevil, the demon-esque beast, and Spooky gives you Bansheep, the angelic one.

Now, that’s oversimplifying things a little, because both starters branch at their first remaster (evolution), and go on to have a third form.

Candevil’s entire thing is like, colorful manic pixie dream devil. One branch turns into a demonic rainbow gumball machine; the other goes into bisexual flag -ish… alchemy witch. So the “Sweet” beast has demon and witch.

Bansheep, on the other hand, is emo, goth, and fluffy, yet angelic. Sort of. One branch remasters into what you’d expect — a ghostly halo-ed floating sheep. The other is uh. A black metal tombstone-hugging zombie ram. So Spooky does kind of go the way you’d think, ghost and zombie, except with sheep.

Aren’t these designs awesome? One of the main design philosophies for CB critters is “Don’t begin and end at ‘elemental animal’”, and I think the starters showcase this perfectly.

This is all a very long-winded roundabout way of saying, if you like creature-collecting games with non-cliched cryptid-inspired critters, interesting companions with their own character development, weird analog-ish horror, dialogue that really gets you thinking about the power of humanity and friendship, and they/them pronouns, please for the love of fuck, try Cassette Beasts.

[lil-tachyon]

What all roleplaying games have you worked on?

I'll try to name them all here but there are a lot and some of them are pretty small so I may miss a few by accident.

Epochrypha (2018) by Skerples was both the first piece of paid work I did and also the first game supplement I worked on. This is so old I was still inking digitally.

I also provided illustrations for Magical Industrial Revolution and The Monster Overhaul by the same author.

Monster Overhaul was neat because I did interior illustrations in early 2020 but didn't do the cover until 2022 so you can see quite a stylistic evolution.

From 2018 to 2020 things were pretty quiet for me until I worked on The Shifting City by Dank Dungeons. People really liked the cover for some reason and that basically created a career for me. I still get people asking me to basically recreate this cover a few times a year:

I did a handful of illustrations from 2020 to 2022ish for Ukuwa Station that ended up in The Field Guide to Mfecane, a third party afrofuturist Lancer expansion.

Our Vale of Discontent was a small game I worked on in 2020:

Mycosis is a Mork Borg dungeon I worked on around this time, which notably marked my first attempt at doing some goofy black metal title font.

I did most of my illustration work for Desert Moon of Karth by Joel Hines in late 2020 and early 2021:

The sequel, Tide World of Mani is still being worked on. I just finished my last interior illustrations for it a month or two ago.

AZAG by Dank Dungeons was a game I worked on throughout 2021 that was a blast and I think more people should know about.

At some point in 2021 I did a bunch of pieces for Lore & Legacy although I don't remember exactly when. These never got posted but the book's been out for a while now so maybe I'll show them off later.

Late in 2021 was when I started doing illustrations for The Electrum Archive by Emiel Boven (I think issue 2 is out soon).

Early 2022 I did a bunch of character illustrations for some Victorian horror fantasy game that I don't think ever actually came out (commissioner never responded to me when I asked about it at least) which is a shame because I'm proud of these. At least I got paid!

This was another one for a game that I don't think ever came out:

I did character designs for Nebula Chaos by Polyhedra Games in 2022:

Then Neon Saber by Olivia Miller

Then some pieces for If Worlds Collide:

Then Critters & Companions by Pearse Anderson:

Ran out of space for images, I'll finish this in part 2...

[cherry-titz]

Hi friends! @1800titz here. This is my contribution to the collaboration, and I’d like to start off by saying that I am so, so, so beyond excited to work with the immensely talented @cherryjuiceblues!! Thank you for working with me Soph :’)

We have loads of goodies planned, and we’d like to kick things off with Mr. Hitchhikerry. (Sidenote: he’s a little late to the party, this WAS supposed to be a spooky piece for Halloween but SHDJDJCJDJD don’t worry about it. Life got in the way a bit, but he’s finally HERE so WOOOO). A little idea based on this reddit post. This one has great big warnings. DARK HARRY. VERY DARK HARRY. With a piece like this, I want to really emphasize: this is purely for entertainment purposes, and there is 0 correlation intended to the real Harry Styles <3 just a spooky faceclaim.

With that disclaimer out of the way, here’s some content warnings: dom/sub themes, choking, (light) spanking, degradation (and praise!) ((some good ol’ LET’S PLAY SIMON SAYS)). THE WOOF WOOF is for humiliation purposes only <3 GREAT BIG WARNING FOR A DISTURBING CONFESSION OF INTENT TO HARM.

Also, I writhe in my seat as I write, wanting to put in lengthy context of prediscussion and safewords and aftercare and everything important I always talk about, BUT. You’ll see. He’s an …interesting character and I tried to keep hitchhikerry true to himself.

PLEASE DON’T HOOK UP WITH STRANGE MEN YOU PICK UP ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. PLEASE DON’T PICK UP STRANGE MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. Enjoy ٩(◕‿◕)۶ (WC is 11K)

She doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

Not figuratively, not literally. 

Y/N was raised outside of the scope of the seventies, post-Bundy and his hitchhiking antics, and since the evolution of serial-killer lore, she’s never been fond of a stranger hopping into her passenger seat and then cutting her up into itsy-bitsy parts to hang around his back garden like string-lights, or something. An ear there, a palm with crooked fingers there. Morbid stuff. 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, but she doesn’t think about that, hurtling down some back-country road, a poorly lit vale through a field of tall, boundless grass. It’s not the first thought budding behind her skull when she sees his silhouette through the shone of her pearly brights — a blip by the line of tall shrubbery — even a good distance away. And from her distance, he’s just a little blip in a cream, hoodless sweatshirt, feet planted into a bed of patchy grass. Her first sane thought, as she squints through her windshield, has to do with why someone would be out on this road, at this time of night, with no feasible form of transportation, and how. As her Honda nears and passes some fork off, a dirt bend of clearing into the winding field of nature, the man’s hitchhiking, signature thumb morphs into a wave of his arms, and his foot steps out, toying at the edge of the road. It doesn’t quite breach the threshold, but her speedometer decreases enough for her to catch baggy denim, distressed at the knees, and a slow wave of his arms, raised. He doesn’t launch at her car, forlorn, as she passes — thank Christ. But even then, his frame swishes by, out of sight, coated by darkness. She casts her gaze to the rear-view, and the image of him scrubbing over his face with an exasperated palm shrinks in size the further she gets. 

The young woman gets about a hundred feet before she nudges the break with her foot to a halt, sighing as the car settles with a subtle lurch. She makes another glance to the rear-view. Now, she can’t see him, not in the shroud of night, but she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and then twists the wheel until the car curves. A tire slips off onto gravel and grass with the U-turn, but she steers herself back onto the road and drives into the same direction she’s just come from. 

He looks surprised to see her reverse, form pivoted toward the same headlights that’d just passed him with a crease over his brow bone. Y/N slows and breaks as she nears, absent-mindedly pressing a fingertip over the lock button on her door. TV Girl is still playing quietly from her car speakers when she cracks the window, stopped beside him across the road, and beckons with her chin raised just enough for her cadence to seep through the opening, “Do you need help?” 

“Yes, yeah, I—“ the man makes a quick glance towards the side of the road where vehicles would be incoming, a sharp turn of his chin, and then a step towards her parted window as Y/N twists over the volume toggle. “I just— my car broke down,” he raises an arm and points towards the dirt clearing that slips into the field, “I was coming this way, and my phone’s died—“ 

He pauses, shaking his head down at his converse, his voice a baritone croon with charming, foreign dialect, “I know this is so odd, and you probably don’t want a stranger in your car. But f’you could just order an uber or something, I could give you the cash for it?” the girl watches his ring-clad palm disappear into the front pocket of his denim hastily, only to retrieve a wallet, “—If that’s alright?” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, her pupils rove over the charming stranger, trailing from his soft dark curls, swiping over his lashes as his head ducks, down the slope of his nose, to the cushiony pink of his lips. Irises graze down his neck and catch a white tee under the collar of his cream pull-over, and they brush down his denim, to his battered, white converse. The young woman watches his hand stretch out, cautiously, a wad of neatly folded cash cupped by pads of fingers with short, yellow-lacquered nails. 

“No, don’t— …I can give you a ride,” Y/N tells him, her tone soft as her gaze wanders over his frame. 

A downward shift plucks at the corner of his plush mouth and his jaw flexes, a hesitant look shaping over his features, “It’s— I couldn’t— s’like a thirty minute drive, and I don’t wanna take you out of the way…”  

His large hand is still stretched out toward her, and she admires the cross inked over the back of his hand, on the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Her brows pinch together, and the window whirs as the glass partition sinks. The girl raises her hand and points back with her thumb. 

“Are you going in that direction?” 

Wordlessly, the attractive stranger nods — a single dip of his chin. 

“I’m going that way, too. I can give you a lift.” 

Another look of hesitancy flits over the curly-haired stranger’s face, a soft, dubious touch to his facial features. He purses his strawberry mouth. 

“If you’re sure.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, she slips her hand over the unlock button, and the doors click to signal unshuttering as the man culls his wallet and stuffs the cash back in, sticking that back into his jeans. She watches him wind around her car, his gait trailing behind, and her eyes follow his side profile, bathed in the red of the brake lights, through the rear-view. The passenger door slips open. She rolls her window the rest of the way up. 

“Thank you,” the man tells her in his low baritone, raking fingers through his curls as he slides into the seat beside her and shuts the door. 

He smells heady and fresh — expensive. But it’s not overpowering, by any means. A blend of tantalizing notes; cologne blotted in increments that mesh well with his natural musk. The pleasant scent is the first thing she notices when he climbs into her vehicle. The second is the sculpt of his side profile — lengthy lashes over the crest of his cheekbones, his nose, a plush, pink mouth, a stray curl splayed over his forehead. He’s a little older than her, at least by a handful of years; there’s this innate, aged quality to him, and she can witness it in the shape of his features, in the soft dusting of stubble over his jawline. Y/N catches glimpses of his side profile discretely as the music track shifts, eyeing the bob of his Adam's apple as he cranes his neck back against the headrest. The screen over the center console reads 1:02 AM. 

“Long night?” 

It’s a shit attempt at small talk, but the young woman turns the wheel in her palms, hopeful that the man is interested in something more than an awkward silence, sparsely filled with the mellow keys of electronic-indie leaking from the speakers. She heard him expel a breath more than she sees it in her peripherals, and as the car embarks on another U-turn, he tells her, with laughter suffusing his cadence, “Yeah. Yeah, s’been a long night.”

She does make out that he pivots a bit towards her, and his tone is earnest when he says, “But it’d be a little longer without you, I think. Thank you, again. Feels like I can’t say it enough.” 

Her mouth quirks softly. The young woman keeps a haphazard left hand on the wheel, vision bouncing from the poorly illuminated road ahead and the phone in the cupholder. The LED display lights alive as she swipes her thumb over the lockscreen and toggles onto the maps app, cueing him by nudging the electronic in his direction. 

“Um. If you could just type in the directions— I’m sort of shit in these parts, to be honest.” 

She casts a brief gaze toward him and sees a soft divot pinch into his cheek as the corners of his mouth crook up. His fingertips, warm and rough — calloused — brush over the back of her hand with the handoff, and then his thumbs are working over the screen before an address and a winding blue line of directions with an eta of thirty-four minutes teems the screen. 

“Hi, by the way,” the man says in his honey-smooth cadence, “My name’s Harry.” 

“Hi,” Y/N grins, shooting a bashful glance into the attractive stranger — Harry’s — direction, before fixing her irises up ahead. “I’m Y/N.” 

“Y/N,” the man parrots — God. She could listen to him drone on about the most monotonous topics in that voice. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses that same timbre again to say, “S’a pretty name.” And she has to ignore the flurry of butterflies that swarm her innards at the entirely innocuous compliment and the heat that suffuses her cheeks. “Are you from around here?” 

