#sacrificial bastards

[nariism]

ೃ⁀➷ ALL I WANT ✧.*

a/n: tooth-rotting fluff !! this is so so mushy and soft. kissing and some touchiness but nothing too crazy i think. also this is unedited brainrot i wrote at 2:30am so enjoy ... <3

Neuvillette has never told you that he loves you.

The words are always there— resting heavy behind his teeth just waiting to burst out at the most inconvenient times, and yet he's never brought himself to say them.

You don’t need the words to prove his devotion to you anyways, already aware that there is no other soul in the world able to hold him the way you do. But he’s always wanted to say it, stopped only by his own fears.

Immortality is a funny thing. In a thousand years you could be nothing but a distant memory for him, gentle whispers in the back of his mind or ghostly touches wisping over his skin.

The idea of losing you terrifies him, but he knows the loss well and knows to keep his heart safeguarded somewhere deep within himself. I love you are words he only murmurs into your skin while you sleep, or chanted in his head when you hold him.

However, you’ve been proving it difficult to resist ever since you moved in with him.

There's nothing extravagant about the way you wake up, nothing extraordinary or strange. You wake up like any Fontainian would: cold and gloomy and complaining about the weather.

Despite how ordinary it all is, it doesn't stop him from spending the first few minutes of the day admiring your face before he inevitably has to get out of bed to get ready for work.

Mornings are his always favourite; the slow stirrings of the day like a calm before the storm. Those few minutes are precious to him more than anything in the world, where he can do nothing but kiss your sleeping face awake and keep you wrapped up in his arms.

You've recently made it your routine to follow him out of bed a few minutes later. He hasn't found out why exactly until today.

He doesn't even need to turn around to know it all— every part of you memorized and carved into each muscle and filling any thoughts that cross his mind.

The slow shuffling of your feet across the room; the quiet yawn that makes him smile because he can imagine your face; the bumping of your body into the back of his in your clumsy state.

It's all comfortable. Familiar. You.

"Morning..." You mumble, arms wrapping around his waist and nose buried against his back.

"Seems someone slept well," he hums.

Your arms squeeze his waist a little tighter. "Because you keep the bed so warm."

"I see. Is that the only reason you decided to crawl out of bed this morning?" He asks with a little lift of amusement, placing his mug down and watching the ripples stir in his coffee.

"No," you lie rather blatantly, and he laughs in a way that makes your heart flutter. "....Shut up."

"It’s quite rude to say that to the Iudex, no?"

"Shut up," you huff again. Your hands carefully climb under the hem of his shirt and explore the expanse of his skin. The cold this exacts on him makes him stop in his motions. He shivers before finally turning around to catch your wrists.

You frown, gently knocking your face back into his body— his chest this time, where you can hear his heart beating.

"Not my fault you're so warm."

Neuvillette only sighs, scooping you fully into his arms and leaning back onto the counter so you can rest your weight against him.

And he knows every part of you like this too: a memory chained to his beating heart. A second life breathed into him meant only to remember you this way.

He knows you're cranky because the sun just rose and here you are, already shuffling around the cold house since he left his side of the bed empty. He knows that you're impossibly perfect in his arms— a piece of a puzzle hand-crafted for him to hold. He knows that it will be sunny today.

You are everything. Everything.

He pulls you away by the shoulders, nose brushing against yours as he leans in close to kiss you. There's a pause just before your lips meet— an apprehension in his actions. He sighs, shaky and nervous.

"I love you."

Then he kisses you slow and sweet, the same way he has always savoured that feeling twisting in his heart at the very thought of you. Enduring and knowing, lacking any more hesitation because he knows this is exactly what he wants and where he needs to be.

You're blinking at him dumbly when he pulls away, lips parted in such a cute way that he wants to lean in again.

"I must be hearing things because I swear you just said–"

"I love you," he repeats quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his confession yet unable to contain the words anymore.

Your expression twists in wonder and for a moment he can't help but think that you're the most beautiful person in the world. In the centuries that he's been wandering Fontaine, he's never been so sure of one thing:

"I love you," he says for a third time in full confidence. His lips crash into yours again in a frenzy, a flurry of emotions swirling in his stomach and so many thoughts screaming in his ears that he can't think straight.

