#You know the one who'd stab you in the eye to see if he could remove the tadpole that way

[problemsynth]

Ok I drew my sweet tiefling but like... what if I drew my terrible chaotic drow now.

[beansmack2021]

She's Yours Now

Teen!Reader x Platonic!Hazbin Hotel Characaters

Summary: Someone decides who gets to go to Heaven and who is sent to Hell. But, who would send a sixteen year old to Hell? Especially one who seems so... quiet.

TW: Mentions of abuse, mentions of death in childbirth, justified murder, blood, violence

“You little bitch! You ruined my fucking life, and now you want my money? My food? Get a fucking job, you ungrateful piece of shit, and buy it yourself!”

“Please, I'm hungry. I just wanted a sandwich. I won't even use the mayonnaise.” Y/N begged and pleaded, but she knew she wouldn't get anywhere with her father.

He was drunk more often than not, and he was totally unreasonable when he'd gotten a few beers in his system.

Y/N decided she'd just go to the kitchen later, when he was asleep, and sneak a sandwich or some crackers. She'd also toss his cigarettes in the toilet bowl. He'd probably know it was her, but it'd be funny to watch him fish around in the toilet water for the pack. It'd be worth the yelling.

She'd started to smirk a bit, still enjoying the idea of making him look like an idiot, when she was suddenly struck with intense, sharp pain. She raised her hand to her temple, gasping as she took in the crimson that stained her fingers. Her ear was ringing, and she saw the amber colored glass that littered the carpet.

He'd hit her before, sure, but he'd never smashed a bottle over her head before. She didn't have much time to try and make an escape to her room before he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up. He wasn't much taller than her, so her feet barely left the floor, but that didn't stop her panicked frenzy.

She punched him, clawed at his arms, and tried to bite him. He spit in her face and dropped her on the floor like a sack of potatoes. She gasped as she landed. She'd tried to catch herself and instead felt a bone in her wrist crack. The broken glass in the carpet dug into her palms and legs. Blood started to seep through her jeans and into the rug. She knew better than to scream. It'd only get her into worse trouble.

Her father reached across the table, grabbed another empty bottle from the table, and launched it at Y/N. She closed her eyes, trying to use her arms to shield herself. The glass smashed painfully against her bare skin. She cried out and immediately regretted it. Her cries prompted him to start getting more physical. He pulled her hair so that she was forced to look up at him as he kicked her ribs. Bam, bam, bam! The room was spinning. She heard one sickening crack and then another. She didn't know what to do. She was scared. Every part of her wanted to scream. She was sure her neighbors would hear her. She couldn't force it out of her throat, though. He knelt down next to her, yanking her chin up toward him, and grumbled in her face. “What did we learn?” He growled. He'd say that any time he thought she'd learned a “valuable lesson”. She felt around the carpet, wincing whenever another microshard of glass dug its way into her palm. She finally felt the neck of the bottle and grabbed it. “That you're a fucking asshole.” She stabbed him in his thick neck, and he clutched his throat as he bled out. He fell over, nearly collapsing on top of her, and gasped his final breath a few minutes later. Y/N was dying. She could feel it. She'd call for someone, but there'd be no point. She'd lost a lot of blood from the gash across her head, and her broken ribs had probably punctured her lungs. At least she'd gone out with a fight. She prayed that she wouldn't end up in the same place that he did. She closed her eyes, whispered an apology to her mother, who'd died giving birth to her, and asked whoever would listen that she'd see her mom on the other side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was really, really quiet. Normally, this would be absolutely wonderful. Normal doesn't exist in Hell. Quiet meant something was going to happen. Charlie didn't like to admit it, but sometimes, even she knew it wasn't going to be a “happy day in Hell”. She tried to relax as Vaggie massaged her scalp, but as soon as she'd finally calmed down enough to actually enjoy her girlfriend's hands in her hair, her phone started ringing. She picked it up, took a glance at the caller ID, and smiled to herself. She and her father had finally started to reconnect, so check-ins over the phone had become more and more frequent. Maybe that's what she'd been in anticipation of. She'd finally be able to relax. She heaved a sigh of relief and answered Lucifer's call. “Hey, Da-” “Charlie. We've got an emergency.” He cut her off, and she was instantly thrown off by how serious he sounded. “What's wrong? Is it Heaven? Did they make the extermination date even sooner?” Charlie started to panic, her blood running cold at the idea that she had even less time than she believed to rally the troops to defend her kingdom.

“No, Char. It's nothing like that. It's serious, though. There's a new arrival.” She was confused, now. New people arrive in Hell every day. If her father felt he needed to call her and let her know personally, there was a chance that the sinner could pose a serious threat. “She's young, Charlie. Really young. She…” He faltered. He sounded emotional. “She needs you. She needs the hotel. She doesn't belong here. Please, take care of her.”

Charlie was quiet. Her father wanted her to take in a sinner, but it sounded like he didn't feel she was a sinner at all. He was concerned, that much she could tell. She just didn't know what the girl could've done to end up in Hell of all places if she was so young and innocent. She decided, with finality, that everyone needed a safe space. “Alright, Dad. Where can we find her?”

[firegirl888101]

how would the harbingers react to a reader who's good at drawing? like, they like to draw the harbingers or other things

Good at drawing?

I'm shit at drawing so I'm not really sure what to say, that's why I didn't reply to this for awhile. But, I eventually got a couple things when my friend was sketching some stuff in front of me.

Sorry that the current Insatiable Madness chapter is taking so long, I've been studying a lot these past couple of days.

I also got another ask where it asked about Halloween. I don't really celebrate Halloween, because I never grew up with it. I've always been too shy to trick-or-treat and I didn't have many friends (and still don't) who'd want to go with me. Quite sad actually, but it's alright. I don't think I missed out on much.

Is anyone expecting me to make a Halloween special? I don't mind doing it, but I'll need inspiration as I wouldn't know where to start 💀

Actually, the more I think about it, I do have one fun idea. (Harbingers going trick-or-treating??? Halloween party if that even exists? Idk, I'll have to do some research.)

|You can take this with Yandere and without - some will probably lean towards yan though.|

So, to begin with:

Pierro wouldn't be too bothered. I feel if Y/N had a skill they were confident in, and wanted to show it, he'd let his curiousity get the better of him and check it out. But, if it's something like drawing he'll probably leave a comment then leave. Whether it's positive or negative, you be the judge. This man is like a slate slab. No personality I'm sorry 😭😭 (When I see more of his character, maybe I'll like him more?)

If you were to draw this man, he'd be humbled. A Grandpa who received his very first present from his grandchild. Would definitely frame the damn thing in his office (which originally was your parent's) he'd put it on the desk. It's his office now, don't argue for it back.

Capitano would show interest. Not too much since he's the main captain of the Fatui, but still interested. If he's bored, or deems the 'fort' (the house) safe, he'll sit down with you and watch what you're doing. Occasionally asking you if he could doodle with you - but I think that would be very rare. His main objective in his mind is guarding you when your own is low whilst you're having fun, doodling or drawing something.

Would 100% deny the picture of him at first. He'd think, that looks like me, but it can't be. Yes, it's him, you'd reassure. Eventually he does take it and folds it in his coat. After that, he'd probably leave the room in embarrassment. Since then on, he'd definitely keep all drawings you've made of him in his pocket. There's too many? Let's put it in the second pocket. That's full too? Looks like he's buying a new coat. Oh? There's room in his military coat he hasn't worn in two years? That'll do just nicely.

Dottore would be intrigued if he saw you practice anatomy - or if you drew more of a gorey scene. I think he'd be even more interested if you liked to draw the human body with extra things (such as arms, legs, eyes or even got rid of a few), and question you on your design choices and if it already exists somewhere. (He's not fooling you, he's obviously taking inspirations for a new experiment). If he didn't know, or wasn't good, he'd probably ask for tips on how to sketch ideas like yours. He reassures you it's not for any experimentation but once again, he's not fooling you at all.

If you were to draw him he'd treat it like glass. Nobody has ever given him a sketch before - bonus points if you draw him injured whilst you're angry with him. He'd treat it as if you drew him with love, and not as if you'd stab him in the heart if you ever got the chance. What do you mean he shouldn't like it this much? It's a work of art! He'd be very quick to correct the drawing if you got anything wrong. Who knows what this man has in his body at this point.

Columbina would join you in your drawing activities. Maybe add some glitter if you have any. The second you complain about cleaning up, however, she has somehow disappeared and has become very forgetful about the events upstairs. 'How curious!~' She would hum to herself with her usual smile. Is definitely the type to ask if you could draw her. Who are you to refuse? Especially when she gives you that look of daunt hope and kindness which makes you drop your pen in fear. Before you can give her an answer, you've already picked up your pencil and began to sketch her beautiful headpiece.

When Columbina receives her multiple sketches, she's overjoyed. Oh, look how you drew this part! How you drew her clothes! She's quick to kiss you on the cheek as a thank you and runs off somewhere. Huh, you feel like you've just been used.

Arlecchino will roll her eyes at first. She's seen many children in the hearth draw for her. Her initial thoughts were vague, she didn't really see much of your hobby. That was until she actually saw what you were drawing. She would stare as you worked, your pencil delicately brushing against the paper you most likely bought the other day. It soon will become a habit to watch you work, becoming a therapeutic source for her. She sometimes questions why you're drawing... certain things, but she wouldn't actually stop your creative mind from working.

Handing Arlecchino the drawing you drew of her would make her blood rise to her cheeks slightly. Sure, she's received a lot of gifts in this sense before. But from you? What an honour! She'll accept it with a soft smile she'd usually show the kids, and pat your head treating you like one. Little do you know she's trying so hard to control her cute agression response by not tearing the paper.

Pulcinella would react very similarly to Pierro. However, he'd have more experience with complimenting and encouraging 'a child' in a hobby they're having fun with. If he saw your skill, he'd probably compliment it whole-heartedly with a chuffed smile. Massaging his mustache like some aristocrat, in the 1940s... Anyway, he'd be very pleased when he watches you draw more and more. He's happy that you're spending your time doing something you like under the tense situation his coworkers (and him, but he doesn't like to admit it) have brought upon you.

I do not see you drawing this man at all. He's a short, dobby, old, looking as man. I don't see him as the type to ask either, at all. He's minding his own business in your house and plans to keep it that way until the situation is resolved.

Scaramouche really doesn't care. We've all got our own likes and dislikes, but he's not bothered about yours. Will most likely purposefully pass by you working on a piece and insult it just to get attention. He'd never actually mean it though - he just never tells you that important fact. As time progresses he'll sneak into your room just to look at more sketches or finished drawings you've done, and assess your progress from each year if you've been practicing for a long time-period.

Now, here's where things get interesting. If you were to draw him and never show it to him, said puppet finding it for himself in one of your drawers, he'd first feel angry. Why wouldn't you show him this? It's of him! ...But then he'd quickly realise it's because of the way he treated you when you were working (oops). If you actually handed it to him and let him keep it, he'd be delighted. You actually drew him? He didn't even have to manipu-- he means 'ask' you to draw him? This is a good step forward to where he wants to be in your heart.