“Ish. Sort of,” she slows at a curve through the field. Her brows pinch, “I mean, I’ve lived here for a bit now, but I moved from Oregon.” 

“Oregon? That’s sick. Any particular motive?” 

Y/N lifts a subtle shoulder, because there isn’t. She pauses before she answers. “Dunno. Just needed a change of scenery.” 

Harry twists the ring over his pinky and nods down at the motion, lips pursed with intrigue, “Adventurous.”

The young woman’s mouth crooks, because he’s, evidently, from the opposite hemisphere.  

“That’s admirable,” the man motions with his chin. 

Her mouth is still smiley when she rounds another curve, in the opposite direction, and mirrors his dialogue, “What about you? Any motive?” 

“My motive?” his inflection is cheeky and playful, “You don’t think I’m a native?” 

The girl makes a wry sound of amusement; an obvious inclination of disagreement. The handsome man grins, all raspberry-tinted lips and friendly teeth. “Just …visited, and never wanted to leave,” he declares with little expansion on the topic. Simple, short, sufficing. 

There’s a little moment of lull between them when she straightens the car out and the track slips into the chorus. 

Harry shifts in the passenger seat and asks, in that same deep timbre she could sink into and drown in, “Where are you headed from?” 

Where is she headed from? Y/N blinks at the road ahead, digits flexing over the steering wheel. Truth be told, it’s a late hour to be out and about, especially in this deserted neck of the woods. Every cozy little farmhouse in these plains, distant beyond the fields of grass, has lights off. No other car passes. 

“I was on a …date,” the young woman tells him. 

Harry nods and swivels in his seat to face her a bit. “Good date?” 

Y/N pauses, the fragments of the story rolling around behind her skull. And truth be told, …it wasn’t a very good date. But it wasn’t a date to begin with. In all honesty, she’s not about to tell this attractive stranger that she’d driven forty minutes for a routine hook-up with an old tinder match, only to be stood up outside his door. 

He was a character whose path happened to cross with hers for purely carnal purposes, and their flings were like rolls through seasons, rendezvous blotted into her timeline where either had a smidge to make room. She’s not going to talk about that. It’s piteous, basically. The young woman doesn’t risk side-eyeing him. This man seems like he’s well off in that department, and she doesn’t want to discuss her shit intimate life and the way that Cody decided, last minute, that he was more interested in going out for miller lites with his buddies than entertaining the idea of sleeping with her. 

He didn’t even have that impressive of dick game anyways — that’s the brutal candor. It wasn’t that he had this particular lack of satisfaction guarantee, but the sex was okay. It didn’t tick all the boxes or leave her fulfilled, not in the real sense, but it was sex, and it was decent. Maybe the most brutal part is the way she’d driven all the way to see him, even knowing that the sex wasn’t going to be top notch. 

Apparently, her silence stretches too long, and the pause gives away the answer she mulls tactics over hiding. 

“Bad date,” the girl hears from beside her — it’s in this thoughtful sort of way, like Harry’s slotting puzzle pieces together in the lull.   

Y/N shifts her fingers over the wheel, the sound of skin sliding over leather meshing with the starting notes of a Cage the Elephant track. Her thumb toggles over a button on the wheel. She skips it. 

“No,” the girl responds, eventually, but she doesn’t even sound fully convincing to her own ears. There’s this high note to her cadence, and she hears it in her own waver of honesty. She wants to cringe up, a little, at the sound. “Not …bad. Just. Well, you know. What about you?” 

For the first time since she’d gotten back onto the road, Y/N casts her gaze to him. A glimpse, a twist of her chin, enough to take in his side-profile for a smidge of a second, more in a way to incite switching the topic and pivoting the point of conversation than the inconspicuous stare she’d made appreciating his features. The corner of his plush mouth curves up, and he makes a little sound; a puff of air through his nostrils like he’s bridling mirth. 

“Was my date bad?” Harry says, in this playful sort of way. Like he’s teasing her. 

“No— your— whatever you—” 

Y/N huffs. She rolls her shoulders back against the seat, a heat teeming over her cheeks. Why was she so nervous? Why did he make her so nervous? Harry makes another sound of amusement, the cushion of his lips unsealing to display straight white teeth. 

“I was at a friend’s,” Harry expands, opting to stop drawing out the teasing, enough for Y/N’s shoulders (that’d grown rigid) to relax a little against the seat. “Was actually having a good night, believe it or not. And then, you know.” 

Unfortunately, she does know. He’s sitting in her car, after all. 

“Do you know what went wrong with it?” she ponders. 

“Well,” Harry the pads of his fingers over the door, and it takes every fiber in her not to sneak a glance at the motion, not to admire the yellow polish, washed with darkness, dim in the car, “the check engine light was on for a bit, to be honest. But— no,” the man pauses with a little simper, shooting her a glance, “Cars aren’t my specialty.” 

They talk about loads of things — she learns all about his friends and the sort of outing they’d had (game night it’d been, Uno, and he’d beckoned her opinion on a debate that’d arisen — whether a draw four could be stacked onto a draw two). That had spawned another conversation on card games —

(“Is it like Go Fish, then?” 

“No,” she snorts, “not at all.” 

“Not at all?” 

“There’s a board and it’s— more complicated.” 

“There’s a board,” Harry parrots, shifting with his elbow brace on the center console like an armrest, “And it’s just, like. Cards, like, in a deck of cards?” 

“You’ve never played cribbage?” Y/N repeats in disbelief.)

She learns about his job, and his cat, and his collection of vintage vinyls. He’s amiable, and he answers every question she directs his way with this smooth sort of charm. He’s easy to talk to, and the span of the drive cuts shorter and shorter through intriguing conversation. But she leads the way for the majority of the inquiries. 

It’s not until they’re at the halfway mark before he asks his own, rather than redirecting one of hers. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry drums his fingertips over the plush of his mouth, and Y/N struggles to fix her eyes back onto the road once she’s spared him a glance. 

It takes her a second to hum out an agreement, too. 

“It was a bad date, wasn’t it?” 

The girl expels a breath and drums her fingers over the wheel, casting her gaze onto the screen of directions. 

“It wasn’t even a date,” she confesses, “he was like—“ she blinks, lashes fluttering as exasperation at the reminder leaks through, “A tinder hook up, and we didn’t even end up hooking up.” 

Before he can interject, Y/N tacks on, begrudged, “He wanted to hit the bars with his posse of Mag-con wannabes, instead.”

And then there’s this sort of pause that has Y/N thinking that maybe she’s overshared. The man with the sun-polished nails isn’t an old friend she’s having a gab with, catching up on the phone — he’s a stray man she’s plucked up off some deserted road, and if he judged her for her choices, it’d kind of be justified. Namely, the one where she’d driven out in the middle of the night for impromptu cock. 

And anyways, this all feels a bit surreal — the beginnings of a therapy session with a stranger who’d hopped into her sedan for a lift, filling the void of a psychologist in a great, big leather armchair.  

Except Harry sounds earnestly disbelieving when he says, “You’re kidding.” 

She purses her mouth and readjusts her fingers over the steering wheel. “He sort of …canceled when I was already at his door? Forgot to text me that the plans changed. That’s what he said.” 

“What a dickhead.” 

“Mm,” Y/N hums. 

“He’s a moron for passing up the opportunity,” Harry tells her. It’s not in an awkward way, or anything creepy, either. He’s got this air to him, she finds — an ability to make a comment like with effortless delivery of charm. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, only risking her a brief glance that she catches in her peripherals. She still side-eyes him from her seat in surprise, the edges of her mouth curling up bashfully. 

“M’serious,” Harry says, dimples pinching into place beside the upturned-curl of his plush mouth. 

And the thing is, Harry is so friendly. He’s kind, and interesting, and despite the way Y/N had assumed allowing for his presence in her car would be the world’s greatest chore, she’s pleased to be in his company. 

That’s why she lifts a wry shoulder and tells him, “The sex was bad anyways.” 

The man’s face pivots to face her, then. “Yeah?” he coaxes for expansion in his molasses-slow croon of a timbre. 

“It was just a little boring.”

“Boring?” 

“Not— maybe not boring. Just, you know. There was nothing…” Y/N drums digits over the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”

The man beside her clears his throat. 

“Was he a missionary in the dark type of bloke, then?” 

“Yes,” she responds, almost instantly. Because missionary in the dark is, perhaps, the best way to describe Cody’s sexual nature. Down to the T, practically. She can’t fathom how many times she’d lay there, hoping he’d switch up into something different, something where his hands weren’t resting shallowly on the bed sheets beside her shoulders, something where his face wasn’t tucked into the crook of her neck, his mouth biting back everything but soft hisses of air as his hips rocked at an mediocrely slow pace. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“But not even that, it’s like. He wasn’t bad at foreplay, or anything. It wasn’t the best. But, you know. It was all sort of… plain.” 

The young woman pauses before she continues with an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug, “And there’s nothing wrong with plain. It gets the job done, and, you know. That’s what some people like.” 

There’s a shift in energy, from there. It’s subtle, but Y/N can feel it, and she wonders whether the morph is a one-sided experience. It happens with the honesty of the context, with the way she swears jade winds over her figure from beside, with the rasp of his voice beckoning something playful. 

“But that’s not what you like.” 

Y/N takes a second to answer. “No.” 

“What do you like?” 

Maybe that phrase is where it hits her. Where she recognizes that the subtle shift in energy is not one-sided. Not by any means.

Y/N risks a haphazard glance into his direction. 

“Not …that,” the girl laughs. It’s a nervous, giggly kind of sound, but it’s not because of him.  

It’s different now, she thinks. He’d been so timid at first — all bashful gazes through lashes glimmering under the beam of headlights, hesitancy shaping his features. Friendly dialogue — alluring, but curt in anything beyond friendly. This is different. This is blunt and forward. This is his eyes raking over her, this is his tongue swiping out over the plush of his pink mouth, this is his dimples peeking as the corners edge up.

“What do you like?” Harry asks again, a note of flirty, lighthearted amusement to his smooth cadence.  

Y/N sighs, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “I don’t know. Oh my God. Why are you interrogating me?”

Harry laughs. His brows rise, and he tips his chin down so the green sparkles at her. “You don’t know what you like?” 

“I don’t know,” she huffs, good natured. And then she gives. “Something… rough. Something exciting. I don’t know, pull my hair, make it hurt a little. Don’t… lay there in the dark and…” her speech morphs into giggles, “Groan into my ear about how tight I am while I’m laying there like a dead fish.”

Y/N doesn’t know how she ends up pulled over in some deserted parking lot. She doesn’t know how her headlights end up off, how the stranger’s hands sew into her hair, how his lips mesh softly with hers, hungrily. Well. She does know, but she doesn’t care about the details in between. Because he’s hot, and he tastes of mint, and the tips of his fingers press into her scalp and tug a little when they brush through, when he slips a palm over the nape of her neck through the work of his cushiony mouth. It’s thrilling, and it’s sexy, and it’s dangerous, she thinks, but that thought becomes clouded and pushed back to the dells of her mind. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” Harry murmurs when they disconnect, fingers splaying over her cheeks. Her heart hammers in her chest, and his irises trail after the motion of his thumb, bumpily dragging over the side of her lips, all the way to her cupid's bow. That same pad of his thumb pauses and tugs, drawing her bottom lip down to show the slightly parted seal of her teeth. 

And then he’s taking his thumb away and nudging the tips of his index and middle finger, coaxing, “Open your mouth, open your mouth.” 

The pads of his digits meet the tip of her tongue and prod in, brushing over her taste buds, until he’s tapping onto the center of the muscle and crooning, “Stick it out. Tongue out for me.” 

A little hum escapes her, plucking at her vocal chords when she complies, only for him to trace further with his fingertips and nudge until he strokes the back. He holds them there and makes a little motion with his chin and a soft tut when her irises stay pinned on him, glazing with a sheen of watery protest at the depth of the intrusion. 

“Ah— don’t you gag,” he tells her softly, every syllable of every word coated with these notes of dominance that almost seem …innate — like the headspace is a pair of shoes for him to slip into with ease. 

