#I will die for you I will kill for you I will scour this entire world searching for you .. like!

[emmaspolaroid]

me thinking ab noremma

[oatmealthighs]

bigbro!choso x blackfem!babysitter!reader

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 contents: nsfw 18+, MDNI. overstimulation, rough sex, mutual pining, breeding kink, masturbation. i guess a lil stalking? choso's last name is itadori, yuji is a lil one, reader is black-coded and depicted to be a bit thick. but yea gets pretty nasty. minors gtf back

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 author's note: yea this is a bit more self-indulgent than i'd like to admit.... but nonetheless! i still hope yall like it! inspired by this work of art

“so you're the new babysitter, huh?”

his voice was so deep. it rumbled through your every limb, made every hair prick up against your melanated skin. your throat went dry as you looked up at the man so casually leaning against the doorframe to his quaint, humble home, towering over you as he observed you almost menacingly.

as choso itadori looked down at you with indifferent eyes, you couldn't stop your own from scouring, observing the way the black tee he had on was tight in all the right places, hugging and squeezing at his muscular biceps and clinging to his formed chest. his brown hair was tied up, spiky locks in two ponytails. black jewelry adorned his ears all the way up to the helix.

you felt small, under investigation as his dark orbs intensely pierced through your own. but you didn't waver, it was never in your nature to showcase your uncertainty. instead you smiled, glossed lips parting to show your pretty teeth. “yep, that's me! my name is [name].” of course choso already knew that, and maybe a bit more that he didn't plan on sharing with you. he had no shame when it came to investigating who he was entrusting the care of his baby brother to, yuji being his heart and rib, the only family he had left on this entire planet. he'd die for him, kill for him, do worse if it came down to it. but with you, all that extra shit didn't seem necessary to make clear.

choso knew you looked good from your instagram he managed to find after some digging, but your posts didn't capture the true, full essence of your beauty. the camera didn't necessarily capture the way your brown skin glowed and shimmered in light, or accentuate your curves like how they looked now. you smelled sweet, like yams and vanilla. the magenta yoga set you wore clung to your skin tantalizingly, outlining your curvy silhouette and the top zipped down just a little low to show a little cleavage. your hair was styled* into a neat bob, bluntly cut just above your shoulders, not a single hair out of place. your lips were lined a dark coffee brown and ombré’d into the pink natural color of your skin, coated with sparkly gloss. your large glasses sat on the bridge of your wide nose, a french-tipped nail pushing them higher up. choso continued to feign disinterest, but he knew the darkening scarlet brushing over the tips of his ears might be what would give him away if you took any notice.

luckily enough, your attention was drawn elsewhere, the sound of toddler yuji cooing as he waddled through the living room towards the front door making your eyes widen with adoration. you kneeled down to his height, yuji’s big brown eyes finding yours and him sending you a gummy smile. “and this must be yuji! ohh, you’re the cutest thing! making my heart swell.”

choso needed you for a short while, just until he could find a new daycare for his little brother. between him working over forty hours a week and using the weekends to focus on bonding with yuji and resting up, he never really had the time. or more-so, seeing how well yuji gravitated to you, how he began asking about you by just saying your name during bath time, how he always cried when you left, was what made it drop lower and lower on his priority list.

you were much more help than he expected you to be, and did far more than what he was paying you to do, which resulted in the extra hundred dollar bills he would sneak into your cherry coach bag every evening. it was the least he could do: you made meals, helped clean, always put yuji down to bed before you left. even did the laundry as needed. you insisted it was okay when choso told you you didn't have to bother yourself with tasks that weren't in the job description, and that you didn't want or expect anything extra out of it. but you stopped fighting against his generosity… not that there was ever a struggle.

some nights required choso to stay later, long past his typical return time of six o’clock, and some nights he wouldn’t return until 2am. he would come in from a particularly tiresome day at the hospital in his his grey scrubs and his hair pulled into a low ponytail. he would never be surprised to find you laying on the large sectional sofa, glasses still on but your bonnet tied tight around your head, under one of the extra blankets with your phone replaying a tiktok. choso always had the guest bedroom prepared for you but it was always all for naught, as the couch seemed to be your preferred place of choice. it was so soft, it had to be well over a thousand bucks. he never disturbed you, you deserved your sleep. at most, he’d shut your phone off and turn down the tv, and head upstairs to shower and prep for bed himself. he’d often hear you leave the house later that night or early in the morning.

choso was the strong, silent type most of the time. he was an action-driven man– if he didn’t say it he would show you. you knew he liked you for his baby brother when he asked how did you feel about hanging around yuji for a bit longer than anticipated one evening while you were just about to leave out for the day. or when he would sneak those crisply folded blue bills into your bag. you wondered what he did for work one day, and you asked him. he was an anesthesiologist, he said. and you knew he was rolling in the money then.

there were no signs of a woman in his life from what you’ve seen. no feminine hygiene products in the bathroom, no pictures, no particular scent aside from your own aroma of sweetness. no mentions of a “she”... not that you’ve ever talked about it. you wanted to pop the question, but you didn’t want to weird him out- you opted to just “keep things professional.” but shit, it was hard sometimes. choso was a nice-looking man, with a height of 6’3”, a hard, muscular build, and dark eyes that made you shudder when he looked down upon you with them. sometimes he would come home after a vigorous work-out at the gym if he had the pleasure of getting off on time, wearing a black underarmour compression shirt that would be so damn tight you’d see every sculpt and cut of his meticulously defined upper body. his hair would be down, brown tresses clinging to his strong neck, thick eyebrows knitted together at the feeling of sweat and perspiration sticking to his skin and his growing need to shower. you would be in the kitchen, just cleaning up since you wrapped dinner up not too long ago, and the smell would make his stomach borderline roar at him. he’d shower, then come back in a tee and grey sweatpants, damp hair hanging as he sat at the table and basically ripped apart whatever you had prepared for him.

