#''cause i want you to know what it feels like to be haunted''

[stwrrybwrry]

I wonder what Megumi is like after a rough mission...💭

⊹　 ︶︶　 𖹭᪲　 ︶︶　 ⊹

Megumi! Who watches you from a distance after the mission, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions he doesn’t understand himself. The images of his failure—of the people he couldn’t protect—haunt him, and when he looks at you, all he can feel is guilt. The fear of losing you, of becoming the very person who hurts you, keeps him away. He doesn’t know how to fix what’s broken, so he isolates himself, convincing himself that pushing you away is the only way to keep you safe.

Megumi! Who walks past you like you’re invisible, the weight of his failure heavy on his shoulders. He can’t look at you, not when every time he does, he’s reminded of how he couldn’t keep his promise to protect those he cares about. He tells himself it’s for the best, that he’s keeping you at a distance to shield you from the darkness within him, but all it does is make the silence between you grow unbearable. He watches as you begin to laugh with others, each smile a dagger to his heart, reminding him that he’s the one who pushed you away.

Megumi! Who can’t shake the image of your face when he snapped at you in anger and fear, the hurt in your eyes etched into his mind. In that moment, he was overwhelmed—by the guilt of his failure, the anger at himself for not doing more, and the fear of losing you. That fear consumed him, making him lash out, but now it’s suffocating him. He can’t bear the thought that he’s the one who caused the pain he’s seeing in your eyes, and it eats at him every second of every day.

Megumi! Who stands alone in the dark, remembering the screams of those who suffered because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough to protect them. He thinks of you, of your kindness and warmth, and the thought that he might have ruined that forever sends a chill down his spine. The more he tries to push you away, the more it feels like he’s losing you completely, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s terrified that if he lets you in again, he’ll only end up hurting you, just like the others.

Megumi! Who sees the distance growing between you, the way your once-friendly smiles have faded into something more reserved, more distant. He’s the reason for this coldness, and the guilt crushes him. He remembers your tears, the way you’d hide your pain, and he curses himself for not being able to shield you from his own self-doubt and turmoil. He wants to apologize, wants to beg for your forgiveness, but he’s too afraid that the damage is irreparable, that he’s already lost you.

Megumi! Who is haunted by the memory of your last conversation—the one where he pushed you away in a moment of panic and fear, certain that it was the only way to protect you. The words still echo in his mind, and each time he sees you, that same terror rises in his chest. He wants to fix things, to show you that he cares, but he’s too afraid that he’s too broken, that there’s no coming back from what he’s done.

Megumi! Who stays up at night, torn between his regret and his fear of losing you. The emotional weight is unbearable. He feels your absence like a hollow ache in his chest, knowing he’s the one who caused it. He watches as you pack up your things, and something inside him shatters. He realizes, too late, that he’s pushed you to the brink of leaving, and that the walls he’s built around himself might be the very thing that costs him your love. The thought that you might walk away for good is too much to bear, and it breaks him to know that, in his attempt to protect you, he might have destroyed everything that mattered.

≿————-　ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🌷་༘࿐　————-≾

[atalldrinkofcaprisun]

Don’t Wait For Me After I’m Gone (pt. 2)

silco x gn!reader - he didn’t die AU - tw: canon compliant violence, drug use - 18+

howdy!!! reposted and edited again! I’m having trouble with all of the links so sorry they’re not super functional right now. But anyways, I MISS MY WIFE TAILS!!

also on ao3 xx masterlist

The screaming was the worst part. You had been posted outside of The Doctor’s underground laboratory/cave for three hours now, under the orders not to enter unless you wanted to be sedated until the procedure was over.

When the Scientist arrived at the factory, he had started work immediately. The bullets nimbly extracted and quickly stitched, his hand feebly squeezing your own when he could. You had pressed kisses to his damp temples and pushed hair out of his face, back into his rumpled style. He’d even notice sometimes but it was clear he was in agony.

“It is good you kept that with you,” The Doctor nodded his head towards the injector lying cracked on the floor towards the far wall. You had thrown it off as soon as it had emptied, “He would have been unreachable if you had not administered the medicinal serum. It gave him just enough to hold on.”

“So, he’s going to be okay?” You asked, trying to give that little flame of hope in your chest something to fuel itself.

“He will survive, yes. Survival at least.” the bandaged man replied cryptically before returning his full attention to Silco, “I suggest making plans to move him to safety. Your opponents will be hunting for you soon if they haven’t started already.” He’d put a hand on your shoulder, “I know where they will not find you.”

Shortly afterwards, you had sprinted all the way back to The Last Drop. Exhausted and shaking, you’d only managed a stammering, “Silco. He’s- the warehouse…” before promptly passing out into Ran’s arms. You’d woken up in your bed, apparently you had only been out about 20 minutes.

Now, here you stood, arms crossed and leaning against a rough stone wall. Your nails dug into your skin, trying to center yourself. You couldn’t leave, not when he was in pain. Jinx had been permitted in. Whatever had transpired between Jinx and The Doctor had created a new trust. You had wanted to protest but when Jinx set Silco down on the examination table and sat quietly in a chair in the corner, her eyes not moving from Silco, you had surrendered. Jinx needed to know her father wasn’t going to be one more thing to haunt her. You could keep watch this time.

Sevika was elsewhere getting her arm fixed once again, and keeping all of the intelligence open for signs of what had been happening in Piltover. She’d headed back to The Drop. Running Zaun directly or alone had never been something you wanted. Especially now, with the love of your life still in danger of being lost forever, and your child being the cause on top of whatever had been done to her-

There came another string of rambles, ranging from terror to agony to anger. Occasionally you would hear The Doctor muttering. You could feel the wave of emotions settle between your shoulders, winding up the muscles like snakes tensing to bite. You needed a distraction.

Threats were going to be coming from all sides. Jinx had officially crossed the carefully toed line of impertinent interference that Silco had perfected. You didn’t know what the aftermath of the missile had been, and it didn’t take a genius to guess. A part of you didn’t care. Fuck the Topsiders for needing to be brought to the battlefield. Still, you couldn’t ignore the stiffness setting in your arms and neck, your hands clenched into fists as tears began to resurface.

Another moan of pain, this one low and mournful… your name again. You covered your ears and tried to fight the urge to bust through the door.

Fuck it. You’d rather be sedated then hear one more second of this without being able to help. Hands flew to the door handle of their own accord, but were met with the empty air as the door opened first.

Jinx’s pink eyes bore into your own, flat, “Doc say you can come in. Apparently he’s though the worst. Dad’ll- be okay.” She sounded completely drained.

You gathered Jinx in a tight hug, wanting to offer any sort of comfort you could, “He’s going to understand. We’ve been so worried about you, Blue.”

“I killed him.” She mumbled into your shoulder, “I almost-”

“But you didn’t,” you pulled back to look in her eyes, your hands pushing her bangs off of her forehead to finally get a good look. She was so pale now, worse than before, almost spectral. Her freckles and dark makeup only making her appear more sickly, she was smeared with dirt and blood and crusted tears. Her eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but their pale blue had been consumed by the eery magenta of Shimmer. “He knows how much you’re struggling. He isn’t dead. It was an accident. He knows that.”

Jinx didn’t look convinced, only lifting your arms off of her and pushing past into the fissures beyond, “I just need to be alone.“ She turned before she crossed behind the faint lantern glow, “You know where to find me,” and then she was gone.

You waited, letting the compulsion to run after her and comfort her dissolve for a later time. If anything would be able to get through to Jinx it would be Silco himself. In order for him to get the chance, however, you needed to make sure Silco would stay alive. Jinx was smart, and knew when and how to lay low. She would be alright for a few hours. With a deep breath and you headed into the attached cavern.