Sandrone would be delighted to know that she's finally found a use for you in her head. She never thought that purposefully walking past you one evening would lead to her shuffling through all the sketches and designs you've done with awe. Where did you get this idea from? How can she recreate it? Would you be happier and more devoted to her if she were to make your dreams true? She digresses. Watching your creative little mind draw your ideas to life inspires her also, and makes her want to recruit you as a special exception to the 'no non-artificial beings' allowed in her workshop. Thinking of all the monstrosities you could design with her help sends pleasurable shivers up her spine.

Drawing her, however? This was rather unprecedented. Out of all the things-- no, people you could have drawn... and you decide on her? And ooh! You even drew her slave she likes to travel around on, how thoughtful, you're already expressing your adoration for her works! Trust me, don't draw her. You'll give her daydreams that will never happen.

Signora, like most of the harbingers, wouldn't care at first. She hates your house and hates your world, why in Teyvat's name would she be interested in what you're doing? That's what she used to think, until her arrogant slick eyes caught sight of what exactly you were drawing. In my opinion, there's only a couple things that would interest Signora. Drawing dresses, if you were interested in fashion designing, would definitely be the main one. Viewing your designs after you finished them would soon become a small hobby for her, and soon, she'd eventually ask you to draw her in one of your designs.

You'd say yes, of course. An excuse to draw a drop-dead gorgeous woman in one of your designs for free? No way you were going to pass this opportunity! For her hard work in modeling, you'd definitely pay back twice and give her a drawing of her in her harbinger uniform too - which I think would flatter her a bit too much.

Pantalone wouldn't care, and would never become interested. He's a very rich and successful banker, not any ordinary man. As soon as he sees you drawing somewhere in the house, he'll shrug and go the opposite way. He knows what it's like to be interrupted through a thoughtful process, and he doesn't feel like getting an earful from you if he interrupts it. What he does think about, however, is if you're making money from it. Maybe an online business. He asks, and receives a very disappointing answer. No? What do you mean no? These are good, he'd pay for a portrait! Well, if Mora was a usable currency here. Ugh, the thought of being a poor man in this world makes him disgusted.

Drawing him would result in lots of praise. He'd be very happy you used your own time to draw him. He didn't even have to pay for it, it was gift! You even said so yourself. Immediately taken from your hands and framed somewhere. You can't seem to find the drawing though... Pantalone insists it's still in the house, but no matter where you look you just can't find it! Oh well, it's probably better you didn't know where it went. (You would have never been able to find it, he hid the location so well after all.) Pantalone told you he'd give something back to you as a thank you, but you're not holding him to his word.

Tartaglia would be interested the second he sees you doing something he hasn't seen you do before. That looks interesting, let him give drawing a try! He'd boast how his siblings love his drawings he creates, but you knew he was lying to set a cheery mood. Your understanding was backed when you actually saw his 'Amazing Drawing'... It was embarrassing to say the least. He would heed all your little tips and eventually get good at drawing from your guidance! I can see him as the type to use these skills later for his siblings, and as the type to continue drawing even if you begin to get bored of it... He's skilled with his fingers after all-- okay I'm sorry I'm done.

Drawing him can go one in two ways. I see him as someone who will whine about being drawn. He'll say: 'Have you drawn me yet?' in one of the most annoying voices he cna muster. He knows and understands you find it annoying when he asks you to draw him, so he's found a loophole. Just keep asking questions related to it until you get the hint! ...You got the hint weeks ago, but you're refusing to do it. Well, you're refusing to show him your drawings you've already finished and hid out of sight. Showing him these drawings would make him really happy! Would fold his favourite and carry it around with him everywhere like some of the other harbingers. His next commission he's planned to ask you is of a drawing of Capitano. You eagerly declined, not wishing to impose on the Captain's privacy.

[savventeen]

take it easy (slowly carve out my heart)

you had always been the target. always. he knew this. he knows this.

so why does wonwoo feel like he's the one who's dying?

pairing: assassin!wonwoo x gn!reader rating: M wc: 0.8k prompt: @diamondyjh wanted angst so i repurposed an old namgi fic hope u enjoy :') summary: wonwoo's assignment: become your husband and bide his time until given the command to kill you. a simple mission, really — one that shouldn't have been hard. except, he never accounted for the fact that he might actually fall in love with you. too bad he's the perfect little soldier. warnings: major character death (reader), graphic depictions of violence, stabbing, blood, assassination, grief/mourning tags: angst, and i mean ANGST, no happiness here sorry folks, only as much pain and sadness as i could shove into less than 1k a/n: the prompt for the original fic was 'a whisper in the ear' for the 'ways you said i love you' prompt challenge, and the friend who'd requested it had specifically said "but make it hurt" so. here we are :')

The brick of the deserted alleyway is freezing through the back of Wonwoo's jacket, but he doesn't really feel it. Just focuses on the way the chill greedily seeps under his skin, sinking down through muscle and sinew and deep into the marrow of his bones.

He needs it, the cold — more than he needs the air in his lungs or the blood in his veins or that overbearing muscle that continues to beat inside his chest. That terrible, frivolous thing.

So he needs the cold, needs it to numb everything except the machine that he thinks has always dwelled within him.

("Never forget who you really are, Wonwoo-ssi — what you've been made into.")

"Wonwoo?"

("It's the only way you'll survive.")

"Where'd you go?" Your call comes from just outside the entrance to the alley, cutting softly through the otherwise quiet of the night.

That thing in his chest gives an obstinate thump, but he ignores it. He is numb.

"In here, y/n," he replies, just loud enough to be heard from the street. He takes in a deep breath, the winter air a painful comfort as it crystallizes inside his lungs.

"Baby?" Your voice is closer now, and Wonwoo tilts his head to see you peering down into the alley. He meets your eyes, your brows furrowing in concern, and you quickly make your way toward where he continues to lean against the wall. "What're you doing out here in the cold? Are you okay?"

He is numb. He is numb. He is numb.

He tells himself this over and over again, wills it to be true as you stop in front of him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmurs, "I'm fine. Just needed to get some air."

Before this moment, the lies had always fallen so easily out of his mouth, like sand between his fingers. (Were they ever really lies?) But this one weighs heavy on his tongue.

"That's usually my line," you quip, a half-smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You move your hand from his shoulder to his jaw, gently stroking the cool skin of his cheek with your thumb. Your other hand comes to rest on Wonwoo's waist, the touch just as gentle even through his thick winter coat. "We can stay out here for a bit, hmm? Until you're ready to go back inside."

You close what little distance is left between the two of you and press your forehead into his neck. "Or if it's still too much," you mumble into his collarbone, soft and warm, "we can go home. Whatever you need, baby."

I am numb.

He whispers, "Okay, love."

I am numb. I am numb. I am numb.

Three deep, slow breaths later, and he believes it enough to do what he was always meant to do.

It's quick, the way he pulls out the knife and shoves it between your third and fourth ribs in one swift motion.

It's so quick, in fact, that you don't even scream, just choke on a strangled breath as your body jerks in Wonwoo's hold. He twists the blade — "like a key in a lock, Wonwoo-ssi" — and yanks it out, letting it fall from his gloved grasp to the dirty concrete below.

You choke again, hands sloppily trying to find purchase on Wonwoo's chest as your legs rapidly lose their ability to support your weight, but you don't let go.

I'm numb.

And neither does Wonwoo. He can't.

You had always been the target. Always. He knew this. He knows this.

I'm numb I'm numb I'm numb I'm numb—

So why does Wonwoo feel like he's the one who's dying?

"W-won—," you cough, the blood that's filling up your lungs spilling messily past your lips.

"Shhhh," he croons into your hair, carefully lowering you both to the ground when your legs fold completely beneath you. "I'm sorry, love, I'm sorry. God, I'm so, so sorry."

He pulls you tighter to him, the blood rapidly soaking the both of you. Your movements start to slow, and your wet, shallow breathing turns into stuttering gurgles.

"I wish things could have been different," Wonwoo whispers into your ear. "I'm so sorry. I love you, I'm sorry. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Back and forth, back and forth, he rocks you — whispering his love and apologies over and over until your chest goes still in his arms.

And then he screams.

("Make it believable, Wonwoo-ssi. No one can ever see anything other than a grieving husband.")

He screams, and he weeps, and he begs, because somewhere along the line, it had stopped being a part to play. Loving you had never been an act, and the agonizing sorrow he feels ripping through his body will never be anything but scathingly, disgustingly, unfathomably real.

He'd never wanted it — that stupid, stupid, terrible, horrible thing called a heart. But you had given yours over so freely, so wonderfully, so wholly, that he had been helpless but to hand his over in return.

That stupid, frivolous thing.

[amymbona]

“Every night when I go to bed, I dream of walking up to hundreds of asks in my inbox that could captivate my attention for the whole day and I wouldn't be able to stop writing”

i feel the need to reveal myself as i’m a sucker for fics and i recommended the blurb of soft patrick 🤭 i love your writing style.

you should totally write something where patrick fails to find anyone who truly understands him except for the reader (yk cause they’ve known each other for forever and the reader is like perfect for him and just an overall amazing person). and he fails to find anyone to connect with, if u know what i mean 😈 PLS GET IT IM SO SORRY IDK HOW TO WORD MY THOUGHTS I LOVE JOSH O’CONNOR

"I LOVE JOSH O'CONNOR" WE ALL CHANT IN UNISON🙌🙌🙌🙌

Patrick Zweig, and I stand by this fact, is absolutely in need of a person who wouldn't judge him for any of his actions. Who'd simply listen, hold him if there's a need (and believe me, there is), and simply let him cry his eyes out. He needs a person who wouldn't sugarcoat anything but at the same time is soft spoken and won't yell at him for simply voicing his worries.

And that person is you.

You're the one who holds him after Tashi's injury, after both his girlfriend and his best friend completely wipe him out of their lives, as a result of something he couldn't possibly control. He lays on your lap, head resting on the soft flesh of your thighs, the four walls of your neat dorm swallowing him in a small bubble of warmth and comfort. And you hold him, fingers delicately running through the mess of his curls, while allowing him to ramble for hours on.

"It's just so unfair to me, like how could I possibly guess that this would happen. Not like I was the one who kicked her to the ground and broke her leg."

He's livid, only too physically exhausted to do something about it, to go slap Tashi like she deserves. His poor boy, despite being familiar with the toughest of trainings, can only handle so much, and then mix of his unsatisfied libido and psychosomatic stomach ache doesn't do him any good.

"And that bastard. Did you see him? He wouldn't even let me talk to her! Acting like her fucking bodyguard."

That is the true twist of the knife stabbed into Patrick's heart, the betrayal of his best of friends, the guy he thought he could trust with his own life. It's simply something that Patrick thought would never, ever happen, the complete one-hundred his best man did. Even you can't really believe what you hear.

"I know, Pat," you whisper, the soft movement of your fingers in his hair faltering as you zone off a bit, trying to come up with the best words to soothe him down. Even though it would be best if you just stayed quiet.