It’s filthy, it’s so filthy — this stranger’s fingers in her mouth, this man she’s never seen a day in her life, a complete, nameless stranger, not even an hour prior, prodding into the warm wetness behind her lips. And her, following his aimless direction, just to please him. She doesn’t gag through the way his fingers crook, her tongue twitching and her throat bobbing, her sight growing blurry with the coating of sheen. It’s worth it, immensely, when Harry hisses out a soft curse and groans softly, his brows pinched. 

It’s worth it when he takes his fingers away, and Y/N’s jaw is coated with her drool, when her tongue is still out, when Harry says, in this soft, strained voice, like it’s praise, “Christ, you’re a filthy thing.” 

She finds that this impromptu rendezvous sort of gives her whiplash. She’s parked in some empty parking lot with her lights off, and an alluring stranger’s just untucked his fingers from her mouth. Maybe someone would deem this a new low — having a shag with some hitchhiker she’s scooped off the side of a back-country road. But he’s eyeing her like she’s prey, and he rolls from one action like pages flitting and flipping in a book, and every detail keeps her on her toes. She can’t keep up. Y/N pants wetly, like she’s not sure whether to slip her tongue back into her strawberry mouth, because she’s not. 

Not until he swipes another thumb over the tip of the lax, twitching muscle and beckons, like he’s a little amused, “Aren’t you?” 

Slowly, her tongue retreats, and that’s when his hand slips and cups over her throat, and that’s—

Her pulse thunders like it’s straining to beat out from below her skin, and Harry adjusts his grip, that same, wet thumb drawing short, slow lines over the point like he wants to test the race of her heart, like he wants to know that the pattern has skyrocketed since his palm has made homage over her windpipe. The man hums, pupils trailing and lingering slowly. 

“Tell me—“ Y/N shifts in her seat, spine straightening out against the cushion, and something wracks down every individual knob when his blown gaze pins her the same way his palm pins over her neck, “Tell me you’re my filthy plaything.” 

The press of his hand isn’t harsh by any extent, not until she parts her lips to answer — that’s when he nudges a little firmer. A little harder. He cocks his head at her in this condescending way — like her stifled sound of surprise entertains him, like the subtle, almost unnoticeable jolt of her eyelids, widening, pleases him. Judging by the slight quirk at the edges of Harry’s plush mouth, it does. 

Her tummy coils with unanticipated desire. This feels almost scary. This feels like traipsing over a rope, like teetering over dangerous territory, and the sudden spike of adrenaline only has her thighs clenching together harder. Because this is sweet Harry, the friendly hitchhiker, in his cream sweater with his nice smile, and his charming dimples, and his loose, clean curls, with his warm palm cupped over her throat and the pad of his thumb digging into her pulse. He looks fucking hungry. 

“I’m—“ her statement’s muzzled by the press of his hand, an increase in only a slight increment. It’s enough to wrest a garbled sound from the back of her throat. He tips his head. 

“What’s that?” 

“I’m your…” she pauses when he presses harder, again, and this time’s enough to have her feeling lightheaded, her bleary eyes wandering over his face and every muscle of her face battling the light flutter of her lashes. She thinks a dimple peeks from his cheek. Harry lets up.

Y/N siphons breaths like her lungs have been deprived for ages, and not just partly for the timespan of a short fifteen seconds. Still, his palm is glued over the front of her neck — just there. His thumb strokes over her pulse gently. 

“I’m your …filthy plaything,” the young woman confesses in this pathetic little voice that’d have her ashamed in every other setting. But in this one, it doesn’t. 

Arousal creeps through every fiber of being, instead, crawling through her arteries and settling into her veins like a twisted, dark goo. It thrums through her and sinks through to the trench of her tummy, frothing as chills teem down her back. He’s got this glint in his eye, like a dance around a bonfire in the deep of the night — but it’s just a stray street light that casts its shone as a spotlight when he ducks forward a tad, just enough for it to. When he tips forward, his gaze growing half-lidded, lower and lower the closer he gets, it feels like he starts to siphon every breath from her own mouth as his cushiony lips ghost over her cupid’s bow. Even for the smidge of the second it takes for their mouths to mesh again, it feels like the movement is in ultra slow motion. 

The mold of their mouths together, this time, feels a lot less like she’s got her hands on the wheel — the first time had been almost testing, sweet — something soft that’d shifted into something headier, something firmer. This feels like something he guides, something he takes the clear lead in, from the pace of his hungry lips to the exploratory nudge of his tongue against the seam of her own mouth. Her fingers flex over the center console aimlessly, palm straying, and fingertips catching on a part of his cotton sweatshirt. They twist into the fabric softly when Harry’s tongue strokes over her own. A hand settles onto her thigh. It’s not her own.

“Get in the backseat,” he hums into her open mouth, squeezing over her flesh when she doesn’t immediately comply. He’s got this way of dulling her reflexes, crumbling the semblance of her mind to mush, and Y/N is convinced it has more to do with his touch than it has with the time of night, despite the way exhaustion wears at her tired muscles. “Get in the fuckin’ backseat.” 

When her arms strays and she reaches for the door handle, though, he squeezes at her thigh again, and hums out a displeased note of disagreement. “Not like that.” 

Bemused, Y/N shifts in her seat. A glint of something playful glows in the jade when Harry tells her, “You can find another way, can’t you, pet? Go on.” 

Y/N sits in confused silence for all of three seconds before the man sits back a tad and cocks his head, irises flashing towards the backseat with a playful, little grin quirking at his lips. Like he’s suggesting. 

It takes her longer than three seconds to clamber into the back from the driver’s seat, through the slot over the center console, but it satisfies Harry, evidently, judging by the way he palms over the globes of her backside through her stretchy mini-skirt. It’s not very graceful, and if she was less aroused she’d probably find it in her somewhere to be a bit embarrassed, but. She doesn’t. She wriggles over the cushion, instead, settling back. 

Harry has smarter ideas. He toggles the gear on the side of the passenger seat and sets the whole top of it back, like a makeshift day-bed, and scoots into the back of the sedan through the opening. And there’s not much leg room — not for the two of them, not with the whole back of the seat splayed — and there’s not much room for their heads, either, but they manage to squeeze back, and he’s gripping onto her shoulders and twisting her on his own whim before the young woman has a chance to shift around, herself. 

“Get—“ the way Harry manhandles her with a grip on her hips, (once he’s got her slumped, at least somewhat) — with ease, like he’s flipping a page in a book rather than rearranging her whole position in the cramped space of a sedan backseat — that lights something fiery in the pit of her belly. “Hands and knees, baby,” Harry tells her, grunting softly while her limbs scrabble over the pleather. He pulls her back into him, by the hips as she’s physically molded into it, parroting, quieter, “hands and knees.” 

“Itsy bitsy skirt… so easy to just—” Harry hums, this sort of mischief to his cadence — and it becomes blatantly obvious, the reason for it, when his digits creep under, from behind, and his colossal palms hitch it up, “Oops.” 

She’s wearing tights under it. They’re not the fleece-lined kind, despite the bite of chill in the air outside, but they are there, and Harry spans the pads of his fingers over the barrier like he doesn’t have plans to discard them the practical way. 

He doesn’t. The man stripes a fingertip down her core, from behind, over the fabric and the faint hue of cheeky purple that peeks through, and makes this devious sound of mirth when her whole body twitches. And then he draws the same fingertip back up, in the same line, and nudges a bit. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Harry coos. The third, slow drag has her arching her hips back. “Hm? What am I gonna do?” He takes almost a thoughtful second, tongue peeking out to swipe out over the cushion of his pink bottom lip, before Harry splays his palms over her bum, “Pretty girl… pretty arse…”

And it’s so calm — he’s so calm, so casual, so nonchalant — Y/N doesn’t even sense it coming until he sighs, and then he’s digging the tips of his digits into the nylon, stretching it from her core, and just tearing. Casually. Nonchalantly. The sound of fabric ripping apart coaxes her jaw to slip open, and her pupils stick to the inside of the door, unblinking, as he just tears, and tears, and tears. 

And she’s not even upset, is the thing. She’s not irritated that this stranger’s just torn the crotch of her tights apart — she can’t be, not when he hums devilishly and strokes over her core, a layer closer. Maybe that’s pitiful. Maybe that’s sad, that she’s so fucking horny that she doesn’t care that her tights have been split open with no prior discourse on the topic, but this direction of impulse — the way she’s not even able to try and guess his next move, it kindles something hot and hungry. 

And if she ever has Cody to thank for anything, Y/N thinks maybe it’d be that he’d inspired her to shave and slip on a pair of decently attractive underthings. 

“These are pretty, too,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the crotch of the thong, just over one side. The young woman gives this dreamy little sigh and arches back up into him further. “What d’you want, sweetheart? Want me to give some attention …here—“

Her spine jolts when he nudges the pad of his index right up against her clit, lightly, over the purple fabric, “Maybe? Is that it? Eager girl.”

He draws a featherlight circle over it, and then another, and another until her thighs are trembling. The tip of his digit taps. She nudges back, and he takes it away altogether. An amused sound slips from his mouth.  

“Say please,” Harry demands. 

Y/N jumps as his fingertips trail to her inner thigh, crooking and tickling in the line they draw. 

“Please.” 

Again, he makes a disapproving tut, and Y/N rolls her cheek onto on a forearm, tucked over the seat. 

His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and his fingertips drift up and down the back of her thigh, drawing closer and closer where she needs him most with every lap. Each word is covered with notes of firm dominance. “Not like that. Like you mean it — like you’re pleading.”

Y/N mulls over the words, her heart thundering. 

“How d’you beg?” 

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but then when they do, she croons out, softer, more desperate, “Please.” 

There’s a soft sound of a breath being expelled, the seat crinkling quietly as, she assumes, Harry sits back on his haunches, head ducked. Like it’s not good enough. Her tongue traces out over her lips and she beckons, “Please, please,” each plea prompting a spiral of unfamiliar humiliation — glazed with arousal — to unfurl. 

“Please, please, please—“ each word emphasized with a rock back of her hips. And finally, he touches her. 

His palm cradles a cheek, and he doesn’t sound even slightly impressed. Instead, his voice comes out exasperated when he tells her, “That’s not convincing. You’re desperate. You want something — you need it, you’re pleading.”

“Please— please—“

“Louder,” he scoffs, “Beg. Beg.” 

“Please,” she tries, desperation creasing her voice strained on the syllable, and Harry drags fingertips, airy, across her inner thigh, from bottom to top. “Please, please, please—“

And finally, something clicks. Something slots together, at some point, when she ditches the inhibitions and her cadence starts to border on a delirious sort of desperation. Finally, something works. 

“That’s better,” Harry says softly, swiping his thumb over her clit, “Much better.” 

She doesn’t pick up on that, though, and she’s still begging, pleading, quietly. Quieter, quieter, quieter — the words growing more sparse the longer he spends time honing on her clit, the firmer his touch becomes. 

“Good girl,” Harry coos, his fingertips latching up under the hem at the crotch of her panties, before he tugs, “Good girl. You ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you. S’that easy.”  

He slips a thumb against her gushing entrance and drags it down, tracing careful shapes over the bud of nerves, before he tugs down on the hood and emphasizes on the new exposure by reigniting the touch with the thumb on his opposite hand. Two hand task — very dedicated. 

“S’this all for me?” the man teases, pinching her clit, lightly, between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index. He sounds a little self-satisfied when he declares, quietly, “I’m flattered.” 

Her lips part as a silent, breathy moan wrests from the back of her throat. It happens when the pad of his long middle digit prods at her entrance and nudges in. The thumb on his other hand sweeps, side to side, over where she’d most sensitive, and he stuffs into her further. And they are lengthy — his fingers. She’d seen them drumming over the center console, and smush over the raspberry tint of his lips, felt them coat her tongue, and felt them press against her throat. They can reach further than her own, crooking against her spongy walls, curling when he adds a second before straightening out and scissoring for the stretch. 