“Doctor, Is he-“ your gaze mimed fixated on the disheveled and miserable man strapped to the gurney. At the sound of your voice Silco’s eyes landed on you, relief washing over his expression the moment he processed what he was seeing. “Thank Jannah, Sil,” you sighed, stepping and crossing the space. Your hand fell into his, fitting perfectly into his palm, warm and alive and responsive. With a smile you took your free hand and pushed the strands of charcoal and ash hair out of his face, “Hey there, handsome.” You beamed.

The once bright orange iris, now matching his daughter’s pink hue, was scanning along your features, relief washing over the face you had come to love more than you had ever thought possible. His pale blue eye was just as intently looking at you, but his eyelid hung heavy with exhaustion, “What’s a creature like you,” his voice was strained and low, rumbling out of his chest more than his throat, “doing in a place like this?”

Your mind played the first time he had said that to you as you grinned, “That line is still too cheesy to work.”

“Better than the look you gave me when I said it then.” He hummed as your hand moved from his hair to brush his cheek, “Did I ever tell you it was Jinx’s idea?”

“To try and hit on me after saving my life or?” You laughed lightly.

“To tell you,” he wheezed for a second as a flare of purple raced up his skin and into his damaged iris, “ah, how pretty you looked.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek and the pain seemed to become just a little less.

“So you settled on calling me a creature?” You scoffed teasingly.

“Is now the time for such, frivolous things?” The Doctor’s tone was annoyed as he cut in. He started undoing the straps holding Silco down, and he motioned for you to help him.

You looked at the scientist with one brow raised as Silco sighed, “I’ve nearly died today. It makes a man think about things… differently,” his gaze didn’t move from your face, like he was studying it for the first time. You were used to his staring habit, but this felt different. Maybe it was the drugs, “so beautiful,” he muttered so low, he probably hadn’t even noticed he’d said it.

“Shut up, old man,” you smiled, “Save your breath.”

The Doctor moved to your side of the table, batting you away as he began to unstrap his arm and head. Which was only fair since you hadn’t even started to undo the buckle. Your hand slipped away from Silco’s and you immediately missed the feeling. The anxiety that boiled in your stomach was vicious and your skin seemed to itch with the need to continue to make sure Silco was truly alive and real, on the mend and going to survive. Once the kingpin was free, the Doctor took his pulse, then gently helped him rise to a sitting position. His face contorted with the pain but eased as he breathed through it. At last, Doc looked towards you and nodded, giving his permission, you could fully take in your paramour.

Silco’s left arm was protectively hugged around his bandage wrapped torso, his smoldering eye still pulsing pink as was it’s seafoam counterpart. His hair was haphazard and his makeup smeared away long ago, the ashen skin of his scar visible in large smudges. You wrapped your arms around him as gently as you could manage, still causing him to hiss ever so slightly. His heartbeat thumped away under your ear, protected in his rib cage, fast and a little irregular. His smell was tainted with blood and sweat but it was still him. His free arm pulled you closer, his nose resting on top of your head. Together you breathed. Just for a moment that to you, felt like the exact eternity you needed to find your voice.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

He chuckled deep in his chest, “I promise to try and not make it a habit, my lovely.”

You only burrowed further into his arms in reply. Your home was here. Safely by Silco’s side, in his arms, breathing and basking in the gift of having more time. Just as the tension had begun to ease from your shoulders Silco spoke again, “Where is Jinx? Is she alright?”

You met his gaze, “She’s… upset. She didn’t mean to kill you. I think she’s headed back to her lab. I wanted to go with her but…”

“But you needed to make sure I would be alright first.” He gently finished and ran a hand through your hair, “Thank you for saving me. Now we’re officially even.” He let his fingertips stroke your cheek, “We need to get to Jinx. I need to tell her I forgive her.”

“You won’t be able to walk on your own yet, old friend.” The Doctor spoke up again from his desk across the room, apparently he had returned to his more important projects, “Your body is still processing the serum. You don’t have your daughter’s vitality.”

Silco frowned over at the old scientist, “I think I can manage. And anyways,” he looked down at you, “I won’t be alone.”

You nodded, and stepped out of his embrace to help him down and onto his feet. As he touched the stone floor however, his legs seemed to buckle and he fell onto you heavily with a grunt of pain. You caught him and let him get his grip on the edge of the gurney. His teeth grinding as he pulled himself upwards, “Sil? Are you-?”

“It’s fine.” The ever stubborn Eye of Zaun commanded. The Doctor and you shared a quick look.

You knew he was lying but he had more pressing concerns than his own comfort at the moment, “Can you?” he gestured vaguely around himself. Asking for help was still not something he was completely comfortable with, but you knew what he meant.

You shifted around him, so one of your arms was around his midsection, the other was holding his hand as his own arm swept over your shoulders. Jinx’s Lab and The Last Drop were a bit of a walk away. The Doctor, grumbling all the while, retrieved a cane from some depths of his caverns and gave you what doses Silco might need if he took a sudden turn. With measured steps you began to lead Silco to the door. Just before you crossed the threshold, Silco tugged and stopped, “Thank you, Doctor. My family owes you a great debt.”

A stiff and matter of fact “I know.” was the only reply he received.

Silco pressed a kiss to your temple and together you set off.

[em-ontv]

Hi I’m the anon who sent you the idea for “sing a song for me” and it’s literally so perfect I can’t wait to read the second part. I might cry a little I’m not even lying this was a dream I had and I was like huh wow that would make a cool fanfic but I can’t write at all. And you made it even better than I could’ve imagined thank you so much 🥰

Sing a song for me. (2/2)

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!fem!reader

Warnings: injuries/scars, comfort/intimacy (non-explicit), language, no use of y/n, Butcher being Butcher, probably ooc Ben (I made him a bit too gentle, we don't need more trauma), not proof-read

A/n: hello, anon! I'm so glad you liked part 1, this is the long due part 2 I promised. Hope you like it <3 sorry for taking so long to write this :'(

Read part 1 here

Word count: 2.4k

The inside of the van was cramped and smelled faintly of oil and sweat. The seats were worn, the leather cracked from use. The night outside was dense, you saw just enough stars to remind yourself that while you were locked away, there was a whole other world out there beyond your cell.

You sat beside Ben, who kept casting glances your way as if he was afraid you'd shatter. But you couldn't blame him... you must have looked terrible. The bruises, the exhaustion, the haunted look in your eyes. You didn't even bother to look at yourself in the reflection of the window on your way into the van. It felt like too much—like you couldn't handle what Vought had done to you. Not yet.

The ride was mostly silent until Butcher finally spoke.

"Alright, love, here's the deal." he said, breaking the silence. His eyes looked over you, his expression calculating. "We need to know now. Are you in, or do we drop you somewhere nice and safe to rot? We're taking down Homelander. It's not a bloody game."

Hughie shifted uncomfortably, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent. You stared back at Butcher, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to form words, but your head was spinning.

You knew what he was asking, but it felt too much to make that decision right now. You just wanted to rest—a bed, a moment to breathe without fear clawing at your throat.

"Alright, back the fuck off." Ben's voice snapped, breaking through the haze of your thoughts. The tension in the van spiked, and for a second, it looked like he was ready to lunge across the seat at Butcher and knock all of his teeth out. "Can't you see she's been through enough? She doesn't need your bullshit right now."

Butcher's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he met Ben's glare. "We don't have time for second-guessing, mate. It's a very simple question."

Butcher turned his gaze back to you. "You can help us take down Homelander, the bastard who’s got half the world wrapped around his fuckin' finger, or we can take you back home. But no guarantees, yeah? Vought knows about you. They’ll come for you. Eventually."

You swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over your throat, your mind spinning. Home? That word didn't even feel real. Could that place—that cell—even be worthy of being called something like home?