Patrick, too used to the comforting touch you've given him, grabs your wrist with an agitated huff and demonstrates the soft scratching of his scalp, silently demanding more.

So you continue, sighing softly and giving Patrick what he wants. You know this will help calm him down, so why not oblige. You'd much rather see him content, at least partially happy where he is.

"It's just unfair," he pout, nuzzling his face deeper into your lower tummy, an arm thrown around your thighs, holding onto you tightly, "Fucking manipulator. I bet he's fucking her right now."

The voice, despite muffled against the fabric of your sweater, actually make you shudder. The sheer idea of someone betraying their best friend purely for the interest in a girl - someone's girl - seems completely unforgivable. Patrick is definitely not in the wrong for being the offended one here.

"Then what if he is," you mutter, hoping to deliver your words in the best suitable tone to Patrick's ears. "Let the shitty people stay together, Patrick. You're better than them."

Patrick's shoulders tremble lightly at your words and he wants to sob, so so deeply trying to take your words to heart, to really believe them. But he's hurt at the moment. And he doesn't believe he is better than anyone else, let alone Tashi and Art who have been percieved as perfect in his eyes so far. Up until now. At the moment, you're the purest image of perfection, the embodiment of it. And he doesn't believe you're actually with him.

"Don't leave me," he simply whispers, too vulnerable to look you in the eyes while saying it. He hopes the light squeeze of your thighs is enough to let you know how much he really needs you.

You sigh, looking down at the mop of curls on your lap, fingers slowly untangling the mess that somebody left there. "I won't, don't worry."

[thebelugawhalefriend]

Hii! Love your writing. Do you do any sub character content? If so could you do Sub Muzan x Fem or GN reader?

Hihi!! I'm very excited to have a first request! I actually had to go back and watch the fourth season and read his wiki page because WOW this is gonna be a DOOZY to write! I mean this is a man who has every demon praying for mercy at any cost. But, I love a good challenge, so let's get into it!

Merciful - Sub!Muzan x Demon!Fem!Reader

CW: DEMON SLAYER SPOILERS, NSFW, Gore, Death

Note: I have really only watched the anime, so anything from the manga will stump me here ^^

It was 150 years ago when you first met him.

"You BASTARD! Let him go!"

Human and feeble. So weak and small to even your own kind. A towering man stood above you with pure spite behind his green eyes. Muscular with sleek black hair tied tightly behind him. In his hands he held your little brother, ready to slit his throat with a sickle.

"What, him? I caught this boy trying to swipe from my shop! If I had half a mind, I would slice him into tiny pieces."

You were but 18, shivering and scared. Your own blade looked pointless compared to his- only being a mere dagger. And yet, you clung to it tight. This rusted piece of junk was your only chance of your brother's survival.

"I said let him go! Not just for his sake, but yours!"

"And what are YOU going to-"

With the quickness of an eagle, the blade in your hand was digging into his shoulder. You clung to this man as if you depended on him not to fall. It's then you plunge into his back. Again. Again. And again.

"Sister, stop! Stop!"

Your brother was trying to flail from the man's arms- trying to free himself from his grip. It was, however, of no use. Even with a crazed woman stabbing into his body, his sickle made quickwork of the boy's neck.

SWING!

Thud...

"BROTHER!!"

And from there, those moments were a blur. Faint images came back to remind you of your crimes. The shop owner's once proud physique now a pulverized, sad corpse. Bystanders horrified by the situation now also blood on your hands and bodies on the road. Even nearby pets ended up slaughtered by your palms. But... You wanted more. Even if you were still human, this man deserved the most painful death and afterlife you could imagine. Taking his sickle, you carved his chest wide open and ripped out his heart.

"Now wait, young one. Wouldn't you want eating him to matter more?"

Now this man... He gave off a completely different feel than the man who'd killed your brother. Despite a similar look, he held ruby red eyes that peered right through you. You pause for a moment with the heart in hand.

"And just who are you?"

"Such raw emotion and strength... And yet still so weak. You couldn't even save your brother, and here you are, eating a man's heart just for your body to waste it."

"You don't know me! I'll-"

With a finger to your mouth, your body freezes.

"Hush. I'm here to help, just for a small price. I can tell you'll be of great use..."

---

"Lord Muzan~"

You call from one of the halls, flashing this man a daring look. From the moment he met you, you would never let this man have the respect he's earned. Even the Kizuki tremble in fear just uttering the wrong word to him, and yet for you? He would tolerate just enough teasing to let you have fun.

"Now of all times, ____? Can't you see I'm busy?"

His tone is cold, but your glare is chilling.

"Ten months, Muzan. You've left me wasting away for ten months! I understand tending to your other wives and taking care of those demon slayers, but ten months?"

His silence speaks volumes... But you? You've never realized the pure fear that comes with messing with Muzan. He's never put you in your place, and maybe... Maybe a twisted part of him likes that. You remind him of the authority he only had when he was human. No one could command or demand anything. Except... You.

"Come with me, Muzan... Please, just spend one night with me..."

Those (color) eyes you give him... His glare simmers down into a rare soft gaze, backing away from his desk to approach you.

"You're the most fortunate woman alive, ___. Any other would fall to their knees if they spoke to me that way."

"That sounds like a yes to me."

---

For every rough move Muzan would make, you were twice as bad. The poor lord of demons was pinned by the hands while you rode his cock for everything it was worth. Your fangs were oh so close to his neck, and yet Muzan was only encouraging that you bite him. Just one move and he could pulverize you. End your life over your own rush for power. And yet, you were headstrong and uncaring. His breathing was quivering and shaky, eyes of blood red looking up to yours with a submissive lust.

"Like that, dear- Fuck! Like that!"

You could barely focus on his blissfully soft voice. The most powerful man to exist and yet he's under you... Your fangs sink right into his neck yet stay absolutely careful not to drop an ounce of blood. After all, wasting anything precious of his was a death sentence. When his hands shift under yours, you let them go to see what he does.

"Don't be shy now... I know you want more..."

His voice is so quiet and soothing that your focus slips for just a moment, just enough time for him to grip your sides and push you down on him. Keeping you absolutely still. Is this a trick? Some sort of act? You sit up for a moment to look down, seeing him with a playful smile.

"Muzan... Are you sure you want to toy with me?"

One of his hands slip down to tease you as his member sits inside. Pulsing and needing more despite his cool demeanor.

"I want to see that fire I know you have. I let you take over too easily this time... Prove you're worthy to actually let me finish inside of you, ___."

Before the blink of an eye, your claws are quick to dig into his own sides in an attempt to keep going. And yet, one of his hands keeps you still.

"I know you have it in you. I can see that frustration in your eyes, dear."

Oh, you have a plan alright. While your hands worked to mess with his body and neck, your legs were building up strength to keep things going. Just a little longer... One of your claws lunges for his neck, Muzan quick to catch it with the hand that was teasing you.

"Too eas-"

While he was only slightly distracted by your lunge, the sheer force of your legs resumed the session despite Muzan's grip. The free hand practically pouncing to hold his chest down while your speed threatened to break the bed. Once playful eyes now looked to you in awe as he twitched and let out just the tiniest of pathetic whimpers.

"Don't you toy with me, Muzan. I know you like this too much to stop me!"

He really couldn't hold back. Just mere seconds pass before ropes of his semen come through and fill your insides. Yet, your body is absolutely sure not to let a single drop seep from your womb. You can't go wasting even his cum, now can you? Shocked red eyes look up to you, now with a renewed sense of pride.

"Y-you're so damn lucky I'm merciful towards you..."

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Crooked

They identified the body by her dental records. Her bag was full of them.

"Well, she was definitely some kind of dentist." Detective Sidwell dropped the copies back to the desk. "That should make the identification easier."

"Dr Jane Doe." Sidwell's colleague, Detective Lita, was inspecting the other crime scene photographs. The gory ones. "With a nice big cavity, it seems - carved right in the middle of her chest. She bled out all over the place, although she'd probably say that's because she didn't floss."

"What are we thinking for our suspects?" Sidwell asked, ignoring the jokes. One of them had to stay professional, to focus on the job at hand - and somehow that burden always seemed to fall to him. "A colleague? Patient?"

"No, it looks pretty frenzied to me."

"I'm serious."

Lita took a moment to think it through. "I don't see it, to be honest. I know people hate going to the dentist, but not to the point of murder. In fact, I'll bet you it's nothing to do with her job at all. Dentists can get stabbed for the same reasons as anybody else, right? A fight over her love-life, a mugging gone wrong, heading down the wrong alley at the wrong time, that sort of thing."

"I'll take that action," Sidwell said, holding her to the bet. Professionalism had its merits, but the job could get pretty bleak if they didn't find their own ways to keep things light. "What's your wager? Buy me a coffee?"

"Sure, you can pick me up a latté from the new place downtown." Lita smiled her crooked smile, her teeth stained brown from coffees past. No sugar, though. I wouldn't want to be disrespectful."

With his compensation agreed, Sidwell knuckled down to work on the case. He knew he'd need to do the lion's share of the investigation, as he always did, and the bets were a way of getting something out of it. Or motivating Lita to put a shift in, when it looked like things weren't going her way. She wasn't often too focused on following up leads, but could roll her sleeves up when a bet was in the balance.

Theirs was an unusual partnership, and certainly not an equal one. Lita's lack of professionalism extended far beyond the jokes, and Sidwell often felt that she was less of a help than a liability. He was left to follow up forensics requests she'd forgotten to send, rewrite notes which she'd misplaced on the landfill site that she called a desk, and generally carry her through the working day.

She sometimes apologised, or thanked him with a drink, but showed no sign of trying to be better. Even on this case, charged with catching a murderer, she seemed disinterested in the details. A savaged corpse was enough motivation for Sidwell to chase down every suspect, and he wondered what exactly it would take to capture Lita's attention in the same way. If even this case failed to move her, he didn't understand why she'd wanted to become a cop in the first place.

"Tell me again," Lita asked. "You think she was some sort of orthodontist?"

"A rogue one, according to these reports. She messed up people's teeth intentionally, just so they wouldn't match their dental records. That's why she had so many in her bag. It looks like some local crime ring hired her to sort out their goons, so that they'd never be identified if they were killed."

It had been a tough one for Sidwell to get his head around - it felt like getting laser eye surgery to make yourself more short-sighted, or asking a plastic surgeon to add more wrinkles to your forehead, but it did seem to make sense from the perspective of a killer. If teeth could be reshaped at will, anybody on the system could be fitted with a brand new set, removing any prospect of a match. It was certainly easier than having to dissolve them.

He hadn't realised how often the police relied upon dental records to identify bodies - especially those who'd been disposed of carefully, with the rest of the face disfigured and hands removed - or quite how malleable those patterns were. It was like if there was a whole industry for designer fingerprints or DNA, shaping perfect whorls and helixes, and the state still treated them like unique identifiers. How many past matches had they missed because of Jane Doe's meddling? Even she could be on their database somewhere, hidden behind an unrecognisable overbite.

"A heterodontist, if you will." Lita brought him back to the present.

"No."