“Christ, you’re gushing,” Harry says, and as if on cue, the pornographic squelch of his fingers working crowds the cramped space, “Jesus— d’you hear that?” 

Y/N buries her face in her arms to muzzle the little sounds of bliss that he pries from her mouth. It’s not until he’s proper fucking into her with his digits, the pad of his thumb dragging tight, little circles over her clit, that those sounds escape her. And when they start, they pour in a flood. Because he works so expertly, so deftly — from the pace, to the angle, to the way he hones on her clit with his other hand, and the filthy dialogue he spews in his honey-smooth baritone. It’s everything, everything, and it prompts the coil in her belly to circle and squeeze, tighter, tighter — a telltale prior to its inevitable snap. She clenches over his fingers helplessly.

But then he just— stops. 

The nudge of his digits skirts to a stand-still within her, and his thumb stops drawing circles, and Y/N just squeezes over him like a silent plea. He makes this sound — this mirthy, deviously pleased hum, like her displeasure at his pause amuses him. It’s pure sadism. 

It’s not until she rocks her hips a bit, a shallow, desperate kind of back and forth, that the amusement seems to slip from his tone. 

“Don’t—“ Harry tuts sharply, taking his thumb off her clit altogether to grip at her hip harshly, “Stay still. Naughty, little minx.”

And she does. She stays still when his voice gets hard like that. There’s a bit of quiet between his snap and the subtle freeze-up of her rocking. Soft breaths sew through the lull, but then he talks again, his tone a little nicer. 

“We’re gonna play a little game, yeah?” 

That’s …intriguing. Y/N shifts over the cushion. His grasp over her hip has softened considerably, but there’s still this humiliating heat that swarms her face at the fact that the crotch of her panties is still tucked against her skin, that everything’s out in the open, that Harry’s practically ogling in lieu of touching her. 

“It’s a bit like Simon Says. Except, when you play Simon Says, you hesitate a little, right?”

The man’s thumb presses back to her clit, and she buries her face in her folded arms. 

“And I don’t want you to hesitate. I’ll tell you something to do, and—“ 

His fingers sink into her, and her shoulders grow tense from the bliss. Y/N muzzles her groan. 

“You’ll do it. Sounds easy enough?” 

It does. It’s easy enough instructions, and when Harry pats at the same hip he’d been clutching over and beckons, “Hands back here,” Y/N obliges easily enough. 

Her cheek presses to the cushion, cool against the warmth teeming beneath her skin, and she lets him manhandle and move her splayed fingers to his liking, arms stretched behind. 

“That’s good,” Harry croons in his low timbre, the warm, lewd praise of it drawing chills up the nape of her neck, “Now spread a bit for me.” 

Y/N does that, too. Her finger pads nudge and press into her flesh, coated with the tights, and her digits crook as the tips dig in to splay — to follow his direction, to please him. And it’s shameful, a pinch in her shoulders as her arms reach back, fingers twitchy, imprinting into her own backside with little divots as she opens herself up for him to do nothing. But his satisfied little hum sends an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment spiraling through her veins. The way his warm palm rests on and pets over the back of her thigh along with it feeds something new and starving. 

“Good girl. There you go. See? S’easy.” 

Y/N makes a little sound into the seat, and her fingers flex as Harry pumps his own digits, a steady rhythm of in and out, paired with a hum from him that sounds absolutely pornographic. 

“Such a good girl,” the man tells her, fingers crooking, but the praise isn’t enough to muffle the bemusement that wracks her when he says in this devious hush, “Let’s try another. Bark.” 

Bark. 

It takes a second for the command to register past the immediate threshold of the pleasure curling in her belly as he strokes at her spongy walls. And when it does click together, his word settling past the membrane of bliss, her initial thought is that she’s definitely misheard him. Because that’s …sort of a ludicrous request. The young woman sounds strewn between groggy and muzzled when she cranes her neck a bit over the cushion and beckons with a confused hum. 

“Bark,” Harry repeats, “like a dog.” Simple and nonchalant. 

Bark like a dog. She’s midway through creased brows, a strained raise of her head, and a baffled what, before the man stills his fingers and takes a grip over her wrist, sliding her hand away. 

And then he smacks her, hard, with his palm on one side, in the same place where her digits had dug in to spread herself open. 

It’s loud, and it stings, and it sends a shockwave through her nervous system, strong enough to have everything buzzing on alert as her forehead pastes to the seat and the parted gap of her mouth struggles to mute a gasp. Maybe the most surprising part is that the hurt feels good, that the sting morphs into something else as it fizzles and ebs, that the hammer of her heart spikes this famished, unfamiliar arousal coursing through her when he doesn’t even bother stroking over the bruised skin. It’s definitely hard enough to leave a ruddy mark under the tights, and Y/N blinks down at the faux leather, wordless and a little gobsmacked. 

And then Harry sighs in this way that’s so …disappointed. And the calmness of his inflection, grouped with the irony of the harsh hit… that has a chill climbing up her spine. 

“That’s not how you play the game, pet.”

He says it in this eerily nonchalant note of disdain, like he’s not just casually tattooed the shape of his hand onto her backside with a blow. Like he expected better. Like it’s a little mishap they’ll gloss over. She doesn’t even realize she’s still got a vice clamped over his fingers until he shifts the digits in her, coaxing her core to flutter around him. Harry sighs again. 

“Did you forget the rules, baby?” he asks, cadence soft and basked in condescension. The man strokes over the heated skin, the same spot where Y/N is sure a subtle welt has peaked to the surface below the thin veil of the sheer tights, “I tell you to do something and you do it, right?” 

Her knees are starting to ache a little, a soreness settling into the joints, but she doesn’t even mind it when his fingers pump again, slowly. 

“That’s how the game goes. Right? I need an answer.” 

She makes a soft sound. A little sound that’s not protest. A little sound that’s not outright agreement. It’s a whimper into a void, but everything about him and his touch lights something alive in her. And she wants more. She’s dizzy off of it when she manages out a breathless, “Yes.” It’s a short word that comes out in a breath, like she’d been holding the air in her lungs. 

Maybe that’s why she’s dizzy. 

“Are we on the same page? Let’s try again, then. Bark.” 

Y/N shifts over the seat. The hand he’d moved has splayed helplessly to her side, and the fingers curl and uncurl as the weight of the suggestion hits her. Because that’s— it’s humiliating. It’s demeaning, and it’s strange, and the fact that he demands it has the tips of a fire licking up at her insides. The young woman makes an uncharacteristically pathetic noise. 

Harry sighs. 

The split second of hesitation is enough, apparently, for another slap, just as hard, in the same spot. It has her rocking forward and clenching over his digits again. Harry’s quick to correct her posture with a hand on her hip, guiding her back in a way that lacks gentleness. 

“I said, bark.” 

This time his voice is harder. Meaner. Y/N gives. 

She gives because the tips of his fingers prod at this heavenly spot inside her, because her skin smarts in a way that has her practically drooling, because she’s dizzy, and hungry, and desperate. Her thighs are quivering when she gets out a half-hearted woof, her lips shaping over the word like the task is a chore to get out. 

“Better—“ another slap, aimed lower onto the back of her thigh, has her hips jutting and the straight line of her spine twisting up, “—but not what I’m looking for. Try again.” 

She doesn’t even aim to please, is the thing, when her yelp overlaps with another smack. But it morphs into something surprised and deliciously pained, and evidently, it’s enough, judging by the way his touch smooths over the stinging skin.

“Oh, baby,” Harry tells her, his fingers stroking like he’s smudging the pink-tinge of bruising, “That’s pathetic.” 

And it dawns on her then, that there’s no winning with this game. When he tuts and tells her, absolutely patronizingly, “So desperate for it, she’s barking like a stray.” 

It dawns on her that she doesn’t want to win. She doesn’t care, because his filthy dialogue, as demeaning as it is, just draws her wetter and closer. As if to highlight on it, Harry crooks his fingers and tacks on, “You’re leaking all over the seats, pet.” 

And she is, she’s sure. It’s a dirty game he plays, and she loves every part of it and more. It has her writhing when he draws circles over her clit, it has her aching for more when he guides her hand back to her backside with a squeeze and a wordless coax to keep spreading. 

“Gonna let me fuck you?” Harry pulls the digits out, dirtying what’s left of her tights and smearing sticky wetness over the back of her thigh, “Hm? Gonna let me—“ his belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and then comes the soft sound of a zipper, its teeth unlatching, “—fill you up?” 

“Glovebox,” Y/N mumbles, hips shifting back when he pets at her thigh. 

His pupils flit, sticking to the back of her head, before they jump back down to his handiwork. Harry’s tone sounds absent-minded and mirthy when he asks, “What’s that?” 

“There’s condoms in the glovebox,” she expands, a little louder than her prior murmur, bracing on her forearms to cast her gaze back at him over her shoulder. 

And he looks rugged in this boyish, youthful way, then, is the thing. The corner of his mouth jolts, lopsided, and a stray tendril has flopped over his forehead. His hands are on the undone buckle of his belt, and his fly’s down, and he sounds absolutely amused when he says, “Are there?” 

There are. 

“You’ve prepared for this, then, have you?” Harry sets a palm onto her hip, squeezing as a dimple pinches into his cheek, “Condoms in your glovebox …like a proper dirty whore?” 

Coyly, she blinks, cheek nuzzled to the seat, and she watches him stretch his arm out for the glovebox as he knees away. 

“I’m always prepared,” Y/N settles on, softly.

The glovebox slips open. There’s rummaging — his torso turns to face it entirely, and then he gleans a shining, golden little packet, tucked between the pads of his digits. The young woman wriggles her hips. There’s this glint of fiery …something. Something playful, something lewd, something hungry in the jade, when he clambers back over, steadying himself with a palm on her tailbone. It coaxes her spine into a pretty, sharper arch.

“You do this a lot, do you?” Harry teases, “Pick up strange men, let them fuck you?” 

She hums in agreement as the man takes the little gold square, snug between his teeth, fingers working quickly, pushing buttons through slots and tugging his cock out. 

“Maybe I do.” 

He tears at the wrapper with his teeth. She knows, because his next words come out a little muffled. 

“Is that right?” 

It’s not. It’s so out of the norm, so far from the usual, but Y/N would be a masochist to string out the arousal that’d built between her thighs in lieu of letting Harry span his palms over the globes of her ass in the backseat. Harry, with his cheeky smile and his sunshine, short-trimmed nails. Harry, with his denim-tethered bulge dragging over the back of her thigh and his filthy tongue shaping crude dialogue.  

She doesn’t see him as he tuts from behind, but she can picture it; his palm cupped over the base of his shaft as he rolls the condom over and then presses the tip against her teasingly. 

“Wanted to be fucked like a dirty whore, is that it?”

Her “yes” stretches and ebs and splinters into a whispery hiss when Harry nudges forward and stretches her out. And then he’s beckoning for her hands, one hand splayed over her hip and the opposite coaxing at her shoulder, tugging and jolting in gentle nudges, mouth shaping over firm, “Hands, hands, give me your hands — behind your back— that’s— just like that.” 

Barred from scratching at the seats with his firm, warm grip binding the joints hostage, Y/N presses her cheek to the cushion. She slumps into his willpower, gives into him, the smush of her face sweaty on the cushion, jolting with every rock forward. The young woman clenches over him helplessly. Soft sounds slip past her lips, pried out by the nudges of his hips, over and over, again and again. Her fingers stiffen and flex, and the arch in her spine shifts when the head of his cock bumps that delicious ridge so deep in her — and it’s like Harry senses it, the way her entire body grows taut like a string. He goes at that too, prodding, again and again, until a whine plucks at her vocal chords. Every shallow jolt of his hips sends waves of paralyzing bliss licking over her insides. Every nudge forward has her slumping more. And when he talks, Y/N barely registers it over the rush of blood in her own head. 