sometimes, you’d be in a rush to go home. not because choso would make you uncomfortable or anything. never that… but you knew your body. you knew that warm pool of heat in between your legs meant nothing but trouble, and was something that needed to be handled, preferably asap. you’d rush into your little apartment, make a beeline to your bedroom and strip down to your bare skin before jumping into your silk pink sheets. you’d grab your vibrator and press it to your clit desperately, pussy squeezing around nothing as you threw your head back against the soft pillows. you’d pinch your brown nipple, bottom lip trapped in between your teeth as you moved your vibrator in small little circles. more and more, you’ve began imagining choso in between your legs, his large hands parting your thick thighs like the red sea as he ate you out, his tongue lashing at your clit and slurping up your honey like a man parched. you imagined him pinning you against a wall with those brawny arms of his, knees pressed to your chest as he pounded you, burying himself to the hilt as your pussy squeezed his thick, long dick like a vice. it would be so nasty… you could only imagine the way you’d be cumming around him, how he’d make you cream and release until you’re ran dry.

sometimes when you finish, you’ll feel ashamed, throwing your vibrator to the end of the bed as you squeezed your legs together and hid under the comforter with embarrassment. other times… not so much. the fire would still be stirring and burning within you, begging for something more, for you to truly be filled. there were times you were a smidgen too close to calling up one of your old flings, just to fulfill your desire of being stretched out once again and to just imagine the man over you was your employer instead.

your feelings didn’t go completely unrequited.

choso held his tongue for the greater good of professionalism and your comfortability, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t contemplate asking you to dinner a few times. from what he’s seen and observed on your insta, you didn’t have a special somebody. and he figured it would never hurt to ask. but choso was careful. he often opted to just not say anything.

he felt his gazes getting longer, his eyes moving more risky every time he’d see you moving about in his home working. he picked up that you really liked two piece sets, especially the ones made of sculpting spandex that always clung to your body almost provocatively. the way your ass sat in them, he was almost embarrased to say he dreamed about grabbing a handful of it, palming one of your cheeks with his entire hand. your glossed lips always caught his attention. he often thought about how it would look smudged on his skin, smeared across his own lips after tonguing you down.

your smell lingered. on the furniture, in the blankets, hung in the air. it was embarrassing how the scent of shea butter and vanilla was enough alone to make his dick stiff. it’s been so long since he’s rubbed one out. and he was doing a good job until you came along. he wasn’t proud to admit the amount of times he’s touched himself to you, his hips rolling his dick up into the clenched palm of his hand, soft squelching sounds filling his master bedroom. he’d imagine how you’d ride him, slamming your hips down against his own, your ass flush against his skin as you moan sweet nothings into his ear while he tried his damnedest to not nut in you.

the tension was growing thick. it could be sliced with a chainsaw at this point. but the both of you both opted to play it safe. until it spilled over… and it was bound to happen.

and it did.

"ouuuu, shit, choso!" the way that man was absolutely drilling you from behind was almost criminal, the deafening sound of his hips cracking against your fat ass echoing throughout the sound of the living room as he was trying his best to fuck you through the couch he had you drooling on.

you really don't know how you got here. well... you do. after all, this was the day you've been plotting and hoping on the moment you first seen choso's fine ass leaning against his doorway. it was like a dream come true, watching the way he deliciously hovered over you like predator over prey, his silky brown tresses draping around his sharp facial structure and his silver chain dangling, swinging in cadence with his hard, deep thrusts.

the two of you were just watching a movie, mr. & mrs. smith to be exact, courtesy of the invitation he extended earlier that night when you put yuji down for bed. an opportunity to "get better acquainted" over wine, gourmet chips, chocolates and a good action-romance.

"i see the way you look at me," you had stated boldly as you sipped your third glass of wine, the pillar to your sudden courage. "i know you notice how i look at you, too."

choso was sprawled out on the couch, legs spread and his arms thrown over the top. his head rested in one of his big hands, gazing at you through heavy-lidded eyes. he's silent for a moment as he looks at you so intently, his orbs filled with need, before he finally diverts his gaze to the tv. "yeah."

you look at the tv for a bit, not interested at all actually, but feigning it as you finished your glass. it was silent for a bit, albeit the sound of gunfire and car collisions booming through the in-home sound system, before choso speaks, "you can sit closer."

your scooting closer somehow led to you sitting in his lap, which led to a passionate, sloppy makeout session involving you straddling his firm thighs and his big hands gripping your entire ass in his palms as your tongue dived into his mouth. and all that led to him softly laying you on to the couch cushions, your lips never leaving each other's.

his lips are as soft as they look, yet leave scorching flames of desire in their wake as he litters passionate kisses all over your jugular and chest. he buries his nose into your skin, almost moaning at how sweet you smell and taste. as he continues to trace his name on your skin with his tongue, his fingers find the zipper to your purple yoga jacket, his eyes peering at up at yours through his thick lashes to ensure he has your approval.

you nodded your head gently.

choso made it his mission to show you he had much more to offer than some blue bills to you. you never depicted or predicted the guy to be an eater. but oh, were you pleasantly surprised.

that man can eat some pussy... and he does it like he gets paid to do it. he had you spread out like you were his dinner, and you were, your legs wide apart, knees bent. he sat on his haunches on the carpeted floor before you, spreading your lips apart and sloppily sucking at your clit that throbbed eagerly against his lips. he'd dip his head down, lapping up any of your leaking wetness before making out with your pussy yet again, his eyes trained on you and watching intently as your pretty face contorted into expressions of pleasure.

he'd make you cum all in his mouth, encouraging you to do so, never letting up as your thighs shook and vibrated, your eyebrows pushing together and your eyes fluttering shut as the bright hot warmth of your well-awaited orgasm overtook you, leaving you gasping for air. his compliments, "good girl," and "you taste so fucking good" would just get you all riled up again. choso came in his pants too, his ear tips bright red as he made it his duty to lick up all of your sweet nectar, but he kept that to himself.

that's not the only way he wants you though. he'll sit on his bottom on the floor next, his head resting against the couch, requesting for you to sit on his face. "what? choso, no, i'd crush you."

he'll take that as an insult of course. he benches twice your weight, easily. a little extra plush on the thighs wouldn't kill him, in fact, he'd love it ten times more. you'd saddle up, hesitantly brushing your pussy against his lips, and he'd look up at you, unimpressed.