"I didn't realise the mob had a dental plan. So what are we thinking? One of the grunts saw their disappearance coming, and swung by to give her a stainless steel filling?"

"This feels like a professional hit. Maybe the higher-ups, if she knew too much. But either way, this isn't just a random attack, right? She's not been murdered for something unrelated to all those murders she helped to cover up. You have to concede that would be too big of a coincidence."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you're saying," she conceded, hands up in mock surrender. "I'll buy you your drink. Where do you want to go?"

Even then she dragged her feet. Lita made him wait outside whilst she went back to get her jacket, then spilt his coffee at the first attempt and had to go back to the counter to replace it. Sidwell might think her a sore loser, if she wasn't like this about literally everything. Even when he finally had the cup in his hand, he suspected that she'd somehow got his order wrong.

"What's in this drink?" He recoiled at the first sip, but went back for a second. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly - just unexpected. Notes of almond, and something he couldn't quite place. "You just asked for normal milk, right?"

She shook her head. "I added a couple of shots. You deserve a little treat."

"That's not going to be good for my teeth."

"I'm sure our victim will forgive you." Lita grinned, as if to prove his point. "You're the one who was right about her, so you're allowed a little indulgence."

Sidwell tried to be polite, to set an example to her as much as anything. No wonder she'd been at the counter for longer than usual. The coffee wasn't awful, if he ignored the other flavours. Was this what she went for every day? He wondered if the sugar was to blame for her performance, which alternated from erratic to lethargic, like a hyper child who crashed in the afternoons.

Lita watched him drink in silence for a while, then seemed to find the courage for a question.

"Do you think that I'm incompetent?"

Sidwell weighed it up - probably for a second too long. So this was why she'd wanted them to grab a drink together, one way or another. She needed to talk about her career, away from the precinct. "I wouldn't use that word."

"So what word would you use?" she pressed. "Competent?"

"Well... okay, maybe not. Sorry."

Lita nodded. "No, that's good to hear. It'll work on the next guy."

"Huh? Are you transferring from the squad?" Sidwell tried to feign dismay, but knew that she'd always been the better liar. "Is this goodbye?"

"Sure," she said. "Call it a leaving drinks."

"You don't want something?" He gestured with his cup before another deep sip. "Gods, this is potent stuff."

"Only the best for my old partner." She sat back, watching him with something almost like nostalgia in her eyes. "A way of apologising, I suppose. How many of our cases have I delayed, or outright obstructed?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say obstructed," Sidwell told her, trying to find something nice to say. The truth was that she'd often been as much a hindrance as a help, and he'd be glad to get a better partner in her place. "That suggests that you were doing it on purpose. You were just... there's a lot to learn. I'm sure that you've always tried your best."

"That's right," Lita said, although she didn't seem too worried about it. "And if criminals profited from my mistakes, even the failed prosecutions, that's just because I was learning the ropes."

"Yes, I'm sure it's something like that." It didn't sound great when she said it. They were supposed to be detectives. Not for the first time, Sidwell wondered how she'd earnt such a sacred responsibility, or why she'd even wanted it. "But that's why you have a partner. To support you."

"Like you've almost solved this dentist case, all on your own."

"Almost, yeah."

"And you're sure it was a professional hit, from the group she did the work for? There's nothing I say that can persuade you otherwise?"

"I'm sorry, but no," Sidwell said. "You can check out the other angles if you like, and I'd never dissuade you from doing so, but I'm pretty convinced by my current leads. Why, do you know anything you haven't shared?"

"Of course not," Lita said, lying through her crooked teeth. Had he ever noticed quite how bad they were? "You've won me over. That's why we're here, right? I'm sure your theory is correct, and you'll get their names in due course. You just enjoy the rest of your drink to celebrate. Like I said, you deserve it - every last sip."

[bookshelf-in-progress]

@isfjmel-phleg Well, I couldn't resist that prompt. This is extremely rough, and I reserve the right to decanonize any of this, but I had to take a stab at writing these two in this situation.

Beyond The Legend

"Tanza, what's this?" Auren called.

Tanza stormed into her house's gathering area, tossing aside the cloth she'd been wiping the dining table with. "Auren, I told you not to touch the electronics until I was rea—"

She froze.

The projection screen on the far wall was filled with the dull sparkle of a classic lumiscopic drama. The glimmers of purple and green added layers of depth to the muted colors of the image—which showed a square-jawed, golden-haired tephan man with ragged finery and a few artistically-placed smears of blood on his all-too-handsome face.

Auren was sitting on a soft chair, staring at the image. "Who is that?"

"An actor," Tanza said quickly, desperately scanning the room for the controls. If there was one drama Auren should not see…

"Naturally," Auren said, rolling his eyes. "What is his name? He seems familiar."

"Corphan Holbrith," Tanza said, then cursed her thoughtlessness. Auren might know the name. She might not be able to stop the showstream in time…

Auren's brow furrowed. "I've heard that name before. Usually accompanied by 'you're not as handsome as'."

"Well, you're not." Where on Arateph had Auren put her datapad?

"Thank you for your support, Tanza."

On the screen, Corphan Holbrith limped up a rocky mountain path, leaning heavily upon a man in an ill-fitting suit of workers' clothes.

Auren examined the image. "Do I resemble him? It's odd that its been remarked upon so often."

"He's extremely famous," Tanza said, desperately hoping to distract his attention. Why hadn't she sprung to get voice-controlled showstreams?

"For what?"

"He's been in a million lumiscopic dramas."

Behind the shelf—was that the control? Tanza dove to the floor. Just the light controls. She sprang to her feet, disgusted.

By now, Corphan Holbrith had reached a ramshackle door in the mountainside, but he was pulling away from his companion. "I must return," he said. "My people have need of me."

His companion tried to hold him back. "You must save yourself, lirishan."

Auren jumped at the word—a naming tongue title applied only to the crown prince.

The companion continued, " If Prince Auren dies, all hope is lost."

Tanza sank into a soft chair, defeated.

Auren gazed at her in open astonishment. "Is he—?"

"Prince Auren," Tanza sighed. "About thirty years ago, this role launched Holbrith's career. This drama was a sensation. Won all sorts of awards. People went crazy over it."

"Have you seen it?"

"A few times," Tanza said casually. Not in a million years would she tell Auren that she'd watched it every night for a year when she was twelve.

Auren grinned and turned back to the screen, his eyes sparkling with delight. "What's it about?"

Well, it didn't look like Auren was spiraling into traumatic memories, so maybe Tanza could run with this.

"Your typical revolutionary alternate history," she said. "Prince Auren was saved from the brink of death by a beautiful lady rebel who fell in love with him, was rescued by royalists, then escaped into the mountains, lost his memory, became a beloved member of the community, fell in love with the rebel lady, regained his memory, then had to decide whether to choose love or royal duty."

"What did he choose?"

"He tries to claim his kingdom, of course, while staying faithful to his love, but they both have to go into hiding and wait for the right time to emerge. It's all very artistic."

On-screen, the faux Prince Auren collapsed from exhaustion, while the beautiful dark-haired lady rebel wept over him, and berated the nobleman who'd been helping him up the mountain.

"I see that," Auren said with a grin.

"We can watch something else," Tanza said, finally spotting the controls beside the window.

"Not for all the money on Arateph."

Tanza shrugged and relaxed into her seat.

She had seen the drama a few times since she was twelve, but not since she'd met the actual Auren. The false history seemed even more melodramatic now that the real history was no longer hidden. Prince Auren was heroic and romantic—a sheltered royal cast out into a harsh world, tortured by his losses and driven by virtue.

"Please tell me I don't talk like that," Auren said.

The faux Prince Auren was giving a speech that had won Holbrith his first acting award. It actually was something Tanza could imagine the real Auren saying—all about hope in adversity—but the voice sounded strange in a way it never had before.

It was a pitch-perfect imitation of the way the royal accent sounded in decaying copies of pre-revolutionary recordings, but nothing like Auren's real voice—refined and old-fashioned, but with plenty of warmth and humor.

"Not a bit," Tanza said.

"Thank all the stars."

The story continued through yet another chase scene set among soaring mountain landscapes. "They thought I was in Kepha?" Auren asked.

"It made sense at the time," Tanza said. "Your mother's family was there, and the mountains have lots of places to hide."

Auren stared at the screen a moment, processing this new information. "No wonder it took them a hundred years to find me."

The story continued through chase scenes and fights, bouts of amnesia, dramatic speeches, narrow escapes, and touching emotional moments. The story was silly, sometimes surprisingly heartwrenching—but the story she'd seen a million times felt brand-new with the real Auren sitting beside her.

Once, Corphan Holbrith's Auren had been Tanza's ideal. He was noble. Unshakeable. A bit sheltered, but with a good heart. Capable of knocking down any number of rebels and then declaring his feelings to the love of his life. Enough inner turmoil to be endlessly fascinating to a twelve year old girl.

Holbrith's Auren was by far the most flattering portrayal of the controversial prince, but he was a pale shadow when placed next to the real thing. His Auren wasn't someone who would cook a meal, chat about the little details of a history student's day, laugh over a silly melodrama, face a world a hundred years in his own future.

The last scene of the story faded out—Prince Auren gazing over the land that he swore he would one day save, before disappearing into the mountain forest—leaving only the real Prince Auren.

"So that's the life I missed out on," Auren said. "I'm almost sad I slept through it instead. The real history must be disappointing compared to the legend."

"Are you kidding?" Tanza asked.

"It's certainly less exciting," Auren said. "And I'm no Corphan Holbrith."

"No," Tanza said, turning off the projector. "Believe me, the real thing is much better."

[remwrites]

i'd love to see any hotguy/cuteguy scarian stuff from you!! doesn't have to be like a superhero au or whatever just whatever strikes your fancy :]

i had VERY different thoughts for this so i'm giving you these two pieces

[]

"That was too close." Grian said, heart in his throat. They'd taken more hits than Grian was really comfortable with, but Hot Guy had kept his cool the whole time.

"We handled it." Hot Guy gave a reassuring smile, just a little strained. "You holding up okay?"

"I'm good." Grian dismissed. He wasn't the one who'd been targeted by their attacker, Hot Guy taking most of the attention.

"No, you're great." Hot Guy said, chuckling.

Grian elbowed him in the side, rolling his eyes. But Hot Guy winced at the action, curling around his ribs.

"What?" Grian said, stepping back to get a better look at his partner. It was fairly dark, but he could make out the blood down his side. "God, why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought maybe it was just your good looks making me dizzy." Hot Guy said, words beginning to slur, and he reached out a hand blindly.

Grian took it, gripping tight and helping to lower him to the ground. "You're such a damn idiot. Don't you dare go unconscious. What happened?"

"Stabbed? Maybe? There was a knife involved but I don't know where it went." Hot Guy mumbled.

"Eyes open." Grian tapped him hard in the middle of his forehead, holding him up and trying to think of his options.

Hot Guy opened his eyes, barely there, and gave an ashen smile, "Hey there handsome."

"Is there someone I can call for help?" Grian said, not sure what else he could possibly do with the much taller man bleeding out in his lap.