When he stops for air he doesn't fully leave you, mouth still married to you as he kisses along your cheek to your jaw. You laugh, arms circling around his neck.

"Can you say it again?"

And he will. He would say it a million times just to see you smile like that again.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

🏷️ @saetoshi hi my beautiful

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[dyinggirldied]

HOLY TRINITY X SPY AU

In this modern world where technology and magic interwired, the existence of spy remains necessary more than ever.

We have an organization that immediately disbatches 3 of its top members to a prestige, highly publicized boarding school due to a rumor that a bomber blood mage criminal has hidden there.

1st spy, nicknamed the Silver Shield, real name: Kim Rok Soo.

2nd spy, nicknamed the Demon King, real name: Kim Dokja.

3rd spy, nicknamed Monster Mother, real name: Han Yoojin.

All three are talented but are desperate for their deserved retirement.

This mission will be the last. The three spies are confident this plan will go without a hitch since they have worked together before and any missions, no matter how impossible, are guaranteed to be succeed with the Unholy Trinity there.

Of course they jinx it.

The Academy they will be undercover turns out to not only housing the target but to also be a nestling pot of an incredibly secretive and dangerous crime organization that has existed since ancient time and is currently alarmingly large in number. There are hints that the org might have impacted the Holy Trinity's childhood before.

To add to the trouble, Rok Soo (who is half-Korean) had dyed his hair red and forged a fake name, as expected. It would have been no problem if it wasn't for the fact that Rok Soo, or Cale Margarita (he lost a bet), shares resemblance to the infamous wealthy deliquent, Cale Henituse down to the reddish-brown eyes. Or that the young boy Choi Han, whom he gives his sandwich to, would obediently follow him around like a puppy!

Kim Dokja, or rather Yoo Dokja, finds himself at odds with the professor Yoo Joonghyuk, who Dokja embarassibgly admires when he was young. Yoo Joonghyuk, through his keen sense and instinct, is suspicious of this "Yoo Dokja" and no, despite what Uriel and others say, he does NOT have a crush on that annoying man!

Han Yoojin, who uses his real name since unfortunately his overprotective younger brother (who doesn't know his older brother is in a dangerous career) is the star pupil of this school, enters as a sort of teaching assistant to one Sung Hyunjae, who keeps giving him exotic presents.

The retirement life filled with money and delicious food, suddenly seems far far away.

P.S: this is based on a dream where my OC asks the holy trinity this question: "How to hide oneself in plain sight?"

Kim Rok Soo/Cale: "Act cute, weak, helpless"

Han Yoojin: "Cuteness can save the world"

Kim Dokja: "Born ugly :)"

*the conversation derails into disaster*

P.S Again: Margarita is an alcoholic drink whose base is tequlia, orange liqueur and lime. And guess who hates sour thing 🤣

[neominthe]

I know a lot of you are going through finals (including me) so I hope you guys are remembering to DRINK FUCKING WATER. DRINK NOW GO GRAB A GLASS AND SPRINT TO FILL IT WITH WATER OR ELSE I WILL DELETE YOUR KNEECAPS

[steviewashere]

No One You Can Save That Can't Be Saved (Love)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Lots of talk around death, Vague suicidal thoughts (seriously very vague) Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Panic Attack, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Introspective, Fear of Death

I don't know what this is. I wrote the opening poem and then wrote the rest. Enjoy, I guess? Title is from "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles.

This is also on ao3, but it's not showing up currently in the Steddie tag. If you'd like to read this in full on ao3 instead, Here's the Link!

💕—————💕 I’ve had no desire to die. None in my body. But if you told me to die, I’d ask: Who for? Where should I lay my body? Like this? I’d perfect it. I’d make a gala out of it. I’d win. Blood on my hands and flesh between my teeth; I am not dead. But— Death is intimate with me. I have no desire to die.