There’s been little things that fall from his mouth — soft curses and hisses as he slides in, hums and groans when he bottoms out, readjusting his grasp over her wrists. Words, though — now he’s saying words. They’re still in that gentle baritone, this sort of luring croon. 

“Come on, baby. Come on — got a stranger’s cock in your pretty, little pussy—“ Harry’s voice catches on a strained note as he pulls out—

…A sigh as he rocks back in, “—and …you’re not gonna struggle?” 

A warmth stems from his grasp, behind her back, and as if on reflex, her digits crook and flex. The danger of the words don’t even register. Because, yeah, he’s right. She’s got a stranger holding her restrained, rocking up against her, and all that peaks in her at the filthy dialogue is a bud of deranged arousal. She doesn’t shoulder forward though, doesn’t try to pull her hands apart, doesn’t sag forward, not even a little, too concerned that even a minute shift will alter the delicious intensity of the angle. 

“Not even a little bit?” Harry tuts, grinding forward, one more time, slow, and then he squeezes over her wrists hard and picks up in pace. Just until he settles into a hard tempo of short, deep thrusts, and her shoulders are aching from the way he pulls her arms back. 

His words blanket her with this patronizing sort of humiliation — the kind that has her spongy walls pulsing over his length and chills erupting from the nape of her neck to the creases between her shoulder blades. “You make it so easy.”

So easy for a stranger to fuck her — so easy, pulling over in some desolate parking lot. So easy, letting him wrap a palm over her throat and stick his fingers past her lips. So easy, following his every command for the reward of his hips pummeling against her own. 

And it’s easy to get close with the way he works into her, tip bumping into a spot that sends waves of pleasure coursing through every millimeter of her nervous system. The kind that has every muscle stiffening to stone until the wave ebs. It’s so easy to lurch higher and higher, closer and closer, when his touch digs into her joints, rendering her helpless to his crude affections. When strained grunts and sordid words fall from his mouth, when his other hand slips from her hip and knots into the hair, at the roots, on the back of her scalp, only smushing her cheek into the seat with more pressure. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, the pace of his thrusts stuttering as he picks up the tempo into something merciless, his digits flexing into her hair and his body weight sagging onto her frame. 

Every time his balls slap against her clit, teasing where she wants that attention the most, she feels the spring draw tighter, lips smushed to and gaping against the seat. And then he readjusts his grip, lets one of her hands free while he keeps the other pinned, and he coaxes, “Touch your pretty clit, baby. Make yourself cum all over my cock.” 

Y/N makes it to the crest before he does. It’s her fingertips sloppily winding loose shapes over the bud of nerves, it’s his cock hammering down into her, it’s the pinch in her shoulder, and the way Harry’s grip grows harsher over the hand he still has pinned, the closer he gets himself. The way his digits are still flexed at the roots of her scalp, the way his moans and curses are garbled with pleasure with each pump. The way her helpless fluttering, when she tips over the peak, draws this long, sordid groan from him as he cranes his neck back. And then he slows, ducking his chin to watch below through slow thrusts. 

“Dirty girl, cumming all over a stranger’s cock,” Harry swipes with a thumb where the mesh, toying at the seam of her hole when he goes deeper, again, slow. 

And then his grip on her wrist gets hard again as his fingers flex, and he holds onto her hip and guides her in a steady-paced, back and forth bounce over cock. He chases his own releases, every motion rough, and full of control, and so brimmed with this unfamiliar hunger. She’s mush by the time his head tips back, and he gushes ribbon after ribbon into the condom. She’s mush when his grasp over her wrist grows lax, when he knees back clumsily on his knees, when he discards the condom, wrapping it into the confines of its wrapper, when he fixes her purple panties back over her crotch and strokes over the back of her thigh with an amused huff. 

“Alright?” Y/N vaguely hears Harry say from behind when she doesn’t instantly sit up, his voice bordering on amused. 

That’s. Yeah, Y/N thinks. She’s great. There’s still this rush of blood in her ears, and an ache in her joints that interweaves with the soreness of her muscles, but it’s all in such a good way. She makes a barely coherent hum of agreement and rolls her shoulder forward, planting her palms onto the seat to sit up and glance at the time over the display in the front of the car. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and it hits her then, that she’s so tired. She’s so tired, she feels like every piece of her energy had been strewn up and pulled tight on a rope, and now it’s all wasted away. 

Harry gets it. Or he seems to, at least. Sleep beckons her with a whispery croon and a soft touch. The corners of his mouth crook up, and he pats at her hip. 

“Hop up, pet. D’you want me to drive the rest of the way? S’just a little bit, now.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. She doesn’t let strangers into her car in the middle of the night from some empty road, she doesn’t fuck them in the backseat, and she certainly doesn’t let strange men drive her car to some unfamiliar location, only lacking being undisclosed from its visible street name on the GPS. Y/N doesn’t do any of that. But she nods weakly and lets their roles flip. She’s mid-raising the back of the passenger seat by the time Harry jogs around to the driver’s seat and slips in. 

In the rear-view, her reflection greets with her unshed tears and bloodshot eyes, mascara smudged below. He turns to face her and strokes a hand down her thigh. He picks the same hand up and sets it onto the gear-shift. Switches to reverse. 

The first thing he says from the front of the car, strawberry mouth quirking as his eyes direct to the back-up camera, is, “I’m sorry about your tights. I hope that was alright.” 

When they pull up to the motel, Y/N doesn’t ask questions. There’s only been a span of, maybe, ten minutes passed between the parking lot and their final stop of the night before Harry pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car off. 

He tells her, “This is my stop.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, and exhaustion wracks at every sinew of muscle in her body. She half-expects him to wordlessly hop out of the car. He doesn’t. The man fixes her with a smile, and says, “Could I get your number, maybe?” 

It’s not an odd request by any means, but if she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d ask more questions. Her pupils would wend over the shoddy motel sign, and the shit cars parked beside them, and she’d wonder what the hell they were doing parked in front of some abandoned-looking motel. She’d ask why this was his stop, and not a home. Instead, she pulls a napkin from her glovebox and digs for a pen. She scribbles her digits and hands them off. In the brush of the cool air, from the night, when she clambers out to swap spots with him, she wraps her arms about herself. When she takes a seat into the driver’s side, she expects him to walk away. He doesn’t do that either. Instead, she rolls her window down when he beckons, and Harry leans onto the car and tells her, “Get home alright, yeah?” 

It’s a miracle when she hobbles up the steps of her apartment complex, when she pries open the front door and crashes into her sheets. The blankets envelop her like a warm hug, and she doesn’t even bother pulling off her tights. 

It’s a week before she gets a phone call. There’s no texts, and the morning after, when she’s greeted with radio-silence, she thinks that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing. 

Her tights, ripped at the crotch, prove otherwise. 

She’s in bed, days later, when her screen lights up with a call. It’s an unfamiliar number, and curiosity peaks before she swipes over the answer toggle. 

“Hello?” 

A gap of silence, a breath, and a familiar, smooth baritone on the other end of the line. 

“Y/N.” 

There’s a little sound of the bedsheets stirring as she freezes up. He’s caught her off guard. A little laugh plucks at his vocal chords, tinny on the other end of the line, like he’s amused by the stretch of lull. Her lips part, the corners of her mouth inching up as she hears a sigh from him that seeps in all the way to her eardrum. But she doesn’t have time to contemplate what to say or how to say it, because he doesn’t let her get a word in before he’s talking again. 

And his next words are not a playful jest at her lack of response, or anything friendly, really. In fact, the confession, said so nonchalantly, causes chills to erupt down her arms. 

“I was going to kill you that night.” 

The chills aren’t the initial reaction. The initial reflex is the crook of her mouth to morph bemused, the pinch between her eyebrows, and this sullen feeling of dread that twists up in her stomach. A laugh bubbles in her chest, because, what the fuck? 

But then he keeps talking. 

“Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down,” the voice on the other end sighs, and it’s got this sort of …reminiscent quality to it. Like he’s tracing the steps of the night back to its starting point. Reliving it when he tells her, “It’s such a thrill, you know. Taking that from someone. So intimate.” 

The young woman doesn’t make any sounds, kind of appalled by the sick joke. Because it is sick, it’s disturbing, and it’s a twisted way, at the least, to strike up a conversation if he’s …looking to do what they did again. This isn’t the Harry she’d met on that night. This isn’t the same one who’d worn the cream sweatshirt, and talked all friendly with this smooth, wholesome charm — this wasn’t the man she’d let into her car, this wasn’t the man she’d let do all those filthy things to her, in the backseat of her sedan. This doesn’t feel like the same man at all, and she wishes she’d been aware of the sick sense of humor to his character before she’d let him …violate her. Y/N’s just about to budge in with a disgusted comment, tell him off for calling her so late at night to mess with her, but he beats her to the edge of the gap, yet again. 

Except this time, he sounds sort of frustrated, and the phrase comes out like a scolding, the tone of his cadence firm and irate. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to talk to strangers? …Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men on the side of the road? S’just …bloody stupid.” 

He laughs. It’s this soft sort of chortle she’d been so charmed by that night — it’s identical, except then, it was this sweet sound full of wholesome mirth. Now, it feels cold. Odd and detached. Surreal.

“But you… you made it so easy,” Y/N listens to every word that comes through the line, hanging onto every syllable of the empty threat as dread churns her stomach. His words from that night crowd behind her skull. You make it so easy. “So friendly, so sweet. Just wanted to chat on and on. I was going to kill you, and you wanted to have a shag—” 

Harry tuts. Her heart hammers behind her ribcage, and she only realizes that her breathing has slowed and that her grip on the smartphone’s grown white-knuckled when it shakes against her cheek. She’d let him drive her car. She’d let him get into her car, she’d let him lure her into pit-stopping in a deserted parking lot, she’d locked the doors, and dimmed the lights, and let him open her up with his fingers and his cock. And then she’d let him drive her car, and take down her number. There’s a moment of mortifying silence.

Harry sounds deadly serious when he tells her, “Don’t you ever pick up another hitchhiker.”

The line goes dead. 

Y/N calls back. The number she reaches belongs to a payphone, unanswered.

[purplealmonds]

🧧💊👹Paper Talismans in Relation to Kusuriuri and Hyper's Evolving Powers

The paper talisman's primary function is to detect and ward off mononoke. Kusuriuri and Hyper have the unique ability to telekinetically manipulate them. Let's break down that ability further.

Manually sticking them to surfaces one by one is rather tedious and I bet less initiated medicine sellers may need to resort to that tactic.

Buckle in, this is gonna be another long one. (I nearly maxed out the 30-image upload limit)

Part 1: Talisman Deployment

Kusuriuri is capable of deploying multiple talisman at once. Though, in his early Bakeneko days there's no rhyme or reason in his arrangements.

At least he has enough precision to accidentally stick the talismans on the humans. Though he should really work on his tact.

Hyper doesn't deploy talismans in this arc, but he does summon a shield created from his golden markings which has a similar warding properties to the talisman. Not to mention, it uses the same sound effects as activated talisman if you listen closely.

From a meta animation production standpoint, making Hyper have the same talisman-deploying abilities as Kusuriuri instead of his own unique shielding abilities is more efficient and narratively consistent.

For a lore standpoint, this leads me to believe that there's a connection between the Hyper's golden markings, Kusuriuri's crimson ones, and the red glyphs upon the paper talisman.

Later, in the Umibozu and Nue arcs, Kusuriuri deploys them in a less wasteful manner. Note how they no longer overlap one another.

Tact is still not his strong suit.

Hyper once again doesn't use talisman in Umibozu, but in Nue he finally takes a page (heh, paper puns) from Kusuriuri's books. To illustrate his raw, yet controlled power, these talisman are nigh impenetrable by the Nue, and are manipulated into an organized grid-like enclosure floating in thin air which only the exorcism sword can destroy:

Naughty mononoke go into the exorcism box

In the Zashikiwarashi arc, which in the manga adaptation implies takes place after Umi Bozu, takes this precision even further.