"Oh. Yeah. My brother is listening. He'll send someone."

"Help is coming?" Grian prompted.

"Mhm." Hot Guy replied.

Grian surveyed his options and stripped off a layer of his jacket to press against the wound. His hands were shaking. Hot Guy squeezed his eyes shut hard and gave a ragged breath.

"Stay awake." Grian said.

"Who gives the orders here?" Hot Guy mumbled. "I'm going to pass out."

"No, don't--" Grian said, but it was too late, the colour leaving Scar's face and head lolling to the side. Grian cursed colourfully and prayed whoever he summoned would be quick.

[]

Scar really couldn't be blamed, his partner was named Cute Guy for a reason, and Scar was incredibly weak to cute.

Weak, malleable, currently putty in his pink-clad hands, as Cute Guy tugged on his hair while kissing the life out of him. Scar made an embarrassing noise in his mouth, winding the arms tighter around his partner's small waist and deepening the kiss. Mind utterly consumed with the smile on Cute Guy's lips as he fused them closer together.

Cute Guy hummed with appreciation, on his tip toes and bracketing Scar's thigh with both of his own. The brick wall against Scar's back was almost not enough to keep his watery knees up. Cute Guy nibbled on his bottom lip and he went very light headed.

His earpiece crackled. "Your glasses are still on, idiot."

Scar's mind halted, blood going cold.

"I literally went and got a coffee and you're still making out?" Cub lamented, from where he'd be watching from the lab via the live feed of his special tech glasses.

"What's up?" Cute Guy asked, tipping his head back just enough to disengage their eager lips.

"You don't wanna know." Scar said, carefully reaching between them to take his glasses off. "I gotta take these off."

"Oh, are we being watched?" Cute Guy gave an amused smile.

Cub was the worst. "Tell Cute Guy I said hi."

"I'm not telling him you said hi." Scar replied.

"Hello! Your brother is a great kisser." Cute Guy said, leaning closer to the glasses to relay that information.

"I didn't want to know that." Cub complained in his ear.

Scar muffled a laugh and shoved the glasses in his pocket. Then he reached up to hold Cute Guy's stupidly cute face and kiss him again.

[puhpandas]

Watch

(2,984 words)

Gregory dies saving the Pizzaplex from the virus. In return, Evan saves Gregory by giving him the gift of life. Evan is done with just watching. (warnings: major character (child) death (gregory), implied murder, implied stabbing, blood.

Evan had to go fight his Father on his own.

Vanessa had been too incapacitated. Too distraught to come along. She'd woken up not too long after Gregory had freed her, hair greasy and wirey and body weak, knees wobbly. It had only gotten worse after she'd seen the cost.

Theres nothing Evan could have helped with. All he could do is finish things.

His Father had gone down easily. Theres not much you can do as an animatronic on the brink of collapse, no matter how much of your virus is spread across the network. No matter how many brute machines you have at your command. Its hard to kill somebody whose already dead. To hurt somebody who isnt tangible.

All Evan had to do was call in a favor.

The amalgamation hadn't needed any more than a promise. It had thrown itself at his Father, giving itself up to secure that his Father is gone forever. For good.

Evan had promised to set the fire. He knows that Freddy has a lighter in his finger. He knows that his Father is stuck, and is at Evan's will.

Evan has the power to take the call, here. He can set the fire whenever he wants. He gets to choose when it all ends.

He hasn't, yet. He just needs to see Gregory again.

Vanessa has barely moved by the time Evan phases through floors, arriving back in Vannys old hideout. Shes sitting up, but unmoving. Before, her shoulders shook harshly with barely contained grief.

Now, it's like shes empty. Like there's nothing left of her.

After what was lost to free her, Evan understands why.

He can barely look, once he floats next to Vanessa. Gregory is right where Evan had left him, still laid flat on the linoleum tile under Vanessa's hunched form.

Shes almost curled around him, as if to protect him. He cant be protected much, anymore. But he deserves to have whats left of him taken care of.

It hurts so much more than the others when Evan forces himself to look. Nothings changed; Gregory is still unmoving, eyes open and unseeing. The knife is discarded to their left, tossed in some corner to rot.

The floor is a mess. Gregorys blood stains every crevice. His blue shirt is barely recognizable, violent rips and tears litter the area near his stomach, and blood stains the fabric a sickening black.

Evan stares at his face. It doesnt so much as twitch.

He knows better than to beg. He knows better than to hope, or plead, or wish.

He's dead. Evan knows. He's known this whole time. He knew when he'd gone off to fight his Father. To get revenge.

Gregory's dead.

It hurts so much more than the others.

Evan floats downwards, sitting by Gregory's body next to Vanessa as much as he can as a ghost. She doesn't seem to register that hes there, just staring blankly at Gregory. At the empty husk of the boy Evan had just begun to know.

Shes already expressed her grief. She'd yelled and screamed and sobbed when he'd still been alive, clinging to life by a thread, but despite Vanessa's attempts, he'd died in her arms.

They'd only shared little words before it was over.

They'd watched as the life left his eyes. Evan watched as Gregory went still in that way only dead people can. He'd watched as Vanessa fell apart.

It hurt so much more than the others.

He'd just been getting to know Gregory. He'd only scraped the surface. He'd only known Gregory for six hours, but he'd felt like he'd known him for a lifetime.

He'd just been getting to know him, and Evan had been planning to stick around. He'd been planning to follow Gregory. He'd been planning to take the one child who'd been brave enough, smart enough, to survive, and lead him to the source.

Hed been planning on finally doing something. He'd been planning on ending it all, and saving one child out of it. He'd been planning on being done with watching, and doing something about it. He'd tried to help the others, to guide them where it mattered, help them survive, but they'd been snuffed out before they could begin.

And all Evan could do is watch.

He's so tired of just watching.

"Gr-- Gree-- Gregory..." Freddys voice filters out of the watch, crackling and glitching. "Gregor-- ory-- Please tell me you are saf-- fe. I cannot re-- each you--"

Something snaps in Evan, at that. Freddy doesn't know. Freddy had tried so hard, like Evan had, to save someone. To save one person after so many were lost.

Evan has seen Freddy. Hes seen them all. Hes seen how they all wake up the next day horrified at the blood under their claws, and the memories of murdering burned into their code. Evan has seen how all Freddy's been able to do is watch as he's hijacked, unable to fight back, and forced to sit backseat in his own body.

This time had been different. Freddy had been spared. Freddy had fought for Gregory. Freddy didnt just watch this time.

Evan doesnt want to just watch anymore.

Evan's stomach burns, normally, his soul is cold, as lifeless ghosts are. Just a figment of who he used to be.

So unlike the chill hes used too, how unfeeling he usually is, warmth bursts in his stomach, at hot as fire, and it swirls. Unfurling and spreading.

It tingles, prickling and sharp, and to Evan, somehow, it feels like an invitation.

Evan had been the first. He'd been there for it all. He'd been there when Charlie had died. He'd been there when she had given life to the other children. He'd been there when they'd all lost their humanity. He'd been there for the first fire, the second, and soon, the third.

Evan had been the first.

His chest burns with intensity, hot and bubbling.

Gregory will be the last.

He welcomes it; the simmering feeling underneath the film of numbness. It claws to escape, and Evan let's it.

He curls inward, a burst of light shining from his body, and at its warmth, it's like Vanessa comes back to life. She jerks when a glow spreads across the room, twisting her neck to watch it with wide eyes.

He cups his hands gently, shutting his eyes and reaching inward.

The Remnant responds to him. It hears him. It hears his grief, his wishes, and his determination.

Like the others, Gregory never deserved to die. Like the others, he'd been lost to his Father. Like the others, he'd been lost to a long string of tragedy that began on the day Evan died.

His chest opens, a yellow, pinprick of light seeping out and into his hands.

Unlike the others, Gregory will be the last.

Evan holds the remnant gently as can be, and ignores the blatant emptiness inside of him. He ignores how much weaker he feels. He ignores how he essentially just halved his life force.

Instead, he offers the life to Gregory's body, like giving a gift.

It receives it.

The light seeps into Gregory's body, spreading across his injuries and soaking in. Light crawls across his skin, spiderwebbing and stitching skin and flesh together.

The light mends Gregory's body, fixing what had been broken.

Evan never thought that anything involved with his Father could be good. That it could help instead of hurt.

But when Vanessas lights up as Gregory's eyes ignite with life, all gifted by the warmth in Evan's soul, he thinks it's not the magic that's bad, but the man who wields it.

Its agonizing; waiting those few seconds for Gregory to wake up, but the shine that had re-entered his eyes only grows brighter when he gasps harshly, jerking to life.

With a cry of joy, Evan shoots forward, attempting a hug as much as he can as a ghost. At the same time, Vanessa sobs with barely contained relief and reaches out, pulling Gregory out of the puddle of his own blood and setting him gently against her chest.

Evan meets his eyes, and man, do they look exhausted, but they also look alive. Evan cant contain the grin on his face when Gregory's eyes dart to him, seeing but not. Hes still in that stage between floaty and aware, but Evan waits for him.

It only takes a moment for Gregory himself to understand, but then hes clutching back, breaths deep, life laced within every intake of air.

Vanessa is crying. Shoulder shaking sobs that leave tracks down the dirt and blood on her face, and snot smudged across her cheek.

He doesnt blame her. Evan feels more alive than he has in a long time.

"You--" Gregory rasps out before coughing, but despite the fact, it's the most beautiful sound Evan's heard in years. Compared to the last words Gregory spoke before now being goodbyes. "You saved me."

Evan knows that Gregory knows. He knows everything. When Evan shared a piece of himself with Gregory, it connected them. Their souls are entertwined, now.

Evan feels the remnants of true fear deep inside Gregory of truly dying. He feels the relief that its over. He feels the accomplishment that nobody else will be lost.

Evan knows Gregory knows his feelings, as well. Evan knows Gregory feels the grief for the others. He knows he feels the satisfaction of sending his Father back to Cassidy. He knows he feels the anger at being forced to observe for so long.

So Evan just nods, the permanent tears on his face growing thicker and inkier. "I did."

And it's as simple as that.

Gregorys tucked under Vanessa's chin, her stringy hair falling out of what used to be a ponytail. Shes still sobbing, and Evan doesnt think she'd be able to do much of anything right now.

That's okay. Evan knows Vanessa had cried for the others, too. He knows Vanessa had been horrified at the memories. He knows shed been lost for years.

"You're you?" Gregory asks, weak and thready. He brings up a shaky hand and sets it on Vanessa's arm. Shes still wearing the bunny suit; she hadn't had it in her to tear it off when the only thing shed been focused on was the kid who saved her dying in her arms.

All Vanessa does is nod, over and over, almost deliriously. "Yes--" She sobs. "Because-- Because of you."

And its right there that Evan let's himself relish in the fact that they're all here. After watching so much grief and tragedy take place, its finally over. Gregory saved them, and now Evan was able to save Gregory.

He laughs in delight, feeling more hope and warmth than he has in a long time.

Three victims sit in a circle, relieved and alive.