——— The grass pearls with early morning dew. Tacky soil shapes to the bottom of his left sneaker. He takes a step forward, the imprint of his posture a temporary fixture in the lawn. If it rains again, the divots of his soles will collect water like cupped palms. Though the day will surely pass while he stays inside, working the nightmare from his musk scented skin, and he’ll return home dead on his feet. Ready to lay himself bare to a cooling bedsheet.

Tapping his sneakers on the doorway of his vehicle is the first thing he does fresh from his house. Shake the dew from his feet, shuffle inside until his legs are tucked gently under the steering wheel, slam the door shut, turn the engine over, and wait for the radio to croon. If he had the time, he’d pick a tape. But on mornings like these, he backs out of the driveway. One arm on the headrest of the passenger seat. Head peering over his shoulder.

One time he hit the neighbor’s mailbox. His cheeks remember the anger radiating from his father. If even one tire begins to turn incorrectly, he pulls back in and tries again.

Desolate roads are his favorite bit of scenery. Morning drives where people are between waking up and already at work. Long stretches of asphalt against his tires and breeze icing his cheek. It’s the quiet, too. Silences in lulls. Reaching out and holding him.

Today is different. His sneakers are wiped and his legs are burrowed and the cold air reaches his cheek. But today is like no other. Heart racing, blood chilling in his wrists, fingers going numb. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapping around his brain like thorned vines on dungeon walls. He is a prisoner to himself and his surroundings. And he can’t take a deep breath. It’s like drowning, but nothing is like drowning. Drowning is death. This isn’t death. Everything is death.

It’s death in the way his breath tastes like finality. Mouth dry of saliva and teeth as specters, rotting and decaying before he has time to fully swallow. The heave before the storm. Before the vomit goes beige on his thighs and chunky to the floor of his car. And it’s death in the sense there’s blood every time he blinks. He’s reminded of the way he played role as emergency room technician. Two hands on a slim chest, ribs crackling under his palms—the sounds similar to that of heavy tree branches downed in an Indiana snow storm. He is numb in the fingers, but cold on the palms. And it’s the darting in his eyes, sign of life somewhere, sign of life nowhere. The road stretches forever this morning.

It’s death in the harrowing way. A car beelining for the side of a road. Parked in the means to brake, but not to settle. He is thirty seconds away from a crash. Turbulent planes flying overhead, he is an unsuspecting tree. The cat between his front two tires. Mushed traces of squirrel guts half a foot from the base of a robin’s nest; crushed eggs fallen to the floor. It’s death because there is the phantom tail of a bat pinning him to the headrest of his seat. Wrapped to the two metal bars below the bottom of his skull. And his hands are tingling, heavy on his lap. Kicking his legs, feet lurching into the brake, a squeal when his car takes the movement as instruction. He’s not ready to go.

But he can’t escape. And he can’t move. Can’t blink unless the road crumbles below him.

He is trapped. This is death because he’s dying and he’s got the black spots in his vision to prove it, but there is an overbearing glow of a white light like a cone on his peripheral. He is trapped—a dog free from the vet.

Clinking on his window draws him to look left. Blearily. The slow drag of his eyeballs. Two weather vanes in stilted, hazy, sticky summer stillness. Muffled. This is death because he’s forgotten what urgent care sounds like, but this is a near thing.

He’s not ready to go.

It’s death because there is warmth and gentleness. He cries—though it isn’t felt—because there is love. And while love is not absent, he had been chasing it. Longing and yearning. Giving himself in ways not even God would approve of. This time, though, it makes sense he had to die for it.

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” a pleasant voice says. If Death is speaking, then he is listening. Death has two hands and warm breath and a husk gargled in his throat like sucking down cigarettes on and off for four hours. The stale smell of one smoked swirls in his nostrils. “Not dying, you’re just far away. And scared,” Pleasant Voice speaks again. It’s accompanied by a faint tickle under his eye. He closes up, lost in the sensation.

It’s death because he doesn’t desire, but he is persuaded. God, it’s sweet.

He takes a deep breath. The hurt is temporary as it seems like shards shed from his lungs. Nosing at his headrest, the perfumed scent of floral shampoo and fragrant salty sweat and those cigarettes. It relaxes him slightly, the tail away from his throat. The breathing comes easier and the black spots begin to dissipate. He’s reminded of the aftermath of torture, sleeping fitfully in bed, but alive. And he chases his nose to the left, body twisting around on his seat, hands limp on his legs still.