Note how Kusuriuri brandishes them in this iconic (and marketable) pose and how they're arranged in a neat row instead of an ungovernable masses on the walls:

Hmm, the innkeeper and her assistant may be freaking out, but at least Shino (the person he's protecting) isn't. Character development, hooray!!

Although he has the capability to deploy more of them, he's now internalizing the economical "less is more" method.

It is not to say he's incapable of deploying huge amounts of them. In the Nopperabou arc, he is capable of:

1. Deploying not one, but eight rings of talisman at once:

2. Wrapping the talisman around an organically shaped object (the fox mask):

3. Constructing an entire-ass enclosure out of thousands of them - without using walls or other flat surfaces as scaffolding.

That's an insane amount of control. I'm actually a little sad that we don't get to see an evolution of Kusuriuri's ability in the final Bakeneko arc.

Hyper does technically deploy them at the very end. At first glance, it doesn't seem to be a creative improvement of his abilities. He's able to deploy large amounts of them in two neat sheets to ward off the Bakeneko's angry foot stomp, big whoop:

It almost did not occur to me that these talismans are deployed not in the mortal realm, but in the metaphysical domain of the Bakeneko. Although Hyper's not nearly as creative a Kusuriuri in using the talisman, that's one hell of a level-up.

Part 2: Object Manipulation

A less commonly discussed ability is that these talisman act as an extension of Kusuriuri. Objects with talisman adhered to them can also be telekinetically manipulated by him. A classic example of this is the fusuma screens from the first Bakeneko arc and Nue arc.

Sliding screens are relatively lightweight objects to manipulate. But the paper talisman - and by extension Kusuriuri - are capable of manipulating much heavier objects. Case in point, the barnacle-encrusted lid of the utsuro-bune in Umibozu which the combined efforts of most of the humans on the ship were unable to crack open:

So far, only Kusuriuri has leveraged this object manipulation ability. This makes sense, since he's connected to the physical human world while Hyper deals with the metaphysical one. But if Hyper does eventually use this ability, the implications are pretty damn massive.

If Kusuriuri's strength is enhanced from his normal white talisman, what would Hyper be capable of? In a pinch, if, say, the exorcism sword is knocked out of his grasp, could he then deploy some talisman to yeet a building, nay, an entire-ass mountain at a mononoke? The possibilities of badassery are endless!

Part 3: Manipulation of Sentient Entities (!?!)

Note that I did not say "humans"

In theory, it can be quite the useful ability. Stick a talisman on a human. If a mononoke stalks near them, it is repelled. If they wander into harm's way, you can yoink them to safety. If they try to attack or restrain you, you can yeet them so hard that they fly Team-Rocket style into the sunset.

Self-agency morality implications aside, I think there's a good reason why Kusuriuri takes care not to plaster talisman all over a human's body.

Consider the talisman's stuck on Shino's pregnant belly in the Zashikiwarashi arc. Look what happens to Shino when she removes a single seal:

When the seal's protective properties are activated, removing it abruptly takes a dangerous toll on a sentient entity.

Shino was "lucky". She was not the direct subject of the talisman's protection; the mononoke living within her was. Yes, not her unborn child. A mononoke, whose creation were the twin triggers of the potent emotions of the Zashikiwarashi residing in the former brothel and Shino's fear of not being able give birth to her unborn child. A mononoke which she met and bonded with prior to Kusuriuri sticking the seal on her:

Even before the seal was removed I believe the seal was already tearing Shino's Zashikiwarashi apart from the inside. It is simultaneously trying to ward it off from Shino's body and "protect" it from the Zashikiwarashi existing outside of the womb. This is why, despite her apparent "miscarriage" of the Zashikiwarashi, her actual child seemed alive and well at the end of the story arc:

I'm pretty sure if she didn't misplace the good luck doll around her wrist, she wouldn't have been infected by a mononoke in the first place. But then the assassin would have killed her and her child so I guess this traumatic mononoke encounter was her best case scenario?

If applying a seal indirectly to a Mononoke can kill it, what toll would it take if the object of its protections is a human body?

I believe that originally, the seal's protective properties are derived from small but potent fragments of the Medicine Seller's influence. When that influence is destroyed by a mononoke, the seals disintegrate:

Since this Kusuriuri is aligned with wood (see my theory regarding eye colors and elemental alignments here), I think the destruction of his influence manifesting as paper burning to cinders is apt.

However, when applied to a sentient being, I theorize that the seal begins sapping that being's life force to sustain itself. If that being remains in constant danger, a negative feedback loop forms and the talisman becomes increasingly parasitic in nature.

There's also one more incredibly obvious example of this. Remember how I said in the beginning of this analysis, that "there's a connection between the Hyper's golden markings, Kusuriuri's crimson ones, and the red glyphs upon the paper talisman?"

What are Kusuriuri and Hyper, if not the paper talismans in humanoid form? The talisman's abilities, after all, are an extension of their powers.

And when Kusuriuri, this humanoid talisman, seeks to protect the (mostly undeserving) humans in the first Bakeneko arc...

Yeah, he's not doing too hot. I think this equates to the state of the talisman when the glyphs become dyed blood red to ward off the the mononoke.

And when he further overextends himself...

If he didn't stop shortly after this, I think the damage would go far beyond the rupturing of superficial vessels and rapidly coagulating blood dribbling like tar out of aforementioned vessels.

What if those blood clots start forming in his lungs? His heart? His brain?? This is a very, very dangerous line for him to walk which could result in irreparable damage to his.

I theorize that if it ever gets to that point, the markings emblazoned on his face will spread like bruises and envelope his failing body - similar to how the paper talisman turns fully dark crimson before dissolving.

Kusuriuri's desire to protect these humans is destroying his body. Paper talismans would sooner disintegrate into a pulpy mess than allow the objects of their protection to be harmed a moment sooner. Thankfully, our medicine seller knows when to give up.

This is why after the first Bakeneko arc, we don't see Kusuriuri overextend himself like this again. Seeing his partner go through this near-fatal ordeal, I can also understand why Hyper decides not to use his built-in shield too.

They found creative ways to use those paper talismans, which are a less risky way of offering similar, albeit less potent protections. The tradeoff is worth it. After all, they can't continue to sleuth and slay mononoke if their bodies are permanently out of commission.

[tyttamarzh]

Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter.

This will probably be very long, so if you want to read it, go grab some popcorn and get comfortable.

I have to talk about this because it's eating me up inside. I think I shouldn't give so much importance to comments coming from sewers like Twitter and much less Tiktok, but it makes me so sick (and I'm such a masochist that I even spend time looking for the shit they say to make me angrier and debate them xD).

I am very happy that it was finally made official, with papers certified by the federation, that Tallulah is the daughter of Philza and Missa, I think that was not entirely necessary for them, because they had assumed it for a long time (let's assume that Tallulah needed the pappers to end her W arc), although I suppose that more than anything it was done for those people who still cannot accept it or who deny the paternity of Phil and Missa (With Missa, although it bothers me, I can even understand it, he He hasn't been as present and many people don't know him, but god, it would be a crime to deny Tallulah's paternity to Phil, the man who has kept her alive and given everything for her throughout her life).

I'm glad that, although I have seen negative comments, the majority have been positive (even if it hurts them, it doesn't matter, it's official, screw them). Mainly, the negative comments have been from defenders of W and their arguments are so poor and weak that they are easily refuted. It is obvious that these people do not know Tallulah and have never met her, many do not even know how things turned out and say nonsense like that the current Llulah is an imposter, that it is not fair that they "rewrote" history and erased W (which It is false, Llulah's words make it clear that history was never changed, she simply moved on and that person remained in the past).

I refuted all those arguments on Twitter but screw Twitter, I hate the fucking character limit. So I'm going to expand (I have a lot of poison to get out of my skin). I have some points:

1- "That's not Tallulah" Of course it is her, those who witnessed her life and her growth during the year that passed, can realize that this was her natural evolution. She is the same girl who grew up overcoming her limitations, who suffered, who felt alone, who had abandonment problems, who everyone saw as a poor abandoned girl and who found comfort next to someone who has always loved her like a father and a brother who gave everything for her.

2- "They erased all her lore" No. Tallulah's lore is the one she built with Philza and Chayanne over the course of the year they lived together. Her relationship with W and her longing for him was only part of her story (although people made a lot of emphasis on that), but it was not the only thing that defined her, it never was and only people who never got to met her think that. They see her like an extension of that other person, as the only thing that kept him on the server, but did not see her as an individual character and definitely did not watch Phil's Vods and they never really knew her lore.

3-"How do they explain this in the lore?" Simple, there was someone in her life, someone who was her first father, but who spent very little time with her, who left a long time ago and who is currently no longer part of her life. She learned to let go of the past and focused in the family she has in the present, the family that loves her, that watched her grow up, that makes her happy and gives her security to believe in herself and that is the Death Family, Chayanne, Philza and Missa. Time passes, not all people stay, treasure those who are by your side and let go of what never brought you anything but pain.

4- "They should have created another egg and replaced her" Why replaceher? It has no sense or reason. She is a character who built her own story with her family, a story that never really involved that other person other than with one or another sporadic mention, why eliminate a character that evolved by itself? Little by little she separated herself from what she was at the beginning and that bond that she had with that first father was practically non-existent. What would be the point of eliminating it or replace her with another new character?

5- "No matter what other parents and appearance give her, she will always belong to W because she still carries the name he gave her" No. She never belonged to him. She lived with that man for 2 days and apart from leaving him the promise of a reunion, she did not contribute anything else to her life. She formed her own path, her passion for music was not because of him, it was something she already had before, her love for nature, for animals, everything was built in the days she lived with Philza (even with uncle Bad). She suffered for her first father but she moved on, she matured, she discovered her link with death and her powers as a medium, she acquired her own personality and little by little she built the Tallulah she is now.

She never belonged to anyone but herself and she always fought to prove that, but people insisted on dumping trauma on her and reminding her that she was an abandoned child waiting for someone who at a certain point was nothing more than an idealized dream, because There was never a real relationship between them, they never lived together long enough. She little by little made her decisions and chose the people she wanted to be her parents (and it's not that she had few options, Quackity, Bad and even F wanted to adopt her at the time and asked them to, but she was not a girl who was looking for parents). She could choose and she chose Philza, the person who had always been there for her and later she chose Missa, someone who despite not knowing her very well gave her his love unconditionally and gave her security when she needed it. Then she was able to feel the warmth of being part of a complete family.

6- "They should change her name because W gave her that name! That impostor is not Tallulah!" Why? Her name is not anyone's intellectual property, at the time it was given to her, it belonged to her for better or worse and yes, in some way it will always be a tie to her past, but a past she has already left behind and managed to overcome by creating new memories and dreams.

To a certain extent I understand those who became attached to her because she reminded them of that other person, but if they couldn't see her as her own character, it means that they never cared enough to make the effort to get to know her.

It would shock us all if a character we liked suddenly changed drastically and left behind what like us in the first place. But if they had really watched her, they would have realized that the change was not sudden, it was gradual.

She found in Phil a protective and understanding father who always put her and her brother before anything else, who suffered with her her pain and outbursts of frustration due to the depression caused by the absence of her first father. She found in Missa a cute and loving father who always showers her with love and helps her to have confidence in herself. She doesn't lack anything with them. She has closed a cycle of pain in her life and now she can heal.

She chose the look that makes her feel finally free to be herself, whatever the external reasons that led to that, she finally has a future ahead of her unbound by the past and prefers to be more like the people she considers her family now. If you can't see what all of this really meant to Tallulah and her evolution, it's because you never cared to see even 20% of her story. Well, since the middle of last year she began her journey to break away from a name and be herself, fighting to be seen for who she was.

If those people decide to continue supporting someone despite his shit, that is their right, but the server and the admin were also within their right to decide to kick him out and want to distance themselves from a person they consider unpleasant.