"whaat?" you feign confusion, in reality, a bit shy and nervous at the thought of putting your weight on him.

"sit."

his words made every hair stand at attention against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. you bite your lip, your gloss long smeared off and all over his pale skin. you bring your weight down on him a bit more.

"all the way." fuck.

you do as you're told, and a deep moan of satisfaction rolls through him, his tongue already dipping into your dripping folds. and before you could even think about letting up, his strong arms are locked around your thick thighs.

he'd have you writhing in his grip, going insane at the way his tongue wrote love letters in cursive against your clit. he'd be damn near drowning in your release, your cum slicking and dribbling against his chin as you rolled your hips back and forth against his soft lips. you were chanting his name like a mantra, and it was a beautiful melody to his ears.

and lo and behold, that's how you ended up on a first class flight to poundtown, your eyes stuck in the back of your head and your manicured nails digging into the arm of the couch for personal brace as his huge dick kept brushing up against that soft spot of yours and his girth stretched you so damn good. you knew you were making a mess- you done squirted twice already, your juices rivering down the insides of your thighs and seeping into the soaked couch cushion below you. "fuck, please don't stop!"

"yeah?" choso breathes over you, his cheeks flushed pink from his endurance. you knew he wasn't slowing down no time soon... he told you about his daily four mile runs. his pupils were blown wide as he watched the way you managed to still throw it back at him, stilling his hips as he watched your hungry pussy swallow his length every time your ass sat plush on his lower stomach. "you like that shit?" his calloused palm smacked against your ass unforgivingly, the fiery sting setting you ablaze. he did it again, one more time for good measure.

you were losing it, moaning exasperatedly into the couch fabric as you gave him everything you got, tossing your ass back against him, trying to match the impact he was winding you with just a second ago. "yess, fuck yess," you whine. you reach your hand back, your nails clawing at his shirt and yanking it in a ball. "please, choso, keep fucking me like that."

"what, like this?" his large hands were at your lovehandles, squeezing the flesh there as his resumed his relentless rythym, his eyebrows pinching at the way you squeezed around him like a vice. you let out a wail, your cream decorating his veiny shaft, and he relished in the feeling, a deep groan of satisfaction bubbling from his throat. "shit, you just keep cumming.... what is this, your fourth time?"

actually your sixth, but you weren't gonna correct him. if there was anything you knew, you wanted more. the way the veins of his dick dragged against your walls was a wonderful, irreplicable feeling, his balls slapping your clit with each profound stroke. his thick fingers found your hair, tangling his hand in your locks and giving them a courteous yank, making your back cave and arch deeper as you let out a yelp of pleasure. any other time, you'd for sure cuss him out... but his dick touching your soul was plenty good of a distraction. besides, you knew your hair was long sweated out anyway.

he was gonna give you some money for a new hairstyle anyway. he was good for making up for it.

choso feels himself teetering against the edge, between the sounds of your disgusting squelching and the mess you left on him and his couch, your pussy still begging for more as it and all its sloppiness still squeezed him whole, and your pretty keens and gasps bouncing around the room, it was almost too much. he felt like he was losing it, the hearts in his eyes palpitating as both of his hands held your jaw from behind. "the fuck are you doing to me..." he mutters aloud, his eyebrows furrowed as you eagerly sucked on his thumbs with a slutty moan.

"you know, yuji gets lonely sometimes," he whispers, slowing his thrusts and leaning forward to crush you with his weight, his dick bottoming out and making you let out a cry as your eyes snapped wide open. he rolls his hips more sensually as he licks at the back of your nape, the cool metal of his chain brushing the skin of your back and making you shiver. his lips trail to your ear, tongue lolling out at the shell as he continues, "i'm sure he wouldn't mind a friend. you'd like that wouldn't you? for me to fuck you full until i got nothing left, huh? you gonna drain me of all i got?"

you nodded your head desperately as you hummed a whiny "mmhm", turning your head to the side as you watched in awe as the man over you was spilling over the edge. "yes, i'd love it, cho, give it to me... please?"

choso hums in satisfaction, his heart thrumming against his ribcage as your words made butterfly cocoons hatch in his stomach and his dick stiffer than ever before. "yeah..." he slams into you, winding you with power and force that insinuated that he hated you, but he'd only make such a dangerous, promising offer to someone he truly liked. let alone anyone at all. "i know you would. you're nasty as fuck."

you didn't know if you were to be terrified or turned on, but the way your core pulsated around him let you know you were the latter. he let out a breathy moan at your physical response, but it didn't stop him. not even for a second.

he wasn't letting up. you weren't getting any breaks. the way you would be teasing him wearing those tight ass clothes and smelling like you wanted him to eat you alive. nah. he was giving you everything you ever dreamed about, everything you imagined when you'd resort to using your little vibrator between your legs.

and you loved every fucking second of it.

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

Hi! I don’t know if your requests are open but if they are, could you please write headcanons about how Iruka, Itachi and Kakashi would react to seeing a dream about the S/O dying? Thank you!

thank you for the ask, i'm totally game!!