Pleasant Voice seems to hum. Murmuring low, raspier than before, “Easy, you’ll be okay. Doing a good job relaxing. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Another careful pet to underneath his eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” And a caress through his hair, two hands cupping him like water. He ripples with contentment. Crumpling against the pleather seat. He swallows. An uneasy emotion, a vapor, noxious poison billowing through his nose.

His eyes flutter open again. In front of him, two brown irises. Both gentle and concerned, deathly afraid and lowering their haunches. He blinks. Clarity. And he had expected to die, but it’s like drinking ice cold water, coming back to life from the warmth of an early summer’s day. “Eddie?” Steve chokes. “What’re—Eddie?”

Eddie—not Death—smiles a sad thing. Two frowning corners, but the gentle uptick of his lips. His eyes don’t crinkle. And his nose remains stagnant. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I was on my way into town from the trailer and I saw you on the side of the road. Looked like—Thought you were—I was half expecting your skin to be green when I came closer.”

“What does that—“

“I thought you were dead, Steve,” he answers bluntly. His hand tightens on Steve’s jaw, the other pressing closer to his scalp. “Baby, that was horrifying. I wasn’t ready—Why are you out here driving?”

Steve shakes his head. The low ruffle of his hair like two pieces of paper being scrubbed together. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, “I woke up and—My throat was aching and I thought that—Woke up with blood behind my eyelids, Eds.” He tries to swallow again, but the emotion rises. Bile. Pleasantly like bile. Then, he bursts. Crying and keening. Hiccuping through his gasps and breathing as if there are rocks on his tongue. And he isn’t sure where to put his hands, but the rest of his body falls forward into Eddie’s. Though, maybe it was on purpose. An expectancy. Because Eddie wraps back fiercely, tugging, half-climbing inside of Steve’s car. Making the room for this coagulated form of welling fear and quelled calm, the body shivers and sudden blood to his cheeks, a cough caught somewhere between a sob and an expel. It’s death because he’s frightened, Eddie is in there somewhere, too.

Eddie keeps tugging until they’re comfortable in the back of his van. Him on his lap, curled inwards in the fetal position, secured warmly between Eddie’s lithe arms. Somehow containing him. He’s not strong, he’s not weak, but he’s enough to keep Steve’s pieces all mushed in together. Not completely whole, but not spiraling like thread between lengths of road.

He’s worn when he pulls back. Eyes as two cement blocks taped above his cheeks. “Thought I was dying,” he finally croaks.

With a somber gentleness, Eddie pushes back strings of his hair. Whispers, “I know, baby. You kept telling me in your car.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know, baby.”

“I think a part of me thought you were dying, too.”

Eddie hums. “Did you have a nightmare about…About having to save me?” He quietly asks. He’s never breeched the subject before, but it’s different. Today’s different. It’s death because he has to answer.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. Sniffles noisily. The carnage stuffed high between his brain and sinus cavity. “I couldn’t feel my hands. Back in the car. They were completely numb. But—No, that’s not right. My palms were cold like your skin. And I couldn’t hear you at first, just your ribs. And then I—“ He stops to shake his head. Tilting it down towards his chest. Plucking at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. He’s fully dressed in casual wear in comparison to Steve’s outfit. Still worn down to his stained Hawkins High gym shirt from early last year, the fall of his senior year, and his red tartan fleece pajama pants. “Think I was searching for you and just didn’t make it.”

“I’m here now,” Eddie simply responds. He pets again at Steve’s face. He likes to do that. Never condescending. As if part of him can’t believe he gets to touch. Or another part can read just how much Steve needs it. It’s death because he’s known. “How about I get you home? Back in bed?”

“Don’t think I’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding. “Okay, how about you sit with me today back at the trailer? I’ve got to fill out some job applications. It’ll be quiet. You can bring a few tapes from your car, play them if you like. And I’ll make you hot chocolate. Does that sound…?” Steve’s nodding before he can even finish the question. “Alright, baby. You’ll be okay, you know that? I’m here right now. And you’ll be with me.”