7-There were comments of another type, mainly from people who are really very lost with the lore, people who consider her the daughter of Quackity, even confusing her with Tilín (saying that Q didn't know if she was the daughter of W or Luzu and that she should get a DNA test), when we all know that from the beginning she was W's daughter as a single father and that the only reason Quackity could have become Tallulah's father was if to marry W, but that never happened, W didn't come back and Quackity was never able to develop that relationship with Llulah, she considered him a possible father because she knew W loved him, but Q always being kidnapped or something, they never really related much. There are people who, even with a certificate, continue to insist that Tallulah should have been given to Quackity to raise with Luzu (she had a tender interaction with Luzu and people were already asking him to adopt her, saying that she was alone and had no parents, I seriously hate them!) I shouldn't take seriously people who obviously haven't seen Philza even once and I know that many of those people are hispanic and are limited by the language barrier but if they don't have the slightest idea They shouldn't give their opinion… Tallulah is not an object to be passed from hand to hand, she chose and in order to do so she had to go through a very long and painful arc.

8- I firmly believe that it is a great win to now have a certificate that endorses who the people she considers her parents are, but I insist, it was not necessary, because that has been known for a long time and I am sure that if it was created it was to close the mouth mouth to all those people who are not capable of accepting that.

Tallulah is the daughter of Philza and Missa (and no one else), she is part of the Death Family, that is her story, it is not a whim, a whim is continuing to link her to something she is no longer a part of or wanting to make her a part of a lore that never happened or wanting to give her other parents different from the ones she grew up with (Quackity already had Tilín, Richas and now Pepito, I don't think she needs more children and Tallulah doesn't need any more shitty drama in her life).

Tallulah is a beautiful being, both with her old look and with the new and as Missa says "She deserves only the beautiful things in the world"

Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! And I can shout it a thousand times because it's true and she always was, but now it's certified by the government and no amount of complaining or tantrums can change that fact.

Sorry for my bad english. See you!! jajaja ando re agresiva, pero es que nadie se mete con mi familia xD

[sex-tech]

This is gonna probably be a really long post about my thoughts for Act 3 with what has been set up already because I need to shout into the void about this shit LMAO get ready for a WALL of text

Also a fair warning, I'm gonna be talking about so much jayvik/vikjayce in this you don't understand THE HELL I AM GOING THROUGH THERE IS GONNA BE SO MUCH COPIUM IN THIS

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR SEASON 2 !!!

Quick mini-review: I feel like a contrarian when I say that I actually preferred Act 2 to Act 1. There were a lot of things set up and a lot of payoffs. I do have issues with the pacing overall; season 1 had much better structure and with the introduction of so much LOL lore in season 2, there are bound to be issues. There were 6 years of production for season 1 vs. 3 years of production for season 2, and it has clearly had an effect on the writing. Some scenes are too quick, some scenes are too slow, some cuts are too abrupt - I feel this is painfully obvious sometimes and talking with my friends about it we all agree that the pacing has suffered immensely.

But other than that, Act 2 has been really playing with my emotions and there are so many moments where I just kept breaking down over the scenes with Jinx, Vi, Vander and Isha. The watercolour-style flashbacks were so incredibly well done and those scenes had a lot of love put into them - props to Studio Fortiche!

I believe there is definitely a time paradox happening of some kind, one where Jayce, Ekko and Heimerdinger are lost in some kind of timeline.

This reflection in this artwork feels like it's hinting at what we will see in Act 3, maybe a different timeline, or the future, and Jayce will end up seeing the outcome of the Arcane. I feel that with how the lore is being changed, they need to give him some purpose or reason to pursue Viktor, to officially make them enemies. Whatever Jayce will see or experience will lead to that - a difference in perspectives and ideals.

Also, this shot, where Jayce returns and we see him glitching in and out, I feel that's a really clear depiction of a paradox, of different timelines converging or something similar. I can just imagine him living through all these different events, surviving something so awful, and now it's destroying him from the inside. He's so traumatized and I will defend him with my whole being.

I'm also a bit worried now about Ekko and Heimerdinger. I'm convinced that the latter won't survive however I'm not so sure about Ekko. I feel that everything being a time paradox would lead really well into him finally receiving his time powers, but as of now I think he is really under-utilized in the series as a whole, more so in season 2, and I'm really hopeful that we will get more screen time with him in Act 3.

Singed's role in this season is huge and it will definitely become even more important in Act 3. The introduction of Orianna, which I thought was so great, as well as the name-drop of "Dr. Reveck" has really set up his motivations. Warwick being his experiment for bringing back his daughter I believe will lead to him experimenting with Viktor.

Warwick's design was confusing to me at first. He felt too human but I think that was intentional - Singed wanted to create him with some humanity, a test, hence he is still more like Vander, still able to feel his love for Jinx and Vi. I believe he will survive, and Singed will get rid of his humanity completely, potentially leading to a more LOL accurate look.

This also brings me to Viktor and his OG lore. I really liked his concept in the game and I will admit, seeing them change it in Arcane worried me. While I really love the design, I was hopeful that we would see Viktor entering his glorious evolution era. But now with his interactions with Singed, with Singed's personal motivation for revival, I believe that there is still hope. Seeing how Orianna is preserved, still human-like, I believe that Singed's discoveries will lead him to recreating Viktor with metal, something closer to what we see in the game, maybe a cursed combination of both Arcane and machine, and I believe he will see it as a breakthrough in bringing Orianna back.

The way he describes it, the way he says, "You must survive, Viktor," a parallel to him saying "the specimen must survive" feels so intentional. He sees the potential in reanimation with how Viktor returned, healed, and this won't be the end of him, not yet, he must survive.

This scene where Viktor asks Singed, "Do you believe in fate?" I believe also points to another thing. Viktor knew very early on what his fate would be. He was accepting of it, he was confused as to why he was alive, and I believe in the scene where Jayce kills him, that look in his eyes was of acceptance. He did not look afraid, he looked at peace - with the idea of different timelines, with Viktor becoming closer to the celestial, he might've already known what would happen, which is why he invites Jayce to meet him. That with him saying, "I've been expecting you, doctor," is another reason I think that Viktor is aware of everything.

With Singed's final words to Viktor, the disdain in Viktor's eyes, the way Sky is looking at Viktor directly, frantic, worried, an expression of dread at the thought of the Arcane dying out completely, of all the progress coming to an end. I still believe the core is manipulating Viktor, that Sky is the personification of it, and that the core is aware of its own evolution reaching its final state, death - like a virus without a host.

And then there was this, the heavy breathing, the gritted teeth, squint in his eyes, the way he drops down - it felt like heartbreak, like guilt. He just murdererd a man, a man that spoke to him as Viktor.

Just this look. He's tired. He's returned from hell and he can see the beginning of the end, he can see Viktor's descent into madness, recognizes it immediately, and he's disappointed. Maybe he'd hoped to see something else.

Also, with Jayce saying, "I thought you were done with Hextech, and me," could imply that this new version of Viktor, remade by Singed, would no longer have a connection the Arcane - he is reforged, he has realized the weakness of flesh and compassion, "it's inescapable," and he will be remade with steel and rage, once again against his will, just like Warwick was. And perhaps, in this dark future, when Jayce finally sees what Viktor becomes, sees Viktor reject him entirely, that he is done with him, is also what makes Jayce spiral.

And now that he has returned, seeing Viktor welcome him with open arms, inviting him to spend time together, to show him what he has uncovered - what must he have seen? What must Viktor have said to him to make him feel so denied and unwanted?

Someone he once loved, someone that broke him, showing him the same gentleness and care he had once before.

"I won't fail. I swear it."

This entire sequence was insane. The different emotions in Jayce's face, the way he's cycling through pain and fear and conviction. The initial shock in his eyes, seeing what his Viktor has become, seeing him in this state, before the corruption - he looks vulnerable, he doesn't fight back, doesn't resist. He has made his promise to Viktor before, and I believe this is another promise to him, a promise to rend his mistake and do right by him. And Jayce looks frightened by his actions, frightened by the sight before him - Viktor looks so exhausted, so sick - I can imagine it reminds Jayce of him before he combined with the Hexcore.

Jayce's entire arc this season is about him gaining more agency, more control of himself despite the way he has been spiraling, whilst for Viktor it's the opposite, he has lost himself to a greater purpose, a perfect mirror to how they were in season 1.

The way their designs mirror them both too, Jayce getting the leg brace, his eyes changing, him being afflicted with the Arcane, Viktor keeping the blanket, keeping a cog that reminds him of the discoveries they made together, one side of it being perfectly clear, the other corrupted, a representation of them - two sides of the same coin.

I believe Viktor's monologue at the end, the scenes with him and Sky in a magical world where he is emoting, showing compassion for those that suffer, his realization that emotion is inescapable, shows that he still feels, even if it is all subdued. His reaction to Jayce killing Salo hurt, he looked pained and yet, as though he expected it - "that isn't Jayce" - it's not his Jayce, not the Jayce that he remembers, the one that he stayed with over shared affections, this is a Jayce ruined by him, and he is yet to see just how much they have and will hurt each other.

Maybe the exquisite chaos he is talking about is his corruption from the future, constantly self-replicating and self-annihilating, something that he has never observed before because it is yet to happen to him. He knows his fate, but not anything beyond that.

A couple final notes:

All the butterfly imagery - Jayce's hammer, the explosion in the mesh(?), the "Talis" butterfly - a symbol of death, rebirth, transformation

The parallels between Jayce and Singed, wanting to keep Viktor alive, creating a monster, and now Jayce having to destroy that which he created, a consequence of him breaking his promise

Viktor appearing as though he is connected to both the void and something celestial, godly, a balance

TLDR; jayvik divorce era will be the death of me, they were made for each other and will be the death of each other

[coolbeesbro]

TGOFC Leshy Facts (Chapter 6 Spoilers)

There's so much that goes into each character in my au, and the last chapter I dropped had a bunch of lore for Leshy's character, and I just felt like compiling the minute facts that might be overlooked in light of the story that genuinely bring me joy.

Unlike the other siblings, Leshy was just a regular chaser worm who was evolved into something more human (even though humans aren't a thing in this universe, I can't think of a term that would convey the same thing here) through the power of the Green Crown. The others were like regular people already capable of complex thinking, bipedal etc., who came to find their crown one way or another (I'll go into them more in their own posts), so in comparison Leshy is more unpredictable and overall feral in his actions and mannerisms. He also still has a strong connection with the worms and can communicate with them perfectly fine, giving him an advantage over prior gods of Chaos who couldn't control them at all.

Some examples of him being more animalistic is the fact that he's being prone to biting just because, and still having urges like burrowing underground being more comfortable for him than sleeping in an actual bed, and randomly making strange little noises. He also thinks nothing about eating through and ripping up the floorboards in his house, and has Heket bring him spare lumber to store as a "little snack" when he's too lazy to get up and go to the dining hall and raid the kitchen. Every sibling's homes are reflective of their personalities, and where Heket, Kallamar, Narinder and Shamura have furniture and decor, Leshy's home, though normal looking from the outside, is literally just an empty room with the majority of the floorboards ripped up or gnawed through, looking like a storm ripped through the inside of his home. He has no furniture or decor outside of a few potted plants gifted to him by Tebryn (au yellow cat).

Another thing, and this might be controversial, is that he's actually terrible when it comes to taking care of plants. Almost every plant he owns is either dead, or on the brink of death, but he doesn't really know it since he can't see for himself that they are. He use to be good at it, but that ended up being 100% the Green Crown's power. Having not been capable of thinking past basic animal instincts prior to becoming a god, he can't fathom that he might not actually know what he's doing. Tebryn teases him lightly about it, but also doesn't have the heart to tell him that the plants in his window died months ago. There's one plant that's hanging on by a thread, an overwatered camellia bonsai that's now really just a stick in dirt with 3 leaves, and it only stays alive because Tebryn repots and tends to it when Leshy isn't paying attention. That doesn't stop Leshy from attempting to unintentionally over-trim the tree, much to Tebryn's dismay.