How they would react to a dream about their S/O dying

They being Iruka (🥹), Kakashi (😩), and Itachi (🥴) - with wildcard picks of Shikamaru (😋) and Sai (🤭) (GN!Reader)

Warnings: talk of death, swearing, lil drinky-poo mention for Kakashi n cigaroot mention for Shikamaru, tell me if this sucks💋

Masterlist💿

Iruka

Iruka dreams about you, on a mission far too dangerous, getting locked into a skirmish and then meeting a gorey demise right in front of him

Wakes up covered in sweat, chilled to the bone, to your concerned voice and gentle hand

He pulls you close in a huff, breathing heavily and quickly - Iruka just can't seem to get enough air until he's got you, on his lap, with his arms wrapped around you and his face buried in your collarbone

You laugh lightly, and scratch his back in slow circles until he's regained enough composure to tell you about the dream

Iruka would be mortified to find out he had been yelling out for you in his sleep, and that being what initially woke you, but he'd be very comforted by your presence and consciousness

He would have some issue getting back to sleep, so one of you would suggest a tea and an early start if the hour was great enough

But, if it was still around midnight, you would flip him to his stomach and perch on his butt, then scratch/rub his back while whispering sweet assurances in his ear for however long he needed to relax again

Terrified of having to live without you, hasn't got a clue how he would be able to see through that kind of fog - he's just grateful for it to have been a figment of his imagination

Kakashi

Kakashi's dream isn't only of you dying, it's of you dying by his own hand

He wakes up with a jolt, turning to find you're safely in bed next to him - still, he holds a finger under your nose to check your breathing

Feeling a burning tingle coursing through him, Kakashi has to get out of bed, he can't just forget about the dream so easily

Without disturbing you, Kakashi gets out of the bedroom entirely and goes to the living room, pours a stiff drink and sits at your bay window while watching the dark sky move

You come out to the living room soon, before he's even done his drink, and you ask if he's coming back to bed

He finishes his drink and tucks you under his arm, steering you both back to the bedroom, feeling poorly about waking you up but feeling quite cared about

Kakashi can't bring himself to tell you about the dream, even if you ask - he didn't want to deal with it the first time, let alone rehash it

Eventually falls back asleep, holding you as closely as humanly possible, drifting off while pressing a million small kisses to your face and head

Itachi

A recurring theme in all of Itachi's dreams is death - familial, friend, himself, but he hates the ones where you die the most

Sometimes, you're killed by another, bested in a fight and demolished in front of Itachi - he can hardly take those seriously, you're far too powerful in the waking world

Other times, it's Itachi, himself, who takes your life - another impossibility, he would never, not even if you had something he coveted

It's the dreams of you and he, sitting together, wasting away with decay and disease - he can't stand those, because they're all too possible and real

He'd wake up with a start, and turn to you, running his fingers through your hair, and over the rosy apples of your cheeks, scouring your body for signs of vitality

You'd wake with a laugh, his fingers tickling your ribs, and Itachi would just hum for you to go back to sleep

Just as you curl up to his chest, he starts having a coughing fit (his lungs sound like sparkling cardboard with your ear right up to his chest) and has to sit up while you rub his back and hit him between the shoulder blades with the heel of your hand

He has to get up to spit out the phlegm and blood he coughed up, but comes right back with a heavy sigh

You promise him you'll stay by his side, through sickness and in health

Though riddled with anguish, Itachi just tells you he loves you, and thanks you for putting up with him, before crawling back into the bed

You two cozy up nicely and you listen as his soft, controlled breathing turns into a light, stuttered wheeze before falling back asleep yourself

Shikamaru

This poor motherfucker can't sleep a full night without at least one sour dream and it's such a drag

He wakes up swearing and shouting when the sour dreams are about you - his dreams never go on long enough for you to die, just for Shikamaru to see you in the grasp of the enemy, scared out of your mind, knowing what's to come

If you're not woken up by his ruckus, he'll surely wake you up to get a good look at you, to get your fearful expression out of his head

You're cranky, having been woken up from a deep slumber, and Shikamaru apologises insincerely before recounting his dream in vivid detail

Of course, this causes a change of tune, but Shikamaru teases you, telling you to apologise for being such a hater after he had such a concerning dream about you

You do, begrudgingly, then ask him to cuddle you again

Shikamaru lights a cigarette and tells you he might not go back to sleep, but leans back into his pillow and puts his arm around you, allowing you to rest on his chest

Despite his claim, Shikamaru almost immediatly falls back asleep, leaving you to slip his cigarette from his fingers, steal a drag, then ash it for him in the tray on his bedside table

He's gripping you so tight, you think he might think you'll disappear if he doesn't

You just sink into his being, taking comfort in his warmth and the rhythm of his heartbeat

Sai

His dreams are quite strange - they never make sense out of the context of Sai's unconscious mind, and even then

They're all very metaphorical and symbolic, and Sai could spend his whole life trying to decipher some of them, instead he just fills a notebook with whatever he can remember

All he can particularly remember from any of his dreams about your death is just a heartwrenching feeling that took over his soul

It would suffocate him, deafen him, blind him

When he wakes up next to you, peaceful and alive, he curses his mind and wishes he could remember the context of the feeling

Sai's just glad it was only a dream, only a manufactured feeling from his subconscious to torture him

He curls up to you, letting that disgusting feeling melt away as you press into him

All Sai can think about as he drifts off to face another vivid, otherworldly dream is how lucky he is to have someone who causes such visceral emotion within him

[littlestarlightseverywhere]

Do Your Worst

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel’s lover is having a hard time, but no amount of acting out can push him away

Warnings: mentions of violence (torture)

Notes: Sorry for the silence, I’ve been having terrible writer’s block but I think I did okay with this one!

Image Credit: Pinterest

Today was rubbish. Probably one of her worst days yet. 

It had been exactly two months since Hybern captured her from Azriel’s post and took her to their war camp deep in the Spring Court’s woods. Exactly two months since she’d been tortured for information she’d die before giving up. Exactly two months since she’d made peace with her death. Rhys couldn’t track her immediately, Mor and Feyre’s searches came up empty each time, and even Azriel’s shadows couldn’t pick up a clue. Azriel had driven himself mad, downright insane, trying to find her. Each day he spent every waking hour looking for clues, scouring the forests for her scent, and each day he returned to bed with nothing to show for it. It took Amren and Nesta a month to finally locate her. In that month she laid cut and bruised, chained to a wooden post like an animal, struck, cut, and burnt for every question she refused to answer. They left her in the middle of that camp, exposed to the heat of the day, the cold of the night, the rain, the wind, and the thunder. They made her into a spectacle. 

She only thought of her family, her Azriel, the entire time. My Azriel, she’d think each time they brutalized her. My Azriel, my Azriel, my Azriel. Rhys collapsed when she allowed him into her mind after they brought her home. He would never forgive himself for sending her on that mission, nor would he ever show his brother what she’d shown him, for Azriel very well would have sent Prythian to immediate war. 