“I’ll be with you,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And if you need a reminder, you can just look at me. Or…Ask me to tell you a story. You like that, don’t you?” Steve nods again. Eddie pets the crest of his head, down to the tuft of hair on the back of his neck, dipping into his t-shirt to settle his palm between his taut shoulder blades. He twitches when he fully sets his palm. “You have your thinking face on. What’s going on up here?” He asks, tapping at Steve’s left temple.

Steve swallows. “I—I’m afraid of death.”

“I know, sweetheart. That’s okay, you—“

“But I’m more afraid of everybody else dying,” he admits. “I’d die for you. I’d…I think part of me died for you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Baby, I don’t like that.”

“I don’t like it either. But it’s true. Feels like…I feel like a lot of me has died. For everybody around me.” His voice is shameful, but flat. Tepid and shaking. “But I let it happen. I wasn’t fighting against the urge. It just—I allowed myself to experience death. Either it was my own or somebody else’s. At every turn, I was expecting to be incinerated. Dissolved. Turned over in the ground like recycled soil. I don’t—“ He sighs through his nose. Confesses, “I’d do it again.”

“I really don’t like that, Steve. Is this—Are you asking for help? What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s not sure what Eddie’s eyes look like right now. There’s an infliction, though. A steady storm of concern and mild trepidation. Hands flat and pressing as if he’s willing them to stay rooted to their spots in the back of his van.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Blinking and exhaling and shoving the images that haunted him into early morning to just…die, oddly. Allowing Eddie’s gentle touch to soothe his frayed nerves. He collapses further in the lap underneath him. “Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.” 

He toys his hands in his lap now. Fingers picking and prodding at healed scabs. Hangnails that were chewed short by his fingernails. Knuckles that have scarred over and over, time and time again. “Don’t go,” he reiterates, whispering. His voice is keening. And he knows that it’s sort of childish, what he’s requesting. Tugging on Eddie’s pant let and wrapping his limbs around his ankle. Thumb in cheek and eyes wet. But though the events of the last few years have manhandled him and stretched him thin like a mushed ball of murky colored Play-Doh, he is immature still. He can beg if he wants to.

And thankfully, Eddie appeases. Pressing again into Steve. In a way, he’s afraid, too. “I won’t, Steve. I promise that I won’t go willingly. But you have to promise me back.”

“I promise,” he immediately mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie says. A default in conversations like these. 

‘I have a migraine.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just need silent company.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Don’t die again.’ ‘Okay.’ 

He holds Steve tighter. Bending in a prairie dog way to kiss his forehead. Murmuring sticky wet against the skin, “Love you, sweetheart.”

Steve sighs through his nose. This is all going to come up again and again. He’s sure of it. Later today, he’s sure. When he’s half there and half in the dark crevices, the depths of his brain, caverns without crystals. And Eddie will be there, too. As a rescue team, sent far down with nothing but a pickaxe and harsh, yellow rope. They’ll have to talk about it. What he means about doing it again, even though he didn’t die. That significant emptiness that shapes itself like craters in his chest. Or how it all coincides with facing so much with such little time, his self worth and respect like forks in a garbage disposal; clinking and whirring and dancing, then shredding and grating and screeching, and so irreversibly broken, they can’t be eaten off of anymore. And then he’ll probably have to see a therapist, explain what he told Eddie, and listen to suggestions.

For now, he dips forward until his forehead is on Eddie’s shoulder. Nose crushed against his shirt. He closes his eyes as he takes in the scent of an alive and well Eddie. A part of him wants to apologize for all this mess he’s left construed about. But knows the moment he even tries, he will soothed into much needed silence. “Will you hold my hand while you drive?” He murmurs into the base of Eddie’s neck. He’s still crumpled and misshapen, but somehow also held. Held in a way that reminds him of being a little kid. Cherished through fear in both parties. He supposes that’s what he is. Brain still exploring like he’s seventeen, before the demogorgon. A child in a sense. An overgrown weed.

“I will,” Eddie promises.