When he was still just a baby up until his toddler years, he would often just run around naked (only covered by leaves) and Heket would struggle to just get him to keep at least his cloak on (there'll be a flashback to a scene like that later on). One second he would be fully clothed, she would look away for just a moment, then look back to see Leshy running away on all fours with his clothes in a trail behind him. Now, if not for the fact that he'd get a lecture from the others on why he needs to stay clothed out in public, he would probably be in the nude 24/7.

As a product of his rapid evolution, his appearance from what chaser worms are in present day is drastically different; since while they evolved over time, he was like a preservation of their past. Like how he burrows into dirt, where they no longer have to due to evolution giving them large horns and a larger/tougher build for protection. Instinctually, he still attaches sticks to his head, which was both a defense mechanism of sorts along with helping with hunting. Being partly burrowed in the ground helped him feel vibrations of things walking near him; and with his head sticking up past the dirt, he looked more shrub-like so predators wouldn't go after him, and also prey would be more inclined to walk near him or use him as shelter, making for easier meals.

I also decided to make him a trans man, because why does Shamura get to be the only trans one (also as a youngest child who's a trans man I decided that my comfort character WILL be trans as well.)? With the help of Kallamar he's able to transition with HRT and other surgeries. Nobody but his siblings know he's trans, and is 100% passing as cis to everyone else. He's also the shortest of all the siblings, followed by Shamura, then Narinder, Heket and Kallamar.

There's definitely more than this, but my god I realized just how long this was getting so I'll end it here unless people want me to make a continuation.

[grison-in-space]

Man, Robert Kaleski really is a great counterexample to that whole "the lone autistic eccentric, immersed in his dogged study and obsessions, is the genesis of truth!" trope that you'll sometimes see "aspie supremacists" trot out as part of a justification that autistic (or ADHD) people are Better, Actually.

My good bitches, sometimes what happens is simply that dogged pursuit of one's own pet theories blinds us to the truth of corroborated sources, experimental evidence, and hypothesis testing.

Just because someone is autistic and fixated on a special interest doesn't mean they're right about it. Sure, you can see how someone might look at Dalmatians and cattle dogs and come to a conclusion that some of one might have influenced the other. I reckon that by the 1930s, when the first appearance of the Dalmatian lore appears, Kaleski had enough exposure to Dalmatians to know that they are all born white or almost white and develop the characteristic spots as they grow—just like his beloved heelers develop roan and speckles as they grow. Dalmatians are all almost certainly homozygous for a modifier mutation adjusting the expression of roan that is not found in cattle dogs, but Kaleski can be quite forgiven in the 1930s for not knowing that: the study in question only came out last year. However, he might easily have realized by inquiring to kennel clubs, a Dalmatian club or breeder in his country, or simply perusing various books of British dog breeds — a self admitted enormous pastime! — that his timeline of a dog breed standardized in 1890 being infused to any great degree into his familiar cattle dogs before he personally would have observed evidence of the cross in 1904, after nearly twenty years of studying cattle dogs, is impossible.

Unfortunately, despite his careful observation of things that he felt confirmed his theories about dog function and evolution, he failed to look for any facts that were difficult to reconcile with them. Scholarly study of natural history would immediately have poked holes in his frankly batshit bonkers theory that bears were descendants of Tasmanian devils while dogs and cats derive from thylacine. Miacis was discovered in 1872. Cuvier had famously and correctly identified marsupials as a parallel clade to placental mammals a full century before, in 1816. There was abundant information available to Kaleski with which to test his theories about natural history and the known consensus of the evolution of his local Australian fauna.

Special interests encourage us to absorb, collect, and integrate information that might not strike a neurotypical person as interesting. But there is absolutely nothing about that interest which protects us from collecting and absorbing incorrect ideas, connections, and justifications as we amass our hoards of knowledge. We have to test our own assumptions, every step of the way.

[zephartchives]

"You are challenged by Gym leader Zelvira!" Been into Pokemon again lately so I made a Gymsona! Naturally, we're going with ghost specialty, ehe~ I tried to recreate the pokemon style but I made the lineart too thick at first and it's just too late to go back.. Yapping ahead!

The ghastly evolution line would fit with him in the team because of his mischievous nature but sadly they're not really some of my favorites. But yeah! There is an obvious taste in my choice of Pokemons LMFAO The doll-likes and "edge", just like me HAHA

Here's a note on how I designed my Gymsona. I just based it on what I see on my Pokemon of choice + The designs I love about them. I have come to notice I really love the zigzag + Diamond pattern His gym is a haunted mansion. The Gimmick is inspired by Fatal Frame where you take a camera to take pictures of ghosts. The thing is the camera is needed to reveal secret passages. Take a picture of a ghost and you're getting png-jumpscare a.k.a trainer battle. The puzzle is as annoying as Flannery's puzzle because of the twists and turns of the passages. All the candles are blue but one with a slight purple flick is a hint to the right entrance, but only the camera can reveal it.

Occasionally, He will hold a magic show in the gym because why not :] Lore reason, it's to attract more people to try his gym and he just likes showing off many performative entertaining things Pokemon can do AAAA.. Got more lore about him but this is what I will share for now until next opportunity

[huevobuevo]

I CANT FUCKING SLEEP SO IMMA JUST POST THE SCU COUNCIL DRAWINGS AND HOPE TO THE GODS IT LETS ME REST.

Erm I really like pantheons and shit so uh. I made lore

Essentially each council member are gods similar to the Aspects from APOTHEOSIS, except instead of aspects of humanity they’re aspects of the universe. They each are gods of their respective campaign-worlds, the other council members can only interact with them through the creation of their player characters. I made three designs for these fuckers- their initial godhood form during the Hardest Difficulty Video, their present forms after their respective churches & worlds have been established, & their Higher Divine Form that’s basically just their fursonas (except Slimecicle since he’s just like. A Slime Hybrid already so now he’s just Cooler Magical Slime Guy yipey!)

Much like the aspects, the Council Members are referred to by their domains instead of their original names. In the case of Condi he has a secondary name, Yonder; in the case of Charlie, he can be referred to by either Fortune or Misery- more on that in a bit

the gribble -> Bloom

🍃bro is in charge of the biomes of the Overworld, including the tools and weapons that are crafted using its resources

🍃Bloom is ONLY in charge of the Flora, NOT the Fauna. The creatures of the Overworld are owned by Evolution

🍃weather phenomenon and natural disasters are also his strong suit

🍃MYTH TIME!!! Bloom hasn’t learned to change into his Higher Divine form until after his first Fall, thus his bright red and black wings were never appreciated. After he arose again, the ash of the Nether stained his wings and hair, turning them a deep grey. Many birds of the Overworld had grieved his loss, so after his return most of them had rolled in the ashes that fell from his skin in tribute- thus the Grey Parrot was born.

🍃he grew an affinity for the sea after the creation of his first universe (Mana; Riptide), thus a majority of his time is spent in the Overworlds ocean, where his presence is spotted through the whirling winds of a hurricane.

Condifiction. -> Yonder

🔥god of the Beyond- any of the upper and lower realms in any universe belongs to him, including;

🔥The Nether

🔥The End

🔥The Spirit World (prime defenders)

🔥The Chaos Zone (prime defenders)

🔥The Faewilds (riptide)

🔥The Celestial Plane (apotheosis)

🔥The Land Between Time (prime defenders)

🔥Yonder is also in charge of all the interdimensional creatures and entities that live in these domains. Potions are.. also technically his deal since to make them one must acquire interdimensional items such as blaze powder

🔥the boundaries between worlds and the magic to traverse them also fall under his rule

🔥Yonder has a spear called the Aether Piercer, a blade strong enough to even cut through the fabric of reality. It is the strongest weapon in the entire multiverse, and the boys use it for their “dnd campaigns”

🔥he is also called the Quartz Dragon

🔥 FUN FACT! He actually has TWO outfits- the Nether Regalia & The End Regalia. However my stupid ass drew the End one first despite the fact that the Nether outfit is his main one (molten lava dress and cape with deep reds and brilliant whites & gold). That’s why the end suit doesn’t really match his dragon form, but I ran out of time so I couldn’t draw it out. Also im never gonna use these designs most likely so honestly it doesn’t matter but STILL FUCJ IM SORRY :[

the bibbl -> Evolution

📡ok this one was hard to figure out but bear with me

📡Evolution is the protector of all living creatures and time- he can see the past, present, & future, and is in charge of the development of every single organism that can breathe. Humans, especially fall under his command.

📡Evolution is also the patron of technology, society, and history

📡he can personally control how mobs & humans evolve and adapt

📡his higher divine form is usually a strange gryphon like creature, but he can just about change into whatever form he desires. He is the only God who can truly shapeshift with no limitations- Yonder & Bloom only have their Higher Divine Form, while F&M is still pretty visibly Slime no matter what form he takes. Speaking of

the slible-> Fortune/Misery

🎰the god of many things, but can all be simplified into one word- Luck. Everything has a risk, and F&M can make it happen

🎰gambling, yes, is a part of his domain, as it involves a risk of either a win or a loss

🎰destiny & fate are intertwined with his powers, due to how extremely fluid they may be

🎰harvest & agriculture TECHNICALLY are his thang as well, since he’s not really in charge of the PLANTS per say but rather the possibility of either a plentiful harvest OR a miserable famine

🎰F&M have two different names for two different occasions- Fortune, for instances of prosperity, & Misery, for instances of disparity.

🎰he is also called The Great Gambler, Magician Of Chance, He Who Reaps, The Debt Collector, The Slime Lich, and The Nightmare King

🎰he’s like a Lich but not dead lol. More on that later

[ FORTUNE ]

🎰wealth

🎰dreams

🎰arcane wisdom and enchantments

🎰skills in crafting and smelting

[ MISERY ]

🎰nightmares

🎰plague

🎰curses

🎰loss of control

🎰debt

🎰punishment and penance

🎰yeah so haha if someone has cheated and exploited their way to fortune then Misery with a capital M comes down and basically sucks their life force out and turns them into goo, which is what he uses to sustain himself like a Lich. Luckily for him, greedy men spawn like rabbits

Some extra notes for the council in general plus some insight in how their religions work

☀️Yonder and Bloom are both patrons of Travelleds, Adventurers, and All Who Voyage On. However, Bloom offers protection from the world itself such as wild animals and weather phenomenon , while Yonder helps ease the passage itself. Basically Bloom helps people not die in a storm while Yonder focuses on getting to the destination in the first place I.e. not getting lost in the fucking woods

☀️Evolution y F&M are conceptual gods while Bloom y Yonder are more physical. Bloom y Yonder are everywhere, omniscient and omnipresent, encapsulating the world around us- meanwhile Evolution and D&M control the hidden sacred systems of the world such as time and luck/magic

☀️Evolution and F&M have highly selective religious followings, only specific followers are trained and perfected to wield the power of their gods domains. In the same vein, Evilution and F&M have two symbols- one for prayer and one for summoning. Unlike the other two gods who just have one for both of these purposes, the powers of time and chance are far too chaotic in nature to be possessed by many. Instead of being able to talk to plants and go to a funny new world, the highest followers of the Conceptual Gods can literally harness time itself and perform the Ultimate Spells that could level cities- thus not only are these followers specially picked and trained, but in Eder to actually USE them they must first reviver a blessing by their respective gods which requires a summoning. This requires their summoning sigil which not only requires EXTREMELY rare items BUT are also forbidden without express permission from elders. The summoning sigils are kept secret, sharing the sigil to others is punishable by death. The symbol for prayer is used to just represent the Concptual Gods following, much like the symbols for the other gods are used to represent them as well. the Pjysicak Gods need no summoning since they’re technically all around us soooo-

☀️slimecicle, bizly, and grizzly haveANOTHER outfit for their other campaigns (blood in the bayou, wonderlust, and total monster kill) BUT once again I had No More time Left so I sorta just Didn’t draw them my bad homeboy

This took an hour to type out dear god im exhausted