And while the cuts, bruises, burns, and broken bones would heal completely, the skin of her back would forever be changed, marred with angry, raised scars from a heavy leather whip. She could barely walk. 

The first time Azriel saw the lashes on her back, he was helping her undress the night she returned home. Each movement caused her to cry out in pain. She tried to bite her lip, clench her fist, grip Azriel’s arm, tried anything to keep from crying, but nothing helped– the pain was too much. It would’ve been a mercy from the Mother to fall apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, instead. 

Azriel had seen all the other scars when Madja was working on her; those alone made him sick and wild with a hideous rage, potent enough to crumble the mountains surrounding the city into nothing more than powder on the ground. The lashes on her back– the thought of some wretched male stripping her and lashing a whip over her soft, warm skin in the mud and rocks– filled him with a fury so intense, so horrid, he could’ve wrapped his bare arms around the sun and pulled it down to earth. Set everything on fire. 

That very night, with names in his ear courtesy of the shadows and Cassian and Rhys positioned at her door, Azriel made each of those names pay. He was back by sunrise, tucked into bed beside her, wing draped over her restless body, and she was none the wiser. 

“You’re killing it,” Madja’s appointed physical therapist, Jarrah, encouraged as he watched her do her exercises. He was tall and muscled with glittering, golden-brown skin, looking ever the Summer Court high fae that he was. 

“It’s killing me,” she ground the words out, mincing each syllable as they passed through her teeth. Pain gripped her legs, lower back, and upper arms like a vise as she fought to complete a rep, the movements squeezing every last bit of energy out of her and collecting on the mat below in puddles of sweat. “I can’t do it, Jarrah.” 

“You can and you will,” he squared his shoulders at her, smile fading as he willed her to find her strength again. In recovery, he’d taught her, there were good days and there bad days– healing was not a linear process. 

Some days she did well in physical therapy and pushed herself– the pain only meant she was getting stronger. Azriel would be absolutely beside himself with pride and their friends echoed as much. 

Other days, her body seemed to give out in protest, the pain too unbearable, and she’d wonder if she’d ever be the same again. Azriel would encourage her– she knew it wasn’t pity– but she couldn’t stand it all the same. She’d collapse onto the floor against her will during physical therapy, shoving Jarrah away with shame when he’d tried to help her up each time. Sometimes, she’d wake up in the dead of night, clammy, and nauseous from a nightmare that felt more and more real each time she had one. Azriel held her to his body whenever she’d jostle awake, heaving and shaking, stroking his warm hands up and down her arms. Other nights he held her hair back as she retched her dinner into the toilet, panting and crying silent tears. 

“To expect linearity is to set yourself up for failure,” Jarrah lectured during their very first session when all she wanted to do was get to the hard stuff, to prove that she was alright– that she was still whole. Jarrah did not mind her bad days, but something died within her every time she left training without making any notable progress– every time her body failed her when her mind seemed to be giving its all. 

From the moment they started their session this morning, Jarrah noted her body was fatigued and her mind was somewhere else. Oh dear.

“We can take a break–” 

“No!” She buckled down and held her position, determined to prove to herself that even on her worst days she could succeed. It was the most enthusiastic response Jarrah had gotten all session from her so he allowed it. He watched her body tremble from the strain, the sweat bead at her temples, the fatigue in her eyes as she fought the pain in her spine. 

Her body could not bear it anymore. She felt her traitorous legs give out beneath her and the ground came up faster than she could register, faster than Jarrah could react. A strangled cry crawled from her throat as she collapsed and her body trembled in a pain her mind could barely process. 

“Fuck,” a familiar voice rang out from the gym’s entrance and Azriel ran in. Just great. What was he even doing here? After the first training appointment in which Azriel could barely keep himself from choking out Jarrah and coddling her, he agreed to not interrupt her sessions thereafter. His disregard for their agreement made her feel so small. 

“Fuck,” Jarrah echoed. He was at her side in two steps, arms outstretched to help her up, but she scooted away as fast as her leadened arms would allow, turning her face away in shame. 

“Don’t touch me!” She croaked. 

Jarrah stopped himself by the time Azriel was at her side, crouching beside her and taking up what felt like all of the oxygen in her space. Breathe, she tried to remind herself but with Azriel hovering and Jarrah a foot away, both watching her crumpled pathetically on the mats, she couldn’t. 

“Are you alright?”

“Get her some water!”

“That’s enough for today, let’s get you some food.”

“... My love?”

Azriel’s soft voice pierced through her terrible thoughts. She felt his strong hands reach under her armpits to help her up but she pushed against his biceps, swatting him off in a desperate attempt to move away. But the pain made her so dizzy, it was difficult to create any real distance. 

“Don’t!” she cried out, for it was all she could do, and Azriel dropped his hands immediately. “I can get up on my own.”

Azriel didn’t move. Jarrah placed a comforting hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “We should give her some space.”

Azriel clenched his jaw but it didn’t stop the twitching of his upper lip. He stood abruptly, swiveling on his heels so his face was only mere inches from Jarrah’s, who’d since quickly retracted his hand to himself. To his credit, he kept his shoulders square, but even he wasn’t immune to the pure threat in the Shadowsinger’s glare. 

“My mate is in pain, she can’t even stand up, and you want to leave her like this?” He growled. 

Anger grappled her lungs, stealing whatever air she’d managed to collect. That was the problem. “I can stand up, Azriel. I’m not made of glass.” 

It took her a few minutes, but she did it. She first rotated her hips so she was on her hands and knees. With one foot underneath her, she pushed herself up, trembling, sighing, moaning as her body resisted the upward movement, but she finally stood. 

Azriel clenched his hands at his sides to anchor himself back, to resist from helping her. He knew she was capable of doing anything, that she didn’t really need him. Part of the reason he was so hesitant to pursue her all those years ago was because she was so independent that it intimidated him. Azriel wasn’t sure what he brought to the table, what he could do better that she already did for herself, how he would fit into the life she’d built for herself. 