And so Steve nods. “I love you, too.” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, encircling barely, air still able to travel in the gap he creates where his bare skin doesn’t touch the cotton of Eddie’s shirt. Tangling his hands loosely. Not exactly grasping for something, but the suggestion of it. “I love you,” he murmurs once more. The words like white noise, but true.

He’ll say it more later. Curled on one end of Eddie’s couch while he sits on the other side. No space between them because Steve refuses to move his legs, the bottoms of his feet, socked and dry, shaped firmly to the soft give of Eddie’s thigh. In between moments, he’ll whisper the words. As a tape plays and the beats are bright and jingling, while he’s melancholy and still to the soft cushion. When Eddie mutters something indistinguishable, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. Over a plain turkey and American cheese sandwich, mayo smeared on his bottom lip, and Eddie wiping away the residue. A reverence focused on him like soft spotlight.

It’s death because he knows they won’t have forever.

He loves, though, and that’s enough to quell the fear that floods him.

He wades in Eddie’s soft touch. In his sticky lips. The lulls.

“I’m going to play my Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ album,” he tells Eddie. Because, much like the end of the album, love is all you need. He’s afraid. But he can be brave in Eddie’s arms, his warmth, his deserved life.

💕—————💕

[chapinii]

had an idea for the concept of pac using the tazercraft mind link to switch bodies with mike in a situation where he's about to get hurt in order to take the brunt of the impact (and pain) for him and now I'm climbing the walls.

(he's done it so many times at this point that the switch is seamless enough that mike doesn't notice, he just thinks he has one hell of a pain tolerance)

[uniquephantommiracle]

Take a look at this self sacrificing rat bastard y'all

So smug

[phantomfallacy]

Okay but slice of life idea where all the Kims are in an orphanage and they just adopt each other so they stop being sad bastards. They’re still self sacrificial but like if they’re all the same then they gotta keep the dying to a minimum because of checks and balances right—

Yes, I know Kim is a common Korean surname but also what if they’re actually related?? Like, that amount of psychopathic goodwill can’t exist if it doesn’t run in the family right—

[vikaflora-margarita]

The Crimson Commander

Drew Cale from the Trash of the Count’s Family in his new drip from the visual novel!

Was trying to include a focal point in the drawing, the point where your eyes first land on — can you guess where that is?

[seiwas]

oh myg od togAME no Way NO Way NO WAYYYYYY how dare he go for MY HEART like that

[sparklecryptid]

Re: the last post I reblogged

Libertus whenever Nyx and Ace try to do something stupid and self sacrificing

[talentforlying]

thinking today about how i initially wanted to title this blog "sin-eater" instead of "sinnerman" because that is, fundamentally, what constantine is: a consumer of other people's sins, absorber of blame, voyeur of the lowest moments in peoples' lives. except his goal isn't the bestowal of absolution or redemption, it's exposure.

those who see him approach the feast know he's there for a reason — they know what he eats, and why, and he wants them to know what you've done. moreso, he wants everyone to know that you owe him. he'll take up your consequences, he'll eat your just desserts and swallow, but you and everyone else will always see them in his eyes when you look on him. he is not your redeemer, he is consequential. he's a fucking testimony. you might forget when you're dead, your family's eulogy might come out squeaky clean, but it doesn't matter. the sin-eater keeps the score.

most recorded tales of sin-eaters describe that they're paid for their services; the act is his payment. to taste of sin freely and without shame, and be judged not for the dishes at his own table but for his apathy towards the size of the platters he's offered. the chance to establish himself as perennial guest at the banquet rather than host. who knows — maybe if he borrows enough from those worse than he is, when the time comes to partake of his soul, the sins of his own may disappear amidst the heap; unwitnessed, forgotten, and inconsequential. after all, who in their right mind would take up the burden from the most prolific of sin-eaters?

[bleuskais]

Trailer for the next season!

[neominthe]

SSB WIPS

[ancicntforged]

best ruby or kiana dynamic is when their friends go from 'you fool' (derogatory) to 'you fool' (desperate)

[tracle0]

Do y’all remember when Bad End Friends was a big thing? Spiderling Peep 🕸