But then again, if you didn't help, could you ever be safe again? For once in a very long time, the choice was yours, but both paths seemed like a death end.

"She needs time." Ben said, his jaw tensing, quietly observing you as if he knew what you were thinking. The hand that he rested on your back made you flinch slightly, causing him to retract it, his fingers curling into a fist.

Your gaze faltered, your eyes dropping to the ground before you managed to look back at Butcher.

A sharp huff escaped Butcher, his patience worn out. “Time's not a luxury we've got. This ain't a charity." He turned toward you, his tone biting. "Again, you can go back to your cozy little cell, I suppose. Vought’ll just find a new use for you.”

"For fuck's sake, she just got out of an shithole." Ben snapped, his voice simmering with anger. "Give her some fuckin' time."

For a moment, Butcher looked like he might argue with some witty comeback, but after a beat, he exhaled sharply, turning his attention back to the road. "Fine. But time's ticking."

The rest of the drive was quiet. You leaned back in your seat, your eyelids heavy, letting your eyes close for just a moment, the noise faded into the background as you let exhaustion win over.

––––

When you reached the destination, Ben helped you out of the van, his movements cautious, his hand warm and solid on your lower back as he guided you inside. The "safe house" was as secure as it was miserable, but right now, that didn't matter. It was shelter, and it was enough.

The others dispersed, Butcher grumbling quietly under his breath as he stalked off to another room, Frenchie and Kimiko greeted you with a wave before leaving too.

Ben, though, lingered by your side, his hand hovering near yours, gently brushing against it for a second, but he didn't dare to reach for you.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice rough but oddly gentle, his gaze never leaving your face. It wasn't something you expected to hear from him—after seeing his quite violent display in the lab, but here he was, looking at you with more concern than anyone else ever had.

You nodded, a small smile curling on your lips, swallowing thickly. "I'm... yeah. Just... tired," you were almost embarrassed by how weak you sounded, but he didn't judge, a faint understanding in his expression.

Hours passed in a tired blur. You had settled into a room, a worn-out bed, but it was better than nothing. Everyone retreated to their own corners of the place for what little rest they could find. You sank into the mattress, your eyes drifting shut almost instantly.

––––

It was sometime past midnight when Ben jolted awake, a cold sweat clinging to his skin, running a shaky hand over his face. The room was pitch dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight outside filtering through the window. He sat up, his heart pounding, the remnants of the dream clinging to him.

Images flashed through his mind—memories of Vought, of his own time in their hands, of the time when he was betrayed, taken away, being tested on, and then frozen for decades. His breathing was ragged, the familiar surge of anger clawing its way to the surface, but something else broke through.

His thoughts drifted to you.

Without really thinking, he got up, slipping out of his room and down the hallway, to the room where you slept. His steps were slow, cautious, not wanting to disturb you.

He hesitated at the doorway to your room, his breath catching when he saw you lying there, on the narrow, uncomfortable bed.

In the dim light, your features were softened, the lines of worry and pain absent. You looked peaceful, your breathing slow and steady, and it eased something in him, his shoulders sagging as the tension slipped away.

Ben took a step into the room, but the floor creaked under his weight, and your eyes snapped open, sitting up on the bed, startled.

"...m'sorry," he whispered, his voice soft but hoarse, like something was bothering him. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

"It’s okay," you murmured, your breathing becoming steady. Your eyes flickered over his face, the lingering pain in his expression catching you off-guard.

You knew that something was wrong, you'd seen that look before, in patients who had been through a lot, in people who had lost themselves along the way.

He hesitated, glancing away, as if embarrassed by his own vulnerability. He looked like he might turn and go back to his own room—but his uneven breathing made him pause. The sight of you was comforting, and that kind look in your eyes made him move closer instead of backing away.

He took a few careful steps closer, almost unsure. "Just wanted to… make sure you were alright," he said, his voice low.

You nodded, your heart still pounding, but not from fear this time, it was something warm. "I’m okay. Just… hard to sleep sometimes."

He nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. He sank down to one knee, then both, kneeling beside your bed, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him and his slow breaths. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy but comforting.

Without thinking, you lifted your hand, resting it gently against the side of his head, your thumb brushing over his temple. His eyes widened, a brief moment of shock crossing his face.

"What are you—?" his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the touch almost made him wince in pain from how gentle it was. It was like your fingers brushed against some soft spot inside of him, he almost melted.

"It's okay... trust me," you started, trying to reassure him. His eyes met yours, the initial tension easing. He didn't pull away, but instead leaned into your touch in a quiet surrender. "My powers, they'll help," you added softly.

At your voice, his eyes fluttered shut, his expression softening as he exhaled a long, shaky breath. The walls he had built around himself crumbled bit by bit the more he felt your touch.

You hesitated, then began to hum—a soft, gentle melody, barely audible but enough to fill the silence. It felt strange, using your powers willingly again, but different this time... it brought you back to the bittersweet memories of your time before Vought. The tune was simple, soothing, a song you’d sung so many times before. Not destructive, but safe, warm.

As the notes drifted through the air, you felt Ben’s body relax under your touch. His breathing slowed, each exhale deeper, more even, and his hand reached up, covering yours as he pressed your palm closer to his face, silently grounding himself in the warmth of it.

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, a gentle touch, and he felt something he thought he lost... peace. A kind of comfort that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Or something that he thought he'd given up for good, back in the old days, or maybe he'd never had it to begin with.

When your humming finally faded, he stayed there, his hand still covering yours, his eyes still closed. For a second, you thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmured, his tone laced with a sadness that made your heart ache. "You don't understand what I've... the things that I did."

You shook your head, your hand instinctively wanting to fall from the side of his face but he only held you closer with a conflict—whether he wanted to push you away or pull you into his arms and not let go.

"All I know is that I would've been stuck in that lab if it weren't for you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "A favor for a favor. I think that's fair."

"Well, it wasn't entirely my choice to break you out," he muttered, that blunt tone of his slipping through, as if it was his last attempt to pull away before sinking too deep.

A soft scoff escaped your lips. "Whatever it was, at least I'm not stuck there anymore."

Slowly, you pulled him up onto the bed beside you, and he let you, his movements careful like he was afraid he might shatter the moment. You shifted, settling so that you were facing him, the blanket fell from your shoulders to pool around your waist, leaving the bruises and scars on your arms exposed under the dim light.

Ben’s gaze traveled over each mark, each scar, but there was no horror in his expression, no pity—only reverence. He reached out, his fingers brushing over a bruise on your shoulder, gentle and careful, as if touching something precious.

"They did this to you," he murmured, a hardness in his voice. It wasn't a question, but a statement. He knew too well.

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "They're fading." you said, looking away for a moment, as if you didn't want to acknowledge the scars.

Without a word, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the bruise on your shoulder, a feather-light kiss that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Ben...?" you asked hesitantly. The small tremble in your voice made him stop, a flash of worry crossed his face, his teeth biting at his lower lip. He thought he might have overstepped.

"I'm... sorry," he whispered, pulling back. He feared that he had ruined whatever small trust that had begun to form between you.

But your fingers threaded through his hair, hand pressing to the back of his head to bring him closer again. "Stop apologizing," you breathed softly.

His eyes met yours and a small smile threatened to curl up on his lips, a mutual understanding settled between the two of you before his head dipped down to the crook of your neck. His lips brushed against your skin, kissing an old scar, then he kissed another, and another, his mouth trailing over each scar, each bruise, as if he was trying to erase the pain they held. It felt like an apology, like he was mending you.

His touch was careful, almost reverent, and you felt the warmth of each kiss seep into your skin, soothing the ache that lay beneath. You closed your eyes, letting the gentleness of his touch wash over you.