"Gr-r--" Gregory's watch sputters to life, staticky and warbling. "Gregory-- I'm so worried about yo-- you-- P-P-Please respo--"

Three sets of eyes blow open.

"Freddy!"

👻

Gregory and Evan had been alone together all night. Freddy wasnt able to follow them everywhere, and Gregory, with that determination that saved them that night, carried them far. Deep into the belly of the beast.

But its only when they finally haul themselves up when the clock gets a little too close to six, hop in Vanessa's car, and hightail it to her apartment that Gregory and Evan are alone again.

Vanessa, with a little more energy in her step, had followed through with her promise. Before they'd left, she said she would set the fire. All she wanted to do is take care of a few things. Freddy went along with her, wanting to collect his friends when they wake up free of the virus.

It's just the two of them, now. They're sitting (floating, in Evan's case) on Vanessa's couch, Gregory is eating some cereal, since its all Vanessa had on hand, and hes wearing one of Vanessa's too-big shirts when his had been too ruined to keep.

Theres some cartoon on the TV about a girl and a weird blue floating blob, but Evan isnt paying attention. Not when Gregory is staring at his bowl with furrowed brows, lost in thought.

Evan can tell he wants to say something, so he just sits patiently, and stays quiet when Gregory eventually starts opening and closing his mouth, trying to find the words.

"Evan--" Gregory begins eventually, and when Evan looks over, Gregory's looking at the carpet instead of him. "Um... can I ask you something?"

Evan nods. "Of course."

"Kay." Gregory responds, and then sighs, scratching the back of his neck and fiddling with the fold of fabric where his stomach is. "Uh... well..."

Evan stays silent, waiting for Gregory to gather his thoughts. Evan had hated it when people rushed him when he spoke while he was alive. He wasnt stupid, just nervous.

Eventually, Gregory throws his hands down and huffs, as if biting the bullet. He turns to Evan, looking him in the eyes as he asks, "Why did you save me?"

Evan blinks, and looks at Gregory, confused. They'd already communicated everything when Gregory woke up. "What do you mean?"

Gregory fidgets again, glancing to the side and looking frustrated. "Well-- I mean... just, why did you choose me?"

Evan furrows his brows. "Um... I dont understand."

Gregory growls, but Evan can sense it's not at him, just at Gregory's own scrambled thoughts. He rubs at his eyes, before, "I mean--!. eight other kids went missing before me."

Evan starts to get it. "Oh."

"Just... why did you save me?" Gregory asks again, a little more surely this time. "Like... you literally gave up half of your life force just so I wouldnt die. You met so many other kids that didnt make it... I... just want to know why you see me as so special to sacrifice for."

Evan shakes his head, twisting in place to better face Gregory. He tries to convey so much in one motion, his brain swirling with thoughts, and remnants of feeling from past memories.

"Gregory..." Evan glances downward, an old feeling of grief coming back. It's his old friend at this point. "...Nobody deserved to die. Nobody. But... in a way, some of us didnt. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I'm technically living, arent I?"

Gregory nods, but he looks confused. "Yeah, I would say so. But what does this have to do with what I said?"

Evan looks at the couch, watching as his fingers phase through the cushion. "I mean... the others, they died, but they didnt leave. They were still there, but... they weren't living. Bit by bit, they lost themselves, until they really were as good as dead."

Gregory is silent, so Evan continues. "I didnt feel like I was living for a long time, even though I technically wasnt dead. I had my friend. That's what we had that the others didnt. That's how we held on. But when she left... I had to stay for her to, as well, and I was stuck. I couldn't see my family. I was living, but I didnt want to be. I was living, but didnt have a life."

Evan glances up, and sees Gregory's own face looking back at him, eyes sad. Evan frowns, feeling decades of memories creep back up on him. He shoves them down. "All I did was watch tragedy and death occur for years, while I was alone. And I couldnt do a thing about it."

"You were done just watching." Gregory mumbles.

Evan nods. "...I was. So when you came along, and you survived, and dodged death, and saved everybody... you didnt deserve to die. More than the others. After all youd done, you deserved to live."

Theres a stretch of silence, after that. Evan has patience to spare, so when Gregory just stares, probably turning Evan's words over in his head, he waits.

After a while, Gregory tries to set a hand on Evan's shoulder, but it phases through. Gregory frowns, eyes downcast as he stares at his body dissipating at Gregory's touch, falling away like sand. "You havent felt alive in a long time, huh...?"

Theres that connection, again. Evan's gonna have to get used to this; he hasnt been connected to someone this way since Cassidy.

He nods, but in the melancholy, he smiles, and looks pointedly at Gregory. "Yeah," He agrees. "but that changed."

Gregory understands quickly. Evan pushed all of his feelings and earnesty towards that seemingly now permanent sense of Gregory presence, after all. He looks suprised, if his wide eyes are any indication, but then he finally sees the undeniable smile on Evans face, and Evan can sense that Gregory believes him.

Tears swim in Gregory's eyes, and he wipes at them half heartedly, grin on his face. He chuckles wetly. "Would you believe me if I said nobody has ever said something like that to me?"

Evan fractures, smiling. "Not really. I doubt you've met a lot of other dead people."

"Youd be right." Gregory replies. "Man, I wish I could hug you. It doesnt feel right just letting you sit there and be all... ghosty after saying something like that."

Evan chuckles at that, smile wide. "Put your arms around me."

Gregory raises a brow, but does it anyway.

It's funny. How Gregory, a boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time saved the ones at the heart of the tragedy. He saved everyone without being involved himself, and Evan cant help but feel like Gregory saved him as well, in a way.

And Evan, who shuts his eyes and brings forth every ounce of power he has as a poltergeist, let's his body fall against another solid one, and sink into the hug.

ao3 link

[mooshs-crack-headcanons]

Okay, I mean this in no disrespect about Miphlink, Miphlink shippers *mwah* love you guys, but me for me personally I like Miphlink but only with it in the context of it being one sidded AND Mipha being 100% completely aware of it's unrequitedness.

Why? Because I. Love. Angst. I thrive off it.

Like Mipha is a sweet, compassionate girl with a heart of pure gold - but she isn't stupid. She isn't oblivious to the blink and you'll miss it searching glances that goes on between Link and Princess Zelda, the devotion he has for her that goes well beyond than just a knight doing his job. She isn't ignorant to glimmering shine that lights up in the princess' eyes every time she looks at her chosen knight either, the genuine expression that melts across her face that is all devoid of the facade she presents wherever on official royal duties. Love. Clear and obvious love that is impossible to ignore even if it stabs and knaws at the Zora princess' heart each and every time she sees it.

How she wished deeply in her heart of hearts, how she wished and pray to the goddess that maybe one day... Link would look at her the same way. But then she quickly realizes how silly and selfish that sounds every time and that breaks her heart even more. It'd be so cruel to wish something like that because then it'd be hurting both Link and Zelda and she absolutely doesn't want that - both of them are very dear friends to her and she doesn't want to warm that because of some... silly feelings. Silly, deep, feelings.

For quite some time she sits up on Vah Ruta's spout and truly recollects on the matter. Each day she thinks, traces her slight taloned fingertips over the blade of her trident and staring back at her reflection on its blade. She really did love the hero, she knows her feelings are true and much before the realization that his heart actually belonged to someone else she... started making him the armor. Since then she's hiddened it, far from any eyes to see and is positively sure the only ones to know about its existence is her father and little Sidon - who'd actually helped a bit himself in the stitching of the scales which even now still brings a small smile to her lips. There's no reason to finish it now, surely, but on the other hand something ate at her to accompanied by a voice saying maybe it'll be important one day to fulfill at least some kind of purpose, even if it wasn't for its original intention.

Mipha pauses on the thought, her eyes scanning over through the mountains and towards the direction of the castle in the kingdom's heart. She heard rather recently from Urbosa that Link has been sneaking Princess Zelda out of the castle at night to continue her sheikah research, going the King's direct orders.

A knight disobeying the word of his king. He did that for her.

The Zora sighs. That sounds very like him, she admired that about him and even so she's glad to hear the princess had still continue her research, it was no hidden secret that one of her main interests so if she continue to pursue it than that makes her happy. And the princess happy obviously made Link happy, which in turn makes Mipha happy at the end of the day.

Her mind crawls back to the armor.

...maybe... she could finish it. Not as some token of engagement as Zora tradition willed it, though she is aware exactly how it will look to most Zora when she gives it to the hero, how they'll interpret it and try to spin it off as a romantic thing but... the creation of armor like this without a doubt is a very special an and intimate one, very personal. So it'd have to mean just as much if she were to give it as a... blessing, right? Her personal blessing for Link and Zelda's relationship. Her token of acceptance, even if it stung.

She very quickly went to work.

Every single night, even after long days of training and attending to her royal duties she takes some time to work on the armor. She pays attention to fine detail - making sure every row of scales that aline the sturdy fabric are in the correct shape and positioning that would make the set suitable to be worn even years and decades from now. Regal - she makes it, with every pattern melted in the pauldrons and the pretty eye catching glimmer of sapphires that danced in between the threads of the fabric. Perfect, she wants it to be perfect. To symbolic represent how much Link means to her and how happy she is with his happiness and love to the princess. She loves seeing him happy and wishes for everything in the world just to keep him happy.

Even if she has to watch him grow old, together hand in hand with the woman he actually loves and eventually... die. And Mipha will still be young, and live life long without him, that's the sad truth between human and zora lifespans. So this all is for the best.

Weeks and months leading through the armors creation process, even in the final hours until its completely finished and ready to present.

She still can't stop the uncontrollable tears streaming down her face.

[comfort-questing]

"sword fight"

spoilers for Furina lore / final Archon quest

-

it wasn't that Furina hadn't been stabbed before.

that was in the early days - an assassin who'd sneaked into the Palais and hid behind a door, to spring out as she wilted in the exhaustion that followed when she let the mask of her face and being slip at last. she'd screamed, of course, chest expanding in a bright stutter of agony around the knife blade slipped between her ribs. and as the Gardes rushed in she was more anxious to make sure that her voice did not shake, than that the blood stayed in her body as the knife was drawn back out.

she knew she could not die. the her that was both her and not her had told her so, and she believed her.

but this - this was not the same.

sure, the feeling of it began the same - the sudden pressure that was numbness and a starburst of pain as she unfroze her tense body - and flicked aside the second strike from the shabby dark-clothed man, his eyes obscured beneath his drawn-down hood. her sword sat easily enough in her hand, and the motions of battle a familiar dance, after all that she had studied it so long with her training masters between opera days.

she felt the hesitation, the fear in him, as she parried his blows. he had startled her, here on the outskirts of the port, in the dark of the night; in her baggy coat against the chilly air she must have seemed just another wayfarer coming home on the final aquabus of the evening. a quick forward twist and he gasped, staggering back, clutching at his thigh and swearing.

she raised the sword to his eye level, held outwards, and the next breath tore at her, sharp warmth soaking quickly through the layers at her waist. but her mask did not fail her, this time; whatever he saw in her face gave a final blow to his determination.