But that didn’t change the fact that he would still do anything for her. It didn’t take away that primal need to protect her. He tried his best not to suffocate her but sometimes he couldn’t help his instincts when his love for her outweighed everything else.  

She allowed Azriel to link his arm with hers as she waved goodbye to Jarrah, silently apologizing for Azriel’s outburst. 

“Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?” His voice was soft as he led her out of the gym and to the townhouse’s sunlit sitting room. “You did so good today, love.”

“I’m not hungry.” Was all she replied. She couldn’t stomach anything after such a rubbish session. Fear that she would never be the same ever again set in, but nobody would understand. No one could even fathom what it would do to her if she couldn’t keep doing her job, going on these missions, protecting this city. If she was relegated to a desk for the rest of her life, she’d have lost everything she’s ever worked for.

“Sure you are. At least something small to keep the medicine down.” 

Madja had her on a cocktail of herbs and elixirs– something for the pain, something for the scars, probably something for how fucked her mind had become– she couldn’t keep track. Azriel kept track for her. She swallowed the pills and the bitters he gave her and allowed him to rub the salve into her scars before bed. Whatever. This was life now– being shoddily held together by some combination of antibiotics, gauze, and ointments. 

She shook her head in defiance and Azriel sighed, stopping her just before the doorway to the living room where the rest of their friends sat. She was so stubborn– if she didn’t want to do something, no one could get her to do it. It was a quality he admired but also a quality that drove him downright mad at times like this.

“What’s bothering you?” 

“You mean besides healing at a snail’s pace and sitting on my ass all day in this house while everyone else goes to work– fulfills some sort of purpose? I’m doing just great.” The smile did not reach her eyes. 

Azriel tilted his head as if to say No, really. I know there’s something else. He could read her like a damn book– it had always been that way. 

She hesitated for a moment before confessing, “I don’t know if I’ll be the same ever again.”

Azriel’s face softened at the anxiety that weighed on her shoulders so heavily they sagged. 

“Of course you will, love. It’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s been two months and I can’t even climb the stairs without needing a break. My body hurts by the time I go to bed. I can still feel my back– the scars–” the words caught in her throat and she quickly cut herself off before she choked on them, unable to talk too much about it without feeling her body and mind repulse. 

“Come here,” Azriel wrapped his strong arms around her frame and pulled her into his body so close their hearts beat in sync before each other as if in private conversation. “The physical training, the medicines, the therapist, you’ve got it all going on. No one here is working harder than you right now.”

“But what if it isn’t enough,” she mumbled into his chest, a single hot tear catching on the fabric of his sweater. She turned her face into his chest to wipe the tear away completely and Azriel’s heart broke for her. He wished he could reach into her chest and pull out the pain with his bare hands, fly with it to Ramiel and drop it at the peaks where it could never find its way back to her ever again. “You know better than anyone, you could do everything right and it still wouldn’t matter. I just need to get better. Be myself again.”

“I will love you no matter what happens. Even if you are never the same, I will still love you. This changes nothing.”

She pushed him away abruptly, hastily wiping away tears as if Azriel couldn’t see them. He didn’t get it. This wasn’t about him, about him loving her. This was her life. If she couldn’t get back to who she was, fill the roles she’d spent her whole life caring about, where would she stand among her family? Where would she stand in this life? In this world? 

“But it changes everything for me,” her eyebrows furrowed incredulously. “I want my body back, my mind back. Thanks for letting me know you’d still love me if I were to be this fucked up forever, but that’s literally the last thing on my mind right now, Azriel. I don’t want to be fucked up forever, I want to get better, and I need you to want that for me too.”

Azriel tried to find the right words, stuttering in his search to say the right thing. He didn’t mean it like that. He only ever wanted the best for her– would kill for her to have what’s best for her. “I-I didn’t mean–”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” She huffed, storming past him into the sitting room. Instant guilt flooded her as soon as she left him. Azriel helped however he could. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t put himself in her shoes in this very situation, but he’d gone through something traumatic too, and Azriel definitely knew a thing or two about helplessness. Still, she felt so alone. Azriel tried, but he wouldn’t understand what it was like to be a woman tortured in a camp full of males. What that took from her. She wouldn’t explain it. 

Azriel watched her storm off, feeling as if he was failing her all over again. Every night, he watched the dullness in her eyes grow as he handed her the medicines. When she laid down in their bed with practiced monotony so he could rub the salve into the scars stretched across her back, he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying. They were nasty things, raised and swollen with blood and she flinched every time he touched them, as if he were delivering the lashings all over again. She was hurting and he felt so helpless. He vowed to always protect her and take away her pains but he could do neither of those things and the thought of it ate him alive everyday. Only the Mother knew the true lengths he’d go to for her. That man would do anything. 

In the sitting room, Azriel brought her a sandwich that he put together in the kitchen. Nuala and Cerridwen insisted that would make it, but he politely refused. He wanted to be the one to do it. 

“Az, I told you I’m not hungry,” She murmured as he handed her the plate. 

“You need to eat something if you want to keep the medicines down,” He reasoned again. 

“I know what Madja said, I was there,” She snarked, crossing her arms. She was so tired of people telling her what to do. Jarrah telling her what exercises to do, Madja telling her what medicines to take, Rhys telling her that she shouldn’t try to work again so soon, Feyre telling her she should take more walks, Cassian telling her to drink less wine, Azriel forcing her to eat more food. 

“Okay, darling,” He placed the plate on the table when she wouldn’t take it from him. 

“Turkey and swiss, okay!” Cassian peeked at the sandwich, nudging her arm. “And he cut it in half too.”

“Just the way she likes it. In half though, not diagonal– too much crust in one bite if it's cut diagonal,” Azriel smiled from where he sat across the table from them. She could have cried at the sight of him, at the love in his eyes, in his voice. Words were never his strong suit but Azriel more than made up for it in acts of service. This was how he showed his love. This was him reaching his hand out, begging for her to take it, to let him in. To let him help. 

And she didn’t know why she had such a hard time letting him in. She didn’t want to seem incapable of anything, and letting herself fall apart the way Azriel would allow her to terrified her. She’d never fallen apart before. She didn’t know how she could do it without completely tearing herself and every past wound open again. It broke her heart to watch his smile falter when she didn’t reach for the plate. 

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up as quickly as her body would allow and left the room. It was too much. Azriel’s disappointment, everyone’s expectations, watching her, studying her, readying themselves to be there for her if she did explode. She never needed this much attention in the past– to receive so much of it all of a sudden made her feel like she was made of porcelain and everyone was expecting her to shatter at any moment. She could hardly breathe in that room and needed to get out before something within her cracked further. 

The stairs loomed before her, mocking with how many there were. Grabbing the bannister until her knuckles paled, she hoisted herself up one step at a time, maneuvering her body so that her entire weight wouldn’t be on one leg for too long. 

Nesta appeared behind her, climbing the steps she’d taken over the course of minutes in just mere seconds, with a stack of books in one arm and a handful of her gown in the other. Nesta stopped a couple steps ahead, turning around and looking down at her through long eyelashes. 

“Well this is pathetic,” Nesta snorted. 

“Fuck off,” she meant to sneer, but it came out in a breathless huff instead. Pathetic indeed.

 Nesta let her skirts fall from her right arm as she extended it toward her. 

“I don’t need your help.”

“You definitely do.”

“Don’t you have those smutty little novels to get back to?”

“Shut the fuck up and take my arm, or bust your ass on these stairs, I don’t care.” 

Begrudgingly, she took Nesta’s arm. Neither of them spoke, but Nesta patiently guided her up the stairs, supporting her where she needed it. Out of the entire Inner Circle, she got along the most with Nesta. Their conversations usually followed a very similar pattern as this one did, but only because they each saw a little piece of themselves in the other, even if they never mentioned it. 

“Heard you being a bitch downstairs,” Nesta finally spoke when they cleared the last stair and stood at the landing so she could catch her breath. 

She couldn’t find it within herself to take offense. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone. I don’t know why I do this,” she confessed. She didn’t need to explain further. Nesta automatically understood. When they locked eyes, that silent comprehension flowed between them again and for the first time since arriving back home from the war camp, she felt relief. The kind of relief that made your heart beat out of your chest and go a little dizzy. The kind of relief that came from being completely understood without having to spend the energy trying to put the thoughts and feelings into comprehensible words. 

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The words fell softly from Nesta’s lips. It was the last thing she said before she led her to the library. They sat in arm chairs across the fireplace and read for hours in each others’ company. No one came looking for her. No one tried to force a plate of food down her throat. No one wanted her to do those stupid mobility stretches. Nobody was asking her if she was okay. It was everything she needed. So why did she still feel restless, like something was missing?

Azriel.

She left the library after she’d calmed down. In the quiet, amongst the books, when she thought that was all she needed, she felt misery instead. She needed Azriel. She wanted to lay in bed with him forever, feel his skin on hers forever, stay in his warmth forever, feel their heartbeats sing side by side forever. Azriel forever. Nothing else would compare. 

When she reached their room, it was empty. Disappointment flooded her chest, but she knew Azriel was giving her space. As she moved closer to the bed, she found a new plate of food waiting beside a note. A remade sandwich, cut down the middle as always. 

Your favorite. Was all the note said. 

Indeed it was. She polished off the sandwich in a matter of minutes, as ravenous as she was. Actually, she was hungry when Azriel first offered one to her in the sitting room, but she was too stubborn to take it then. 

The bath towel beside the note on the bed was warm to the touch. From the soft sound of trickling water in the bathing room, she knew he’d run her a bath. The air above the tub smelled of sandalwood– his scent. As she stripped off her clothes and lowered herself into the warm water, the scent encompassed her as if he was in the room with her right then, waiting to join her. 

Surely, an hour or two must have passed. Her eyes pried open, the water and soap around her body in the tub still warm and feathery like a winter duvet. She didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep, only that it was the best sleep she’d gotten these past two months. For the first time since coming home, she slept with no nightmares and no nausea to rouse her from rest. She didn’t even dream. She simply passed out.

When she finally left the bathroom, her body wrapped in the towel he’d warmed for her, she found Azriel sitting on the bed with a book nestled in his large hands. As she stepped through the doorway of the bathing room, he looked up, smiling softly. Pure love shone in his eyes like a beacon, flashing and blinking in the darkness that war camp left her in. 

At the sight of his soft smile, the gentleness of his features, the relaxed sag of his shoulders, she felt something break. 

Sensing a shift in her demeanor, he lowered the book, eyebrows knitting together. 

"What's wrong?"

Those two damned words. She bit the inside of her cheek, walking weakly to Azriel's side of the bed. He placed his book on the nightstand and sat up straighter, anticipating her next move. 

She climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and laid her upper body against his torso, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. Her arms wrapped around his body tightly, breathing him in like he was the oxygen she lived off of. Anything else, anything that was not Azriel, and she could just die right there. 

He brought his arms around her tightly, heart sinking when he felt her hot tears on his neck. She did not shake. She did not sob. He only felt the wetness on his skin and the erratic heaving of her chest against his as she fought to regulate her breathing.

He did not say anything else. He held her, unmoving except to rub her back or run his hand over the back of her head, smoothing her hair. His other hand held the back of one of her thighs to keep her in place as she grew increasingly limp in his arms. 

"I've been such a wretch." Her voice was heavy and filled with sorrow. "I've been such a wretch to you. I'm sorry Az."

"Oh my love," He held her as close as he could, willing her to feel the love he held for her in his chest. His love for her ran everywhere his blood did, from his toes to the top of his head, every day and every second, his astonishment of her coursed his body like an electrical current keeping him alive. Without her,  there was no pulse. 

"How do you put up with me?" He felt her wipe her nose on his shoulder and he couldn't help the smile on his lips.

"Because I love you, and I know your anger has nothing to do with me."

"But you should not have to put up with it."

"I will put up with anything when it comes to you. You don’t ever have to worry about that when it’s you and I,” He pulled her back so he could look into her eyes. “You went through something horrible. You’re going to need time to work through it all, but I will be here for every moment of it. I’m sorry if I’ve been suffocating you, darling. I only do it because I can’t help it. When I see you hurting I wish I could take all of it from you and put it in me.”

“I never want you to hurt,” she told him earnestly. The thought of him going through what she did filled her with rage so sudden and consuming she couldn’t begin to imagine what Azriel felt when they finally found her at the camp. 

“I could never when I have you looking out for me,” He smiled that cheeky, boyish smile that came out so rarely. 

“I’ve just been having so many bad days. I should be happy that I’m back home, that I’m safe now. I don’t know why I’m feeling like this, and it comes out at the wrong times in the wrong ways. But I don’t know what I’d do without you, Az.” 

“Even on your worst days, you’re the best of us. So do your worst. I can handle it." 

The disbelief in her eyes melted away when he cradled her head, smiling earnestly– and gods, she wished she could commission Feyre to paint him like this– a man smitten. With all the tonics and creams Madja had forced on her, she had a sneaking suspicion that none of them would truly heal her. They helped the symptoms, but never the cause. She’d accepted that it would take a damn miracle to heal the cause. And here Azriel was, pleading and lovely, looking like her damn miracle. 

She let him undo the towel from around her body and lay her into the soft covers, warm from where he sat while she was in the bath. Turning over, Azriel smoothed the salve over her scars as he did every night. But for the first time in months, she finally replied to his attempts at starting conversation as he worked. For the first time in months, she laughed genuine laughs that felt only slightly foreign– much like old friends– in her throat. For the first time in months, as he tenderly slicked Madja’s balm over her scars, praying to the Mother for her health over each one he touched, she did not flinch. 

[veri-xo]

chocolate comforts - james beaufort x reader

wc: 570

summary: you’re on your period and desperately craving chocolate. let’s just say james doesn’t do anything halfway…

pairings: james beaufort x fem!reader on her period

warnings: talk of blood, periods, just that kind of stuff in general, light swearing

tag list: @mp-littlebit @his-littlefox @pockyyasii @kaffeeine @f4iry-bell

@jamcarven @clarissaweasley-10 @benny1989fredd @123letsgobestie @tornqdowarnings

@elysianwayy77 @blairwaldrfsworld (lmk if u don’t wanna be tagged!)

You woke up in a pool of your own blood. 

What a great way to start the day.

Sighing, you get up and head to the bathroom. You strip, throwing your clothes in the laundry and step under the hot spray. The water is soothing.

Wrapped in a towel, you take a two ibuprofen pills and lots of water. You change into your go to period outfit. An oversized hoodie that belonged to your boyfriend, James, and some sweatpants.

Speaking of James, you were supposed to go to a gala together today. Of fucking course with your luck it ended up on the day that literally all you want to do is sleep and eat and be angry at everything.

Now annoyed, you quickly change the sheets before collapsing onto the sofa, phone in hand. All you need is a snack now…

Chocolate.

God it sounded like the most amazing thing in the world. You get up, headed to the kitchen. You scour the pantry. The fridge. Everywhere.

You don’t have any chocolate.

You curse under your breath, mad at yourself and anyone unfortunate enough to cross your mind.

A ringtone plays from your phone. A familiar one. You know who it is before checking. James.

You pick up. “Hey,” you say, trying to sound not-about-to-kill-everyone-on-the-earth.

“Hey dove.” His voice is soft. “And before you say it, we’re not going to the gala. I already know today isn’t going to be good for you.”

You stare at your phone, suddenly emotional. James was the most thoughtful boyfriend ever. “Thank you,” you say quietly. “Sorry.”

You can practically feel the exasperated-ness James is giving off from the other end. “Don’t ever apologize, dove. It’s not something you can control.” His tone is genuine and it makes tears prick at your eyes.

“Is there anything you need?” James asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.

Without missing a beat, you say, “Chocolate.” He laughs.

“Of course, dove. I’ll be over in a bit.”

You hang up the phone and curl up into a ball on the couch, burying yourself under a blanket as you watch an episode of the show you’re watching.

30 minutes later, the doorbell rings. You get up, walking over and opening the door.

You gasp. James stands their, holding five boxes of specialty chocolate. Dangling off his arm is a bag from your favorite bakery. You were already drooling from the smell of your favorite Nutella-filled donuts.

On his other arm you could see a grocery store bag and the lid of an ice cream container peaking out. Several ice cream containers.

“Oh my god James,” you breathe, eyes wide. “What’s all this?”

James give you a grin. “For you, dove. Your chocolate.”

You laugh, letting him in. You take some of the boxes and set them onto the counter. “I would’ve been fine with just a Hershey’s bar or something.”

James sets down the rest of the stuff. “I know. But you deserve far more than just some Hershey’s.”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. After you pull away he holds you in his arms, stroking your hair. “I wish I could take all your pain away,” he mumbles into your hair.

Your heart might just explode. “You already do by just being here.”

He kisses the top of your head, brushing the hair out of your face. “Now why don’t we sample all these?”

a/n: this entire thing was self indulgent because im on my period and I want to die and I want chocolate 🤭

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Take my soul (need control) ❞

slashers dating slasher reader | erratic!slasher!male!reader | fluff, smut | graphic description of violence, brief mention of animal cruelty in Brahms H. section, mentions of nsfw things |

Amanda Young | Brahms Heelshire | Corey Cunningham | OG!Michael Myers | RZ!Michael Myers | poly!Ghostface (Stu Macher, Billy Loomis) | Sinclair brothers

as a preface, (Y/N) is implied to be erratic and unhinged as a slasher. their s/o's are the only ones who can calm them.

Amanda Young (Saw) -

You didn't fit in her future.

At least, that's what Amanda's initials thoughts are when you two stared down each other from across the parking lot, panting as you held your weapons.

She's heard of you through the news. The infamous (slasher name), the monster that lurks in the shadows and savagely crushes anyone who had the misