#multiplices

[lilmoonzesketch]

Ylia by @videcoeur

Zelly by jaspertheprince (Jaspertheprinces on Insta)

Very happy to have caught the tail end of Artfight 2023 and a massive shoutout to these lovely creators for making their characters! I hope that they both love the pieces and I can't wait for what is to come in Artfight 2024!

[cutfoot]

#everyday elliot torments me mentally by not responding to messages i send

[cutfoot]

...        clean  up  duty   :        the  pleasure  granted  to  to  the  doctor        (         if  jigsaw  were  to  argue  that  being  a  surgeon  granted  him  some  affinity  to  the  clean  up  process,   then  lawrence  would  argue  that  the  man  never  knew  when  to  shut  his  mouth        ).        the  room  held  the  scent  of  teeth  -  deep  rot,   fetid  ruination  of  humanity  staggering  around.        a  chair,   a  bear  trap,   the  tape  still  mumbling  away       ───────       he  caught  a  particularly  dreadful  pun  that  made  a  wince  appear  over  his  features.        this  one  hadn’t  even  tried,   if  amanda  was  to  be  believed        (       it  is  human  nature  to  struggle  when  death  closes  in  around  us        ...        that  begs  the  question   :        what  is  inhuman  enough  to  give  in  to  death?        what  unripe  body  only  knows  death?        ).

he’s  knee  -  deep  in  blood  by  the  time  he  hears  it.        life.        an  impossibility   :        the  bear  trap  had  shattered  her  head  with  a  very  particular  ferocity,   shattered  beyond  return.       her  blood  was  stuck  beneath  his  nails,   vibrant  and  vile,   no  different  from  a  pig’s.        and  yet  she  seemed  to  rouse,   to       ───────       heal?        ‘   what  the  hell  are  you?   ’

@multiplices​

[manhic-a]

@multiplices​                 [johnny silverhand]

digits run themselves through flaxen strands,   feet pacing back   &   forth throughout the room.      [she’s passed the damn coffee table five times,   cerulean hues remaining stilled on the dirty carpet;   there’s stains splattered across it,   most likely from coffee.      the details are everything,   just like the story they’ve presented.]      with another inhale,   she stifles any chuckles threatening to cascade from her lips,   the apples of her cheeks blushing rosy red.      if she looks over at the therapist,   currently on a spiel about how they need to  refocus their trust  into their hearts;   she wants to burst out into a fit of laughter as she listens,   her eyes threatening to roll at any second.   if she looks over at johnny,   he shoots her the same look he had plastered across his face the entire drive to the office:   don’t ruin this.      for the theatrics,   clarke crackles her knuckles,   rolling her head   &   stretching her neck;   the preparation for the battle ahead.      the air she breathes in,   it expands her lungs,   allowing the  pain  residing inside her heart to root itself deep into her ribcage;   the veins spread   &   they begin to suffocate.      [here is the beginning of act 2!]      ❝    he fucked my sister!      how could i  possibly  ever trust him again?    ❞      a pause,   glossy eyes meeting those of the therapist,   lips agape in  disbelief.      her neck cranes back around,   her countenance meeting his.      

❝    you were supposed to be my boyfriend!      how could you do this to me?    ❞      &   scene.

[manhic-a]

“ you can’t control it. ” (to ellie, from gen)

meme prompt   /   accepting.

what kills a girl more than herself?     (a girl is always her worst enemy.)      vengeance.      blood cakes your hands   &   they’ve been coated in red for years;   raw   &   marred,   no matter how hard you scrub,   the ichor never washes off.      this is who you are:   just a girl,   not a threat.      (the bodies you left out west speak another story.)      her words are spoken into an empty corpse   —   maybe she’s right,   maybe you can’t control the thirst of your own revenge;   maybe you can’t get that image of joel’s face out of your head.      whenever prasine irises flutter shut,   his face is greeted in front of hers:   bloodied,   near-death,   a pool of carmine circling around his head.     gen’s words offer no solace;   instead,   when you blink,   no oxygen is able to pass through your esophagus.      your face begins to turn blue   &   asphyxiation becomes your best friend.       you’ve been strangled for years   —   a pariah looking in through the window of your own home,   hoping to catch a glance of what should be your life.      you’re still greeted with your bloodied hands   &   the floor of a slaughterhouse.      this is your grave;   you dug it   &   now you must lie in it.

❝    neither can you.    ❞      we are both corpses of our old selves.       neither of us can control this;   our souls are buried out in the capital wasteland amongst those before us.       your head cranes in her direction,   expression remaining vacuous.      (unreadable,   the skill you’ve been training yourself throughout your entire life.)      ❝    you don’t get to fucking   ...    ❞      patronize me?       your head shakes,   the words searching for their way along your tongue;   instead,   you remain quiet,   lips agape as you choose to breathe.       

❝    i don’t regret it;   i’d do it all over again.      just like he would’ve.      just like you would’ve.      you can’t control it,   neither can i   —   face it,   gen.      neither of us were built for this shit.    ❞

[manhic-a]

“ what the fuck is the matter with you ? ” (to clarke, from johnny)

meme prompt   /   accepting.

there’s nothing shameful in being apathetic.      the moment he stepped inside the clinic,   her exterior had switched to frigidness;   a common politician move.      (all those socialite skills being put to a use!)      when he walked through the clinic’s front door,   her right eye rolled   &   prompted his question,   causing a scoff to pass her lips.      (what’s my matter?      how do i ask you to gore me?      how do i ask you to rip me apart   &   gut everything of mine?      oh right,   you’ll do that eventually without me asking.      you’ll tear me apart limb-by-limb until i’m nothing but a memory inside your mind.)     

               her feet move to retreat back to her operating area,   she can hear his boots echoing behind her with every footstep.      ❝    i’ve got ncpd all over my ass because of last week,   i’m sure you’ve got a new warrant out.   i don’t need you here   &   them deciding to poke around my shit even more.    ❞      just because i exist doesn’t mean i should.      for starters,   i probably shouldn’t have been born   —   she lurks in the shadows of this city,   striking in the unusual manners;   now i become death,   the destroyer of the world.     [they chant your name as WANHEDA.]     they come to her whenever there’s no one else;   she is the last resort.     in the back of the clinic rest bodybags,   the supply becoming scarcer by the day.      she writes her patients names across them   &   give them a new home.     here she rises from the ashes,   the embodiment of the harbinger of death.      a graveyard follows her everywhere   &   if you look closely enough,   you might spot your tombstone with your name carved into the stone.      

her head cranes over her shoulder as cerulean gaze falls back upon him,   flaxen brows arching.      ❝    why are you even here,   johnny?     you got a crush or something?      not many of my patients come back around after the first visit.    ❞      most of the time,   i drop them off at the junkyard for their funerals.