Furina let him go. the gardes might yet catch him; she wasn't going to run after him. she took a step forward, and felt her legs wobble beneath her, and all of a sudden didn't know if she could run if she had wanted to. the pain was ebbing up through her, her stomach clutching sick and heavy, and as she sheathed her sword in the folds of her coat her hand came away black beneath the moonlight.

the swish of waves against the pier, the clink of an aquabus at anchor, all seemed suddenly and unbearably loud around her. the cobblestones were icy beneath her knees, as she watched the dark stains spread there with each heaving pained breath.

I am human now, she thought, bleakly, in terror, I suppose this is what it feels like, to be human...

she tried to call on her new Vision, but weakly, faltering; instead of the Hydro specters only clear water spattered the roadway, shining against the blood.

"hey, do you need help?"

she didn't recognize the voice at first, but she recognized the wild dark curtain of hair, and the glint of a studded eyepatch in the moonlight. the butt of the long musket knocked against her legs as Chevreuse dropped down next to her, and she blinked hazily to see the musketeer's face change from vague concern to a sudden hard alarm.

"Lady Furina!"

this time, she did not have the strength to draw up the mask; this time, her voice was a trembly whisper as she spoke.

"I - do need help, I think," she said, and let herself fall forward into the other girl's waiting arms.

--

Chevreuse wasn't with her, when she woke, dizzy with ether and strange dreams. Clorinde was, though, sitting bolt-upright between two Melusines by the doorway to the hospital room, fingers quietly fidgeting with the dice that always appeared from her pockets at the worst of moments.

"don't move, my lady."

"I'm - not your Archon any longer," she murmured, and her mouth was dry as if cotton-stuffed, the bandages sticky against her skin and the pain a medicine-dulled burning beneath.

"yes, but always my lady. here, I'll call the nurse, now that you've woken."

"it's - morning?"

"yes." Clorinde nodded to one of the uniformed Melusines, who dodged back through the door into the early daylight beyond. "don't pull your stitches. believe me, it isn't any fun."

Furina stopped moving then, and let Clorinde bring a damp cloth to her lips, to wipe away the horrible parched feeling - "not too much, your insides are still recovering from having several holes made in them."

she could have drunk half the Lake of Fontaine if she'd been allowed, but Clorinde's face was gravely stern above her, shadows beneath her eyes. so she let her take the cloth away without complaint and lay her head back, as the patter of footsteps sounded in the hallway beyond.

"I thought I might die, Clorinde," she said, because she suddenly felt as if she had to say it - confess it, or else have the weakness haunt her forever. "I - I won't die, will I?"

"not for a long while, my lady," said Clorinde, and brushed the hair back from Furina's sweat-stichy forehead, as she might have done it to Chevreuse or anyone else, and sat down on the edge of the bed as the door opened to let the nurse in.

[griseldabanks]

Okay, here goes. For my birthday I'd like 21 and 29 from Let Me Count the Ways, in one fic for Ed and Al in the foster family au. Make it angsty, but also lots of hugs please! (You know what I like.)

--Rain

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Prompts: "I should have told you this a long time ago." and "It's not my fault."

Ed couldn't sleep. It was one of those warm, clear nights where the moon was full and so bright it lit up the room almost as bright as day, only with cool silvery light instead of the golden warmth of the sun. On nights like this back home, Mom would take them stargazing. She would point out all the constellations, and they would take turns looking through the telescope until Al was about to nod off, and then they'd go home and fall asleep over mugs of hot chocolate.

But now they lived in the suburbs. Roy and Riza were fast asleep, and it had probably never occurred to them to go stargazing, and you couldn't see many stars anyway because of the city lights.

A creak in the bed across the room made Ed roll over to look. Al sat on the edge of his bed, gazing out the open window with a wistful expression. The moonlight washed over his skin, turning it to ivory. He could have been a statue. The statue of a sad little boy whose mother would never take him stargazing again.

Ed sat up, drawing Al's attention. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed and dangling his one foot over the edge, Ed said softly, “I miss it too. Looking at the stars.”

Hugging himself as if chilled by the warm breeze, Al looked mournfully across at him. It wouldn't be the same without Mom, his eyes said. He could always tell what Al meant to say, even though no sound passed his lips.

Ed swallowed hard. Al's grief was like a knife in his ribs, in a way harder to bear than his own. It wasn't fair that Al had to grow up like this. It wasn't fair that he had to live with foster parents instead of real ones. It wasn't fair that Ed had to interpret his words instead of listening to them.

The knife stabbed harder into his side. It had been there all along, ever since that awful day....

“Al...” he whispered. “There's...something I need to tell you. Something...I should've told you this a long time ago, but I was...I was scared, I guess, of what you might say.”

Al's brow furrowed and he tilted his head to one side in confusion.

Clearing his throat, Ed dropped his gaze to the floor, where the blinds made stripes of moonlight and shadow on the floorboards. He hesitated, heart hammering against his ribs. Then, just like the first time he'd jumped into the deep end of the pool, he took a deep breath and plunged in before he could lose his nerve.

“It's my fault Mom's dead.”

He didn't dare look up to see Al's expression, but he could easily hear the sharp intake of breath. “You didn't know where we were going that night, did you?”

He heard, more than saw, Al shake his head.

“We were going to meet...him.” Ed grimaced around the sour taste in his mouth at the hazy memory of their father. He only had one image of his father in his head: the day he walked out the door.

His hands curled into fists on his knees. “He'd been sending letters. For weeks. Asking Mom if he could see us. You know how it was always my job to go check the mailbox? Well, I saw his name, and so I...hid them. Each time one would come in, I wouldn't give it to Mom, I'd read it myself and then I'd hide it under my mattress. But I didn't think about him calling on the phone. So that night...you remember how she took that phone call into her room for like an hour, and then she came out and said we had to get in the car? That's why. Because she was taking us to see him.”

All he'd wanted was to protect Mom from that jerk who'd left them. He was a traitor to their family, so they shouldn't want anything to do with him. But Ed wasn't an idiot. He may have only been eleven, but he'd heard the way Mom would talk about him, the longing way she'd look at his photos in the hallway. If he ever showed his face around town again, Ed knew she'd go running to him in a heartbeat. And just end up heartbroken all over again.

“But...if I hadn't hidden the letters...if she'd been reading them all along...it wouldn't have been that night. They would've arranged a meeting some other time, when it wasn't raining, and then she wouldn't have been so...crying and distracted...and then it wouldn't...she wouldn't have....”

A warm arm around his shoulders brought him up short. He squeezed his eyes shut, and only when he felt tears dripping onto his knee did he realize he was crying.

He sat stiffly, not leaning into Al's embrace. He didn't deserve this sympathy. He didn't even deserve to cry. “It's...It's my fault,” he choked out. “It's my fault we're...like this.”

Al's hand covered his, but he said nothing. He never said anything. He was locked in a prison of silence, all because of his stupid, stupid brother....

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I wouldn't blame you if you did.”

Al let go of his hand and cupped Ed's cheek, gently raising it so they could meet each other's gaze. Ed looked into his brother's eyes, turned silvery in the moonlight, and he knew what Al would have said if he could: I don't blame you, brother.

“Why not?” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the forgiveness and gentle understanding anymore. “Why don't you hate me?”

A warm forehead nudged gently against his. Keeping one hand pressed to Ed's cheek, Al reached for Ed's and pressed his palm against his own cheek. It was wet too now.

“I know,” Ed murmured. “We're all we've got. But...that's my fault too.”

Pulling back just enough to look each other in the eye again, Al shook him slightly. Suddenly, he was all steel and stubbornness, despite the tears still trailing down his cheeks. He stabbed a finger at Ed's chest and shook his head emphatically.

“What?” Ed frowned. “You're saying it's not my fault?”

Al nodded.

“You don't blame me because it's not my fault?”

Nod.

Ed looked away, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “That's nice, Al. But I don't believe it.”

A sudden punch in the shoulder brought his attention back to Al. The glare sent his way said louder than any words, You should. Because it's true.

Scrubbing his hands over his cheeks to wipe away the tears, Ed shook his head. “Yeah, that's what all the shrinks tell me. But what do they know?”

Al leapt to his feet and smacked a hand on his chest. I know. I was there. Then he marched over to his dresser and grabbed the framed photo sitting there between piles of library books and the little collection of rocks and feathers he'd begun to accumulate. He stomped back over to Ed and shoved the picture right in front of Ed's face.

Their mother beamed back at him, her arms around a much younger Ed and Al. They all looked so happy. So content.

Ed glanced up at his brother, who insistently shoved the picture into Ed's hands. He looked down at his mother's smiling face, and for the first time, he tried to imagine what she would say if she were here. If he'd actually gotten a chance to apologize for what he'd done.

No, Ed. Don't blame yourself. It wasn't anyone's fault. The road was slick, and neither of us saw what was happening until it was too late. I'm so sorry that you and Al were hurt. But most of all, I'm sorry that I'm not there to tell you in person.

Maybe it was because he'd gotten so used to interpreting Al's silences and facial expressions, but Ed almost thought he could hear his mother's voice. A drop of moisture fell onto the glass in the frame, right over her smiling face, quickly followed by another and another.

“She'd say...sh-she'd say...it's n-not my fault....”

Al sat down on the bed beside Ed again, and when Ed blinked the tears away, he nodded with a sad little smile. Encouraging him to say it again.

“It's not my fault....” Once he said the words and really, truly believed them, Ed couldn't seem to stop saying them. “It's not my fault...it's not my fault....”

Crawling into Ed's bed, Al tugged at Ed's sleeve until he slid under the covers as well. Together, they sat and looked at the picture of their mother, resting their heads against each other.

Sometimes, Ed broke the silence by whispering, “So you don't hate me?” or “You sure it's not my fault?” And each time, Al shook his head and dried his brother's tears with a corner of the sheet. Slowly, slowly, the words settled in his heart and began to sound true.

The next morning, when Riza came in to wake the boys for breakfast, she found them slumped against the headboard, heads resting against each other and hands tightly clasped. With a smile, Riza softly backed out of the room and let them sleep a little longer.

[questforgalas]

Sibling moments in the Bad Batch that live rent free in my head

S1E8 "Reunion"

Sadly we don't have a lot to go on this episode because they're in their helmets most of it, and honestly I don't think I could survive if they gave us all their facial expressions this episode, especially their interactions with Crosshair. Might've actually killed me.

Crosshair rivaling Vader's obsession with Obi-Wan with his old fam

Kidding, no one beats Vader's Obi-Wan brain

Wrecker thinking it's a good idea to show the 10 year old sibling who'd never gone further than a cloning lab just a week ago how to dismantle a bomb

Wrecker making Omega think it's a live explosive the whole time

Omega's big eyes and rapt attention whenever Wrecker is speaking

Wrecker's solution to Omega's sass being throwing her right into a live dismantle

Wrecker loudly counting down with the only intention of adding stress

"Obviously not that one! Run for it!"