You felt your chest restricting, your breath becoming shallow, you couldn't remember the last time you'd been so taken care of. It was overwhelming, but you didn't want him to stop.

Ben’s hands were rough, calloused from years of fighting, but the way he touched you was anything but. He cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing away the tears that had slipped down your cheek without you even noticing. Then he closed the distance, pressing his lips to your forehead, a kiss so soft, so full of warmth that it made your chest warm and ache at the same time.

"You're safe," he whispered. "You're still here, and I'm with you." It wasn't much, but it was the most reassurance anyone could get out of him.

You leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he sighed, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, his gaze soft and unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before.

Slowly, he pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around you as you settled your forehead against his chest, his heartbeat steady against your ear. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his warmth. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe.

After a long silence, you spoke, your quiet voice breaking the quiet. "Hey... Ben?"

"Yeah?" he replied, his voice a murmur against your hair.

"I'll help you take down Homelander."

[blobmanwhotries]

SEE, I TOLD YOU I CAN MAKE ART

information below bc trust me y'all probably confused lmao

The character in this drawing is Viktor, a character from the Five Nights at Freddy's Dating Simulator "Five Nights at Flirting." The game is more of the Rebornica style (using Vincent, Chris the Janitor, etc). I highly recommend the game, it's free!

That being said, spoiler warning for that game's content, in case you haven't seen it.

Key:

OG = Original

AU = Alternate Universe

RWQ = RWQFSFASXC, Shadow Bonnie's "Name"

FNaF = Five Nights at Freddy's

FNoF = Five Nights of Flirting

"The Crew" = Day/Nightshift Guards

Viktor is one of the protagonists in the game. Not much information is out there on him, other than him being the father of another more major character, Barbie, and him being dead. He was either a day/nightshift guard or he was the owner of the building, I can't remember.

In FNoF, agony and remnant isn't part of the game. Neither is the OG Afton family. A lot of canon FNAF things is not part of the FNoF universe. If it is, it isn't explicitly said - but in my and my friend's canon, we added a LOT of FNaF lore into it. Doing this gave us the opportunity to build upon the characters and really expand the universe.

In FNoF, I believe Viktor was killed in the Fazbear's establishment. This didn't change.

What did change was the motive and the method. Dave and Jack, the murderers of the children in our canon, killed Viktor by putting him in the spring bonnie suit. Think FNaF 3 Springtrap but on a different guy.

He, alongside the dead children, haunt the building as ghosts. One major thing:

He's not malicious during the nightshift.

(here on out are ideas, headcanons, fanon lore, etc)

Viktor actually just watches. Hangs around. He feels awful for the kids and that he can't do anything to stop their rage - so he usually lingers around the night guard in the office.

I like to think that he kind of has a role on causing the hallucinations in the night guards - more specifically Mike Schmidt (NOT Michael Afton).

Only after the first establishment (FNaF 1) closes down and the crew moves to the next establishment (FNaF 2) can Mike able to see Viktor's ghost properly. He's the first one of the crew to meet him after his death, with the exception of maybe Vincent (who in our original canon, did NOT kill the kids).

Hopefully that makes sense? I might go back and edit this when I'm more coherent but this is what you're getting for now lmao

With that out of the way, let's get into the shadow bonnie thing.

Let's start off with the fact that in the beginning of this, I just wanted to spice things up. I blurted out the idea of Viktor being RWQ to my friend and have been building off of that since.

1) RWQ is never outright malicious. Not in canon games, at least. In FNaF 2, the worst he would do is crash your game. Otherwise he just existed in the office.

Viktor, like RWQ, is not outright malicious. He just watches the security guard in the office. Hoping that they'll make it through the night in peace.

I considered the original "game crash" as maybe the guard passing out from sudden shock - which leads to,

2) In our canon, Viktor slowly becomes a being of agony over time. This is going to be hard to explain.

To sum it up, agony in our canon is the lingering emotions after a major event - emotions that cannot leave and can build up over time.

I think we can agree murder would stir up some very strong emotions from the victims, right?

This explains why the children are so vengeful - because of the agony from their emotions. And, of course, the fact that they're children and aren't able to regulate such powerful emotions, taking it out on any night guard. Blinded by rage, you could say.

Viktor isn't vengeful in comparison only because he can regulate his own emotions better. He knows that the night guards aren't the ones who killed him. He knows who did, but he's trapped at the building since he died there. And because the agony of the dead children latched onto him, making him unable to leave on his own.

Over time, the agony grows more and more potent. Even if he's still passive, the first form you see of him will not be human - it will be the silhouette of what he died in. What he was killed in. A forever reminder of what happened.

I've considered the "fainting" thing because I'd imagine looking to the side and suddenly seeing "bad vibes" personified is going to give someone quite a shock.

3) When coming up with this idea, I didn't make the connection of Viktor being RWQ and the FNaF 3 mini game until way later. When I did, I must say, I pat myself on the back for finding another way to validate and explain my idea. One of the theories for that mini game was that Shadow Bonnie was an employee who got springlocked, probably forcibly. You know who else got springlocked forcibly?

Viktor.

Viktor's death is a HUGE deal in our canon. Who killed him, whether he lives or not, the method - we've considered a lot of outcomes. The most common thing of all of them is the fact that Viktor always plays a role in being a reminder of what happened at Freddy's.

Even after FNaF 3 events, he still remains - only now he's attached to Vincent (who may or may not have killed the children depending on the AU).

My friend and I are super proud of this interpretation of FNoF. We've put a lot of thought into it - and we're nowhere near done with it. A lot is subject to change. But for now we're satisfied.

Sorry for such a long ramble. I'm sure this is barely comprehendible. Feel free to comment or send in questions on anything you want to know more about; other characters, more background information - don't be shy, I don't bite :)

[flossingh]

If they were going to destroy southern Thedas anyway, why not bring down the Veil? It had been prophesied! And we know for a fact now that preventing it from happening killed millions of people (in addition to the deaths of every single elf who has ever or will ever live, the corruption of countless spirits, the sundering of the Titans, all caused or made worse by the existence of the Veil). Magic could have flowed like water. Mountains could have walked the land. Familiar places could have been made unrecognisable. I wanted to see what happened. That version of the world has so much story potential to me, with all its new chaos and new danger and maybe, if we chose carefully, sometimes, new harmony.

The Titans alone - their fate haunts me. It has haunted me for years, and now it's worse. The people who once tended them with such devotion now tunnel through their veins, hollowing them from the inside, and they're still alive. They are still alive. They were waking. Could their Tranquility be reversed, if anyone in the world cared to try? Harding certainly didn't.

Oddly, or perhaps not, because what I love most about this world is its lore, the thing that made me feel so melancholy about this game was the codex. There was nothing new, not really. No new mysteries, no sense of discovery, of having to think things through, of putting the fragmented pieces together for years to come. Just some minutes from a book club and a shopping list, the marginalia of my companions rather than the text itself. I could get that anywhere.

In Veilguard, the more I played, the smaller and less full the world felt. All the mysteries were explained, all the questions were answered, all the character arcs were resolved, all the lore and politics and repercussions were… set aside, let's say, and it felt like farewell. There was nothing new to replace it. No more questions. No mystery. In Origins and DA2 and Inquisition, Thedas felt alive, and by the end of Veilguard it felt inert. We have plumbed the depths of this rich world and mined its veins and there's nothing left to see. It's dead now, or at least tranquil.

Listen, I am deeply sympathetic to the fact that after three games of choicemaking, the whole of Thedas has on some level become unworkable quantum. I understand, I really do. They had to reset somehow. But why not create, instead of destroy?

The theme of Veilguard is regret, and the message of Veilguard is you have to move on. I understand. I am grateful to have this game. I am. I wanted to see what happened, and that's what I got.

[billysgirllol]

“i wish i knew.” wishin’ she knew why so many born in the capitol are so heartless, tigris may be the only one that isn’t. “must be where you get it from, then.” his father. “tigris is alive, you should know…” the brunette mumbles, hands nervously raking through her damp curls. “well, that is rude cause i never attacked you first. you killed people, lied about who you killed, was goin’ to kill me. don’t act like you’re the innocent one here.” lucy gray bitterly speaks, brows creasing at him in anger. sounds like coriolanus lives beneath there, after all, it looks like. “i attacked you because you tried to shoot me a thousand times the last time we saw each other. ‘course i attacked you.” a scoff sounds from her, irritably watching him come closer. “i don’t mean anything to him. to you.” growing frustrated he almost keeps getting away with tricking her like he wants. it’s bizarre how alike he is to coriolanus but isn’t coriolanus. except, he is— cause that’s all a lie. “i won’t if you don’t try killin’ me first.” she mumbles, keeping her knife right behind her, sitting on it. saying that just to flinch when his hand wraps around her ankle, feeling like he’s trying to restrain her, capture her or something but realizing he’s just moving her foot to the water. what an even weirder image this is… coriolanus taking care of her blisters and weirdly caring about the state of her skin. staring and staring… trying to figure him out. different mannerisms, different hair color, different clothing. but the same face and the same hands with just more wear and tear to his callouses, probably all designed to throw her off guard like her mind is currently doing… spinning. peering into his eyes is what’s so haunting most of all.

"an evil lady over the games in the capitol, i know of her because once again... i was in the capitol for the games. he did that because that's just who he is if he feels you stand in his way, he's a killer." you're a killer, what she wants to blurt. "your grandmother raised you and your cousin tigris, who actually is a sweet person." she treated her a lot better than coriolanus did. "it was a lie, a trick. i don't mean anything to him because he was tryin' to kill me." she repeats angrily, brows creasing in frustration because now he has her calling him another person as if this isn't coriolanus himself. "it was for the money and only the money." lucy gray insists, no one tries to put a bullet and not that many bullets in you if they ever cared for you. looking at him when he asks her to sit back down, an annoyed expression crosses her face when hands drop and she walks over to the chair. plopping down in it and crossing her arms.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 14: Left for Dead

"'Cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted" -tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn

2367 Words; Divergent AU

TW for attempted emotional manipulation (pythor)

AO3 ver

The ocean was just as blue looking from sandy shores as it was looking from the lighthouse.

Well, no, not exactly the same—it was much closer, now, the sense of distance he was so used to gone. But the white-capped blue looked almost the same as ever, so he turned his attention to the rest of the beach behind him. To the trees further on, and the jungle further beyond that.

Cole—the bulkier of the two humans who had found him—and Morro—the human with the green streak in his hair—had disappeared into the trees a while ago to check on something. This left him with Pythor—the Serpentine, a species that he had never seen before—who had taken to lying on a particularly warm boulder higher up on the shore, eyes closed.

It was… it was all so new.

(“Do you want to leave?” Morro had asked, after Cole and Pythor had—with his instruction—helped get his leg and arm working again.

He had. He wanted to leave so badly.)

His name… Father had named him Zane, but when he had proclaimed that to the group, they had all exchanged looks he couldn’t decipher. Cole in particular had looked at him so strangely, and kept tripping over his name, like something was knotted up in his mouth. That was new, too.

But the group’s boat had ferried them westwards to this island—not the mainland Father had once lived on, which was to the east of the lighthouse—and Cole and Morro had disappeared behind the treeline fairly quick, leaving Zane and Pythor behind.

He ambled over to Pythor, careful of the shifting sand beneath his feet. His joints creaked, not particularly happy with the boat trip and the sea air, but they didn’t give out. He poked Pythor’s head, and waited for a response.

Nothing. He poked the white-splattered scales again, and Pythor grumbled. Violet eyes opened barely a crack, squinting blearily up at him. “Oh, what do you want now?” Pythor demanded, rolling his tail over slightly. “I can’t entertain you all day, you know—these tired old bones need their rest.”

Zane considered his words, mulling them over. Pythor’s eyes slipped closed, a low hiss escaping his mouth like a sigh, and Zane spoke.

“Does my name bother you?” Well, Pythor had seemed more surprised than bothered, but he surely knew Cole better than Zane did, and would be able to remedy any confusion.

Pythor’s eyes opened again. “What?”

“Does my name bother you?” Zane repeated, like he would for when Father didn’t quite hear him, or forgot the question. Then, after a moment, he started to elaborate, “When I introduced myself, you all looked at me funny—”

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.” Pythor held up a hand. He hmmed, his head lifting up to regard Zane more closely. “As for your question… not particularly.” He answered, lazily waving his hand. “I find it more ironic, maybe even amusing.” His head fell back to the rock, his eyes starting to close—

“Does my name bother Morro?” Zane asked, no less confused than before. “And why do you find my name ‘ironic’?”

Pythor stared at him reproachfully. “My, you ask a lot of questions.”

“It is part of my purpose, so that I can help aid Father’s memory.” Zane stated. “Does my name—”

“I wouldn’t know.” Pythor shrugged, cutting Zane off. “You’d have to ask the boy yourself.” He sat up a bit, readjusting to bring his tail around in front of him so that he could rest his neck upon the coil. “As for why your name is ironic—well, it really only makes it clear that you’re a copy.”

“I do not understand.”

Pythor chuckled lowly. “I imagine you wouldn’t.” He yawned, then spoke again. “Tell me, did this Father of yours ever mention any other… children, of his? Other creations, other sons?” He sounded lightly amused, though Zane wasn’t sure why.

Zane took a moment to think over his answer. “He would often tell me of his time on the mainland,” he started, “but he never mentioned any other sons. Why?” Well, no, Father had once mentioned having a son, but always brushed it off or insisted that Zane was his son, his only son.

Pythor grinned. It was slightly unsettling. “You really don’t know?” He reared up, neck twisting to bring his head closer to Zane’s. “You’re not the original Zane.” He crowed, looking Zane up and down, “You’re clearly just the copy cobbled together from scraps.” At once, his pleased demeanor vanished, replaced with something more sympathetic. “I imagine your Father must have been lonely, in that lighthouse. No wonder he rebuilt the son he loved so much.”

Now it was Zane’s turn to be perplexed. Thrown, even. “What…?”

Pythor reached over, patting Zane’s shoulder. “I’ve met him, you know. The first Zane. Fought him, even.” His eyes slipped closed in remembrance, “Ohhh, it was certainly a time. You know, I didn’t even know he was a nindroid until… hmm… I suppose it must have been sometime after being swallowed by the Great Devourer.”

“Nindroid?” Zane asked, feeling incredibly lost. Then, discarding the term as unimportant—“What do you mean, anoth—an original Zane? I’m Zane.”

Pythor hmmed, tapping his claws against Zane’s shoulder. “A copy.” He declared. “Made of scrap and abandoned when the original came along—”

Zane punched out, knocking himself over. Sand caught in the cracks and seams of his back as he got back up, and Pythor stared at him.

Zane decided he didn’t like the serpent. He opened his mouth—to say what, he didn’t even know—

“What the fuck are you doing, you old bag of scales?” And there was Cole and Morro, slightly muddy from their trek, coming out of the treeline. “You said you would watch the boat!”

Pythor pointed out to shore. “Well, it’s not like it’s gone… any… where…” He trailed off as he realized what Cole and Morro had already noticed: the boat was gone, the tide higher than it had been when they arrived. “Hm.” Pythor looked at Cole, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not my fault you didn’t haul it in far enough—”

“Pythor is a liar.” Zane stated, uncaring of the current conversation. “He’s been saying that I’m—that there’s—he says there’s another Zane!”

At once, Cole froze, eyes wide. Morro shuffled off to the side, and Pythor laid his head back down on the rock. “I—” Cole started, jaw working, then, “I’m sorry.”

That… no. No no no, why was Cole acting like Pythor was right—

“You… knew?” Zane asked. The world seemed to tilt, but that didn’t make sense—his body hadn’t moved at all, and was still standing perpendicular to the ground.

“Why, of course!” Pythor interjected, “He and Zane are—or were, I suppose—the best of friends! Brothers, even.”

“Pythor.” Cole growled, “shut up.” He turned back to Zane. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to say it—”

“To say what? That I’m just the replacement?” Zane demanded. Then, against his better judgment, he asked, “What is the other me like? Is he…” So many different questions flashed through his processors, and he settled on, “Is he better than me?”

“Absolutely not,” Morro cut in, from somewhere behind Zane. “Look, as someone who’s older than Pythor, and thus wiser—”

“You are not older than me!” Pythor argued, only to snap his mouth shut when Cole gave him a look.

“—take it from me.” Morro continued, “You’re not him.” He looked Zane up and down. “Pythor’s full of it.” He added, and Zane opened his mouth to ask what Pythor was supposedly full of—

“You are like him.” Cole said, the look in his eyes similar to Father’s eyes when he reminisced about the mainland. “But you’re also different.”

“You mean worse.” Zane accused.

Cole shook his head. “No,” he said, voice hard, “You’re… you, and that’s not a bad thing.” He sighed. “None of us knew.” He said. “When we found Professor Julien at the lighthouse, he never mentioned—” He cut himself off, looking at Zane with something an awful lot like sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“You… were there?” Cole had been in the group that had taken Father away, that had left Zane behind—

“Yeah, yeah, so Rusty here was made because Snowball’s dad was lonely, whatever.” Morro slung his arm over Zane’s shoulders. “You’re not gonna be stuck in Snowball’s shadow, okay?” He nodded, “I’ll make sure of it.”

Zane shrugged Morro’s arm off of his shoulders. “I don’t want—I just—don’t call me rusty.” It was true, he was rusted at parts, thanks to the sea air, but—it felt like an insult. He bet the other Zane wasn’t rusty.

Wait. “The other Zane…” Zane started, “Is he mechanical?” Or was he flesh and blood, like Father, and Zane was simply made in his image?

“He was just as mechanical as you even before he blew himself up.” Pythor answered. Cole glared at him, and he raised his hands in surrender. “All right, shutting up now.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cole groused. “He’s him, and you’re you. Neither of you is better than the other.” He turned to where the boat had been, and changed the subject. “Well, we’re stuck here until we build a raft. Do we start right away, or do we wanna continue,” He gestured towards Zane, “figuring this out?”

Zane would have crossed his arms if his joints allowed it. Truthfully, he didn’t exactly want to go out to sea again so soon—but he wanted to think about this new revelation even less. He was angry—but at what, he wasn’t sure.

“Well, if I can’t call you Rusty,” Morro started, “How about Copper?”

“Too close to cop.” Pythor shot it down. “Why not Echo? Since he’s a copy, and all.”

“Absolutely not.” Cole cut in, then turned to Zane. “What do you want to be called?”

Zane had no idea. “My name is Zane.” He stated. “I’ve never had another.” He frowned. “But I don’t want to just be… his copy.” His name was Zane, but that name bothered Cole—and was starting to feel weird, to Zane.

“It won’t be replacing your name.” Cole said softly. “It’ll just be a nickname. Like Breezy.” He gestured at Morro, who huffed.

“Or Dirtclod,” Morro added, gesturing to Cole.

“I… I think I would like a nickname.” Zane agreed. He didn’t want to give up his name, the one that Father had given him—

(“Zane is my son,” He’d say, though now Zane wondered if Father had only been talking about the other Zane—)

—But he didn’t want to be called by it until he met the other Zane, and convinced him to take another name. If this other Zane was so great, he could surely bear to part with his name. Of course, that plan necessitated meeting him, which… Zane wasn’t sure he wanted to do.

“I don’t know what, though.” Zane added. How was he supposed to pick a nickname?

“Gold, maybe.” Morro suggested. “Because you’re not gonna be second best to that goody-two-shoes.”

“Why not Pyrite?” Pythor suggested. “It sounds similar to pyro, setting you apart from him and his ice powers.”

“His… what?” Ice powers? Like the way Morro had bent the wind to his control to power their boat’s sail?

“We are not naming him for fool’s gold—” Cole interjected—

“Lux, since he grew up in a lighthouse.” Morro suggested.

“I—” Zane started, as they continued listing potential names.

“Junior, he’s the younger Za—” Pythor suggested, as Cole grabbed him by the neck. “Ack—!”

“Cole, you’re the mineral nerd, is there another word for gold?” Morro asked.

Cole, still holding Pythor’s neck, rattled off several words, ignoring the way Pythor was hissing at him. “Uhh, aurum, I think, oro, kin—”

“STOP!” Zane yelled, bringing everything to a screeching halt. “Please, just—let me think.”

They stopped. Cole let go of Pythor’s neck, and Morro scuffed his shoes on the sand.

“I think… I want to be called Echo.” He said. “Not because I am a copy, but because… I was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I was built to remember the things that Father could not.” He had been alone in that lighthouse but for Tai-D for so long, slowly rusting apart as he waited for something to change. “Nobody should be alone.” He decided. “So I will be the echo that reminds them they are not.”

“Okay.” Cole agreed. “Echo it is, then.”

Echo nodded. Echo. Echo. He liked the way that sounded. He was still Zane, of course, but now he was also Echo.

Pythor grinned, quite pleased with himself. “Let it be known that I suggested that name—” He started—

“Let it be known that you lost our boat.” Morro interjected. “Of course, it’s what we get for entrusting it with someone too young to handle the responsibility—”

Echo watched as Pythor and Morro launched into a full argument, Pythor lunging at Morro and the two of them starting to tumble around in the sand. It wasn’t quite the same as how they had bickered on the boat ride here—in fact, it was much louder.

Cole watched them fight for a moment, then sighed heavily. He turned to Echo. “Let’s get started on that raft.” He suggested. “While they get sand up their asses.” He added drily. “Does that sound good, Echo?”

Echo nodded. He had never built a raft before! “Yes, let us. You will have to show me how.”

A gust of wind-blasted sand hit the spot where Echo was moments before, and Cole, holding Echo in the air as though he weighed very little, walked back several paces. “Oh.” Echo commented, as Cole set him down out of the blast zone. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Cole mumbled, already moving towards the trees. Echo trailed after him, eager to see how building a raft worked.

He was out of the lighthouse, and ready to see the world Father had described to him. There was so much he still didn’t know—and someone he wished he’d never learned about, and did not want to think about right now—

But he would make it work. He was no longer alone, after all.

[transmechanicus]

Really fucked up that two ppl can care about each other and make their best efforts to communicate and still end up hurting each other so badly they cannot stand to be in the same room.

[star-lights-up]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr & Pietro Maximoff Characters: Erik Lehnsherr, Peter Maximoff (X-Men Alternate Timeline Movies), Raven | Mystique, Hank McCoy, Logan (X-Men) Additional Tags: Protective Erik Lehnsherr, Hurt Erik Lehnsherr, Erik Lehnsherr Needs a Hug, Erik Lehnsherr Needs to Stop, Erik Lehnsherr Loves Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr Has Issues, Erik Lehnsherr Has Nightmares, Parent Erik Lehnsherr, Pietro Maximoff Goes by Peter, Pietro Maximoff Needs a Hug, Whumptober 2024, Erik Lehnsherr Whump Series: Part 4 of Daisy's Whumptober and Flufftober fics, 2024! Summary:

They say that there are five stages of grief.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

Everyone experiences it differently, and when Charles Xavier was murdered on live television, everyone at the mansion cycled through the stages accordingly. Some took more time than others.

And then there's Erik. He's added a sixth stage of grief.

Revenge.

Whumptober Day 14

Inspired by that one edit that i can’t find anymore that had the cruella audio about the stages of grief, showing each of the characters if Charles died. Erik was revenge. If I can find it I’ll post it later... it’s really good lol. It’s lost in a youtube compilation somewhere 😂

[overdueforarevival]

Whumptober Day 14 - Addicted To The Not Knowing

Left For Dead | ''cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted'

Summary: Ezra Bridger's parents go missing when he is seven years old. There are many things he doesn't know, some things he'll teach himself, others his family will teach him and a few things will have to wait a little while longer.

Also posted to AO3 and based on my tumblr post from a few weeks ago :0

Ezra Bridger doesn’t know a lot of things. He knows that his parents are gone and his home has been cordoned off by the local authority, blocking him from going back. He knows that he’s hungry and cold and he knows that his Mom and Dad always always said to go to Tseebo if anything ever happened to them.

Well, something happened and Tseebo is nowhere to be found. Ezra doesn’t know where to go or what to do, but he does know that it’s almost night and he wants to sleep. So he settles down outside his house, unable to get inside but refusing to leave, and pulls his jacket closer around his body, desperate to conserve some kind of warmth.

He’s kicked awake when it’s still dark out by a beefy man with a bushy mustache telling him to move along and find somewhere else to sleep. Ezra doesn’t know where else to go, so he wanders around the city until dawn comes and then he returns to his street and stands on the corner.

Mr Ishlay goes for his morning walk early in the morning, every morning. He’s an elderly man, one that’s been on the planet probably longer than anyone else, although Ezra’s mother once told him it was rude to say that. He’s not sure why. Mr Ishlay doesn’t walk too well anymore, always leaning on his walking cane but every time Ezra asks why he still walks if it hurts, he says that it’s good for his bones. Ever morning, he’s the first person out the door so Ezra waits for him and when he finally appears, Ezra surges forward.

‘Excuse me, Mister?’ he calls out. The man always smiles when he greets him, a fond look, the kind that old people always give young children. Today, all Ezra gets is wide eyes and a shifty look.

‘What do you want?’ he snaps harshly. Ezra skids to a stop a few paces behind him, staring at his back in disbelief. Confidence thoroughly dashed, Ezra glances around, wondering if someone is going to jump out and announce this all to be an awful joke.

‘I- I was wondering if you knew where my parents are,’ Ezra asks nervously. He gets that same nervous look again, followed by a scowl that has the boy taking another step back.

‘How would I know? Find your own damn parents,’ he sneers and then marches off, cane tapping loudly on the pavement as he fades into the distance.

Maybe he’s just having a bad morning, everyone gets grumpy sometimes. Ezra’s father gets grumpy after work sometimes, but he always apologises afterwards and promises to play Ezra’s favourite games on his day off.

Mrs Onglo is the next one out this morning, watering the flowers outside her house and Ezra skips up to her, twisting his fingers together nervously. This is the lady who always babysits him when his parents are busy, she’s teaching him how to draw and always says that he’s going to be a famous artist one day. She sells artwork in the market and promises that one day she’ll sell his art as well.

‘Hi Mrs Onglo!’ Ezra says cheerfully, waving happily at her. She glances up at him and then quickly looks back down at her garden. ‘Have you seen my parents? They weren’t there when I got home from school yesterday,’

Still, the woman doesn’t answer. Perhaps she’s going deaf, Ezra knows that old people do that sometimes. Dad always jokes that Mom’s going deaf.

‘Mrs Onglo!’ Ezra calls louder, still no answer. Before Ezra can say anything else, she slams down her watering can and runs inside, slamming the door shut behind herself.

Ezra doesn’t understand what’s happening, but decides that maybe his teachers can help him. Teachers have the answers to everything, so he joins the gaggle of children making their way to the school gates. The other parents give him weird looks, probably because they’ve never seen him walk on his own before. Ezra’s older now, though, he knows how to walk to school by himself, he doesn’t need his parents to do that.

He’d quite like them to be here for one last hug before he walks through the gates, though.

However, he doesn’t manage to get through the gates at all. A tall woman, the head teacher, stands in front of him and Ezra nearly bumps right into her legs. She scowls down at him.

‘You no longer attend this school. Do you hear me?’ she snaps angrily, glaring down at him. Ezra stumbles backwards. ‘I don’t ever want to see you near here again. Now scram!’

Ezra doesn’t like the scary look in her eye, the glint of the sun on the lens of her glasses. She doesn’t need to tell him twice; he’s sprinting across the street before he knows it.

Ezra Bridger doesn’t know what’s happening, why nobody will talk to him or where his parents are. But he learns how to survive. He learns how to find the most edible food in the big bins around the back of the shops, he learns the safest alleyways to sleep in and the best lake for a quick bath. Ezra learns to pickpocket and shoplift and Ezra learns that nobody knows his name anymore. They just call him ‘loth-rat’, but even the other street kids won’t speak to him.

Some days Ezra reckons he’s gone invisible and nobody can see him anymore. They all walk past him in the street, even when he’s freezing and hungry, begging for a few credits to help him out. Even when he’s crying and pleading for someone to let him inside to warm up, just for a few minutes. He’d kill to be inside for a few minutes.

But nobody listens, and Ezra doesn’t know why. They’ve left him for dead, to rot on the streets of Lothal, forever wondering why the world stopped and yet everyone else keeps moving.

Eventually, Ezra stops caring about the ‘why’s of the world and focuses more on the ‘how’s. How to survive, how to get more food, how to slip past the bigger kids without being noticed. How to make it through one more winter, one more freezing night on the street.

Ezra gets by just fine with not knowing, in fact he quite likes it. He likes to know that he knows nothing, not how to read or how to speak proper like everyone else, but he gets by just fine. He’s got it all sorted out, a tower to live in and food stored in a cupboard. There’s no need for answers when Ezra is doing just fine on his own.

And then come along the Ghost crew and Ezra thinks he fits in quite nicely, a ghost living on the Ghost. He has three square meals a day, a blanket to sleep under and Hera even buys new clothes. She can be a bit strict sometimes, she makes him shower every day and insists he wash his hair with shampoo twice a week minimum. He uses the same shampoo that Kanan uses and now he always smells like the man too.

Kanan teaches him things, gives him answers to questions that he didn’t know existed. Things start to make sense and Ezra only now realises how little he understood about himself. About the weird feelings he gets, about how he always knows when a fist is about to come flying at his face. Everything is falling into place.

Zeb and Sabine make fun of him sometimes, just for how he does things. He’s not sure why they think it’s so weird that he eats so fast. Don’t they know how easy it is for someone else to steal your food away? They frown at him when he admits that he doesn’t know how to read, Zeb asks why his school never taught him and then Hera calls him away quickly.

Everyone starts reading with him after that, teaching him the letters of the alphabet and what they look like, how to draw them. Ezra tries not to feel too put on the spot. He supposes they’re just trying to be nice, but Ezra’s never needed to read before, he’ll get by just fine without knowing a little longer. They all seem to enjoy it, though, so he lets them teach him and soon enough he’s racing Hera to finish odd books Kanan finds on the holoweb for them.

It takes a while, but Ezra gets used to the casual ‘love you’s that get thrown about the ship every night when he turns in. The first time, he freezes when Hera shouts it down the hall and promptly bolts to his room. The last time he heard that phrase was the morning his parents died. In a year, he’s gone from nobody daring to speak to him to having those words called to him like it’s natural. Of course, Ezra understands now that nobody spoke to him out of fear of the Empire. But still, it doesn’t make sense for Hera to be saying this.

But then Kanan starts saying it too and now Ezra really doesn’t know what to do. But they never stop, in fact it begins to replace any form of ‘goodbye’ and Ezra quite likes it. He doesn’t say it back.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t say it back, he tries a few times, braces himself and spends an hour mustering up the courage but as soon as he sees Hera cooking dinner in the galley, he freezes. In the end, he chops the vegetables for her.

Somewhere along the line, he’s found a family and he’s not quite sure where it came from but he certainly enjoys it. The casual banter and bizarre inside jokes. Knowing that there’s always someone who will have his back, that they’ll never ignore him and never pretend he doesn’t exist makes it easier to go to sleep. He’ll never wake up in the cold again, never wake up alone, wondering why everybody hates him all of a sudden.

And then Kanan makes an awful decision. Ezra should have seen this coming, should have known this was his plan all along but the thought never crossed his mind. In all of these battles they’ve fought, all the missions they’ve been on, hell even after all the nightmares he’s had about it, it never once crossed Ezra’s mind that Kanan might die.

He doesn’t look scared when it happens, in fact he looks perfectly at peace. He smiles at Hera as he pushes her away and lets the flames consume him. It’s almost as though he thought they’d be okay without him. Ezra doesn’t know where he could have gotten such a preposterous notion from. They are not okay without him.

Every night, he can hear Sabine sniffling through the wall that separates their bunks, Zeb is grumpier than ever and even Chopper seems more dull. There’s less spontaneous electrocution which Ezra supposes he should be grateful for, yet part of him misses it.

And then there’s Hera. He knows how hard she’s trying to hard to hide it, but he can feel every emotion lying behind her facade of coping. Ezra doesn’t know why Kanan would do this, why he would hurt Hera like this and why he’d leave him. Ezra doesn’t know enough about the Force yet, about being a Jedi to become half the man that Kanan was. Ezra doesn’t know what to do without his Master.

Now it falls to Ezra to make these decisions and he doesn’t know which is the right one. He guesses and guesses, hopes and prays, begs and pleads for guidance. In the end, he still doesn’t know that to do. But if there’s one thing he learned from being on the streets is that if you act confident enough, nobody will second guess you.

So he makes the damn video and tells Sabine that he’s counting on her. He says his goodbyes and still can’t tell them how much he loves them. He doesn’t know why, when it matters more than ever, he can’t tell them something so simple.

Ezra doesn’t know why he wants to backtrack, to jump off of Thrawn’s ship and hope Hera will see him and catch him. Ezra doesn’t know where he’s going to end up or if this is even going to work. Kanan would have a better idea. Kanan should be here.

But he isn’t and Ezra doesn’t want to hate him for it, but a part of him is really pissed off. No matter how at peace he tries to be, no matter how hard he tries to accept that Kanan is never coming back, he just wants the man to walk up the ramp to their ship one more time.

Now neither of them will.

Ezra doesn’t know where he is, on this strange planet with no intelligent life forms for miles other than the one man who ruined Ezra’s life just when it was starting to look up again. But it’s okay, because Sabine will come for him and Ezra just has to hold out until she finds him. Surely, it can’t take that long.

So he sets up camp and reminds himself of how to keep warm when sleeping out in the elements. He got quite good at it once upon a time, so he knows how to do it now. He doesn’t know what plants are safe to eat or what animals to hunt for dinner, but he learns through trial and error.

Thrawn is doing something, he can feel the Grand Admiral’s presence on the planet, plotting and planning while Ezra waits. It doesn’t matter that Ezra doesn’t know, because he’ll never be able to get off this planet, wherever they are. His venator was destroyed by the Purgill.

Ezra doesn’t know why it’s taking Sabine so long to come find him, doesn’t know why he’s still here in the freezing cold. In all the spare time he now finds himself with, Ezra tries to teach himself more, to learn about the Force and become stronger. He misses having a teacher to guide him, misses having Kanan telling him what to do and how to be.

Every day he wishes he’d learned just a bit more, just asked a few more questions while he was alive. If he’d just trained harder, perhaps he’d have been good enough to save Kanan. Selfishly, he wonders if, had Kanan been alive, Ezra could have stayed home.

Ezra doesn’t know a lot, but he does know that everything he’s learned came from the smartest people alive. And those smart people are going to find him one day. Until then, Ezra will stay here with the Noti, haunted by ghosts of his past, wondering if anyone will ever know how it feels, if he’ll ever be able to tell them. For now, he has no choice but to wait and float in this not knowing, forever waiting for his family to bring him home.

[mad-hunts]

have i ever talked about how barton is genuinely jealous of people who seem happy because he feels so hollow a majority of the time that even when he's 'happy,' he's not really happy? because i just 😭 yeah...

[ramsaybaggins]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Edward Bonnet | Stede Bonnet's Father Additional Tags: Whumptober 2024, Stede Bonnet Whump, HEAVY WHUMP, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Shooting, Hunting, parental violence, Blood, Injury, First Meetings, Getting Together, Left for Dead, Blackmail, Rescuer Edward Teach, Mention of Roach, Happy Ending Series: Part 14 of Whumptober 2024 Summary:

Louis was five now. Stede cringed at the thought that in a few short years, he would be expected to come out on the Annual Bonnet Men's Hunting Trip. Stede's least favourite day of the year. In fact, he dreaded it for a solid six months every single time.

Whumptober 2024 day 14: LEFT FOR DEAD | Hunting gear | Blackmail | "Cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted"

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2024 Day 14: "I wear my camo to your favourite club, 'cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted and helpless with no control."

tfw your boyfriend's BIL does NOT approve

---

I just like to imagine Mithos a) does not approve of Yuan being with his sister but also b) does ABSOLUTELY NOT approve of Yuan being with literally anybody else, be it in any scenario where he's not with Martel anymore OR a poly relationship Martel is explicitly in favour of. ("Martel, it's Adam and EVE, not Eve and Whatever Debauchery These Two Degenerates Have Going On! D:")

Sorry it took so long to upload everything.

[corpsebrigadier]

Whumptober 14. Memento

Left for Dead: Hunting Gear | Black Mail | "Cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted"

Miluda had thought herself pragmatic and plain-spoken about it: the revolution was doomed. If her brother did not listen to the pronouncement, it was no fault in her clarity. She had been clear all her life with him, and he had honed his expertise in evading her meaning. The revolution was doomed, and Wiegraf would doom the universe beyond it before he gave it acknowledgement.

The Northern Sky had taken three-thousand in the fortnight past, and Miluda was headed northward. They had met at a farmhouse outside Dorter to play at strategizing--to keep up the farce that there was some path remaining to victory. She had no means to advise him that this farewell was like as not their last.

As she tried and failed once again to explain herself, there came an ache in her chest--a feeling that her lungs had filled themselves with sand. Reason fell away. She looked to her brother and saw in him a look like a child's.

Miluda reached to bow his head down to hers--thinking to kiss him on the forehead but stopping short. A kiss on the lips, improper to the moment and to her, would be a gesture he must remember.

[sushimango]

Day 14 of Whumptober!

It's Sam again - the one character you should never trust.

She's having fun

[theotherrichardpapen]

nigel & alex - to be haunted by your love

henri nouwen // like minds (2006) // death - melanie martinez // pope alexander - crywank // her mother's kiss - eugene carriere // sometimes i fall asleep thinking about you - catarine hancock // the song of achilles - madeline miller // achilles lamenting the death of patroclus - gavin hamilton // lee martens