"You should've seen your face"

Echo's soft smile at Wrecker comforting Omega

"Wrecker's in pursuit. He says he has it under control" answered by Tech's dead pan "That's not comforting"

Hunter's tired sigh and head shake

Tech explaining the ship's intel would be more valuable than any weapon and Wrecker disagreeing with that very simple and factual statement purely because it talks down weapons

Echo's attempt to keep arguing completely stalled by Wrecker elbowing him in the stomach

Wrecker showing big sister how cool torpedoes are

Hunter and Echo continuing to squabble

Sibling bonding moments of teaching your sister how to hack into a ship's data center

Hunter's extremely tired and grumbly tone about Crosshair being there

Crosshair knowing exactly what they're doing even while still being fully in chip land

"Nice to see you too, Crosshair"

They're literally surrounded by stormtroopers and they still try to break through to Crosshair

Also, Hunter had a clear shot of Crosshair and knew exactly where he was after the canon fired, but he only fired at the stormtroopers

Me? Emotional about them wanting Crosshair back? Shocking, I know

"I don't even know what that means" Wrecker is so done with Tech's rambling during stressful situations 😂

Their exchanges in the ion engine: Echo "I didn't think you meant we'd be escaping through the engine" (tone is exasperated sass central). Tech "I could not have been clearer." Omega "Whoa, I've never been inside an ion engine before." Wrecker "It'd be weirder if you had" 😂 Tech rambling about the engine's engineering Wrecker "No one cares. Keep moving" shoving Tech forward

Crosshair not shooting Tech directly when he never misses and Tech was full body in the open

The rapid looks between Echo, Hunter, and Tech after Wrecker suggests Plan 7 😂

"Plan 7 has nothing to do with this situation whatsoever" "Well, well you think of something!"

Cad Bane calling Hunter son send me every time, It's so funny

Omega's frantic eyes when she first calls for Hunter are a stab right in the heart

[wrestlersownmyheart]

“Chances Are” Ch. 16 (Book 2 In the “Chances” Series) Finn Bálor X OC

Pairing: Finn Bálor X Female OC Summary: After a traumatic childhood and a murder attempt that left her with a heart condition, Miracle Seanoa wants nothing more than to find some peace and fulfillment in her life. Working as a writer for WWE, she's shocked when Stephanie McMahon takes a gamble on her skills and assigns her to a new RAW roster member. None other than Finn Bálor—the man who'd long ago saved her life and captured her heart.

Finn Bálor left his career as a police officer behind in order to chase his true dream of becoming a professional wrestler. Working incredibly hard within NXT, he soon finds himself drafted to Monday Night RAW. He's shocked to see Miracle again, but even more shocked is he to see what a stunning woman she's become.

However, someone else has had his eye on Miracle for a long while. With his infatuation turning to a deep, dark obsession, he's not going to give up on her easily. Finn will have to resort to his past skills as a cop, to protect the woman he loves.

Because if her weakening heart doesn't kill her, her stalker just might... Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination.

Chapter Content & Trigger Warnings: I hate to spoil my story, but I don't want to cause anyone any unnecessary pain either. There will be an attempt at a forced miscarriage in this chapter. If that is a trigger for you, you might want to skip over this chapter.

Also, this is a short chapter folks, I didn't want it to be, but I had to do it this way so I could keep the outline organized right.

Chapter 16

Finn was not far from turning off the country road onto the freeway when his phone rang. Upon seeing that it was Miracle, he answered the call.

"Hello, love," He said in way of greeting, grinning from ear to ear. "Miss me already?"

"Fi-Finn… Finn…" Her weak voice cried out to him. "I love you… Should have listened… to y-you…"

His smile faded, and instantly he knew…

The attacker had found her.

Already pulling a drastic U-turn in the road, Finn spoke frantically into the phone.

"Baby, what's happened? Is he there?"

"So sorry…"

The line rustled and then a male voice spoke.

"Because of you she's gone."

The line clicked and the call ended.

Finn cursed and pressed down on the accelerator even harder, speeding for the cabin. Hoping a cop wouldn't see him driving like a bat out of hell and pull him over-because at this point the cop would just have to follow him all the way to the cabin-he flew over the graveled road and prayed the whole way that he wasn't too late.

He brought the phone up so he could see it clearly and redialed MIracle's number.

RIng.

Ring.

Ring.

"No!" He tried again.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Pocketing the phone with one hand and driving with the other, he sped even faster down the road.

Finally. Finally, he could see the yard and instantly made out Miracle lying in a small heap. He didn't even bother with parking in the driveway. He came to a rough stop in the grass and had barely shut off the engine before he was getting out of the vehicle.

"MIRACLE!" He shouted, running to the small bundle on the ground. "MIR-" He cut off as he made it to her and instantly saw all the blood. "No…" he uttered. "No. Not her blood. It can't be her blood. It's too much…"

Coming out of his shocked stupor, he crouched down next to her and took in the state of her.

She was unconscious or dead, he didn't know which, and was covered in blood.

"No, No, No, No , NO!"

His words turned to a shout as he checked her pulse, desperate to see if she was alive. A slow, thready thump met his fingers. He took a closer look at her injuries. Saw the numerous stab wounds.

"NOOO!"

He frantically reached for her neck, checking her pulse. A slow, thready thump met his fingers. "Miracle, baby…" He reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone and instantly dialed 9-1-1.

"9-1-1… What is your emergency?"

"I need an ambulance. My girlfriend has been stabbed multiple times. In the chest and stomach." He forced himself to not think about what that could mean for the baby. He quickly gave the address and started to hang up, when he heard the 9-1-1 operator speak up.

"Sir, we already have an ambulance heading for that location."

He was thoroughly confused, but grateful to hear help was on the way. "Good. Thank you." With that, he hung up. He instantly heard a siren in the vicinity. And wanting to get Miracle treated as soon as possible he lifted her into his arms and began carrying her limp frame toward the siren.

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[hyp-fixator]

Yo.. Me and @yamodii-official wrote a lil somethin with Skydrone and Varcity (all of Yam's part will be in the chat text!)

TW! gun mention, blood, swearing, implied abuse (of sorts, I think)

"see the problem with glock is that he's stupider than the other children" he was only seven when he heard that "he is a liability because he's slow!" he was 16 then "you're only likeable when your drunk" 23 now here he was. standing above someone who'd treated him with the same respect as a bug. like someone without a shred of smarts. like an idiot. and now. Blackrock, Lost Temple, everyone had something to fear. he grabbed skydrone by his horns and brought him up to his face. making sky's eyes meet his. "can't dance your way out of this one eh?" he threw him down. sky let out a yelp similar to an injured dog as he hit the cold hard floor. Glockno- Varcity kicked sky straight in the ribs and then got down low "you go back to that shit hole and tell them i'm still kicking, capich?"

Coughing up his deep indigo blood onto the frigid, miserable stone beneath him, Skydrone looked up into the obsidian eyes of malice. Tearing his lazy gaze from the figure above, he searched for an exit. Legs aching with cramps from running from this monster, his eyes locked on the fuzzy wall, light seeping through the hallway turning off, painting it a cold marble white. It was multiple meters away from his current crippled position, but it was a spark of hope in this dimly lit concrete box of a storage facility. Massaging his now swollen ribcage, Sky rose himself to his knees, leaning on his scarred arm as he glared daggers up at Varcity. "And what kind of authority do you think you hold over me in order to demand something so foolish?" His injured grin leaked a smeared stream of his blood as he continued, "You're acting like a child on a deranged playground, claiming to own others and demanding them to follow orders that could kill them. You know nothing about the circumstances over at Blackrock, and deserve no knowledge about it's current status. You left. cut out of the circle. You aren't going to get any information, especially out of me, moron." Skydrone grinned. It's been awhile since he got caught, let alone beat up. It wasn't a good experience, but an exhilarating one after so much monotonous and successful work. Varcity's face twitched with irritation. A tough grimace shot across his face before his arm shot forwards, grabbing the tie of Sky and stopping an inch close before he ended up bashing Skydrone's skull in with his own forehead. Barking out the order again, Varcity's voice stabbed with irritation, the shiteating grin growing on Sky's face as he placed a calm hand on Varcity's face, pushing away the bulldog-man. "Ouugh. Looks like I struck a nerve, beastman?" Blast-injured arm sneaking behind his neck as he touched his bovine legs down on the cold concrete, a click resonated in the room, Sky dropping to the ground and scampering towards the light.

The bowtie lays in Varcity's rough grip.

it took him two seconds to react "too slow, try again" subspace would've said but Varcity was out for blood "GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT" he roared "How DARE you call me a fucking DOG!?" he spat as he chased sky down those narrow, cold halls. gods, it had been a while since he ran, much less chased someone. he could remember those days. the small division in Blackrock that took children and shaped them into the perfect soldiers. they put trackers in them, made them train until they bled and formed the second best things after a biograft. "and time, Glock, you've failed" he blinked no, he wasn't there. he was chasing that fucking twink. and that's when he pulled out his glocks.

Hearing the loading click of those guns, forever engrained into his mind, Sky's eyes darted behind him. he knew damn well the slow fuck would resort to shooting him dead. A good spy never stops studying their opponent, afterall. Focusing his weak steps one after the other, he dashed towards the door, glancing behind himself and looking directly into the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. It didn't take much to summon a gear, but in such a difficult area, it's like opening an umbrella indoors. Turning around and jogging backwards Skydrone held his right arm infront of him. In a split second, the gun explodes. Cobalt Blue metal erupts from the barrel of the glock, knocking back Varcity as the drone wedges itself into the freezing ground. Jolting forwards from the eruption and the sudden stop, Varcity bashes his head against this massive platform, his own blood spraying from his now broken nose. Skydrone makes the last push to the fire exit door, slamming his body into the side and easing the door open, holding his left arm open to call back his drone. Shrinking back to pocket sized, the remnants of the glock drops to the ground as the drone whizzes back to it's owner through the small crack of the fire exit door, clicking shut instantly after.

"Fucking DAMMIT!" he screamed the orange copper tasteing ooze stained his shirt and seeped into his gloves Varcity slowly rose from the ground, letting his nose bleed as he picked up what remained of his glock. "no good soldier loses their gear" those cursed rules were ingraved in his mind, like the deep scar on his left arm, where fur would never grow again. he had clawed out the tracker with his bar claws, yet nothing hurt more than this. this bloody nose, this broken gear this- "failure" Varcity spun around to find himself in a memory "that drone fuck did this" he muttered as he entered an all to familier light blue room.

so many children, all in the same grey uniform. the only way to tell them apart was hair and horns. and thats how he found himself. alone. struggling to do even the simplest of test and puzzles. and of course, there was subspace "Glock, we dont accept failiure. just because you have your brute strength doesn't mean you don't need to use your brain" Glock just nodded his head and tried again the scene faded he was in his room. one wall was a flowing lava waterfall straight from the banlands everything else was just standered things, bed, nightstand, desk and chair, rug, shelves, and a trunk Varcity sat on the floor beside the bed where Glock sat "fuckin smartass skydrone" glock muttered as he placed a bag of ice on his thigh "maybe if you weren't so heavy and slow, you could've dodged that" Varcity wanted to say something, anything but before he could even breath,someone was pulling him out of the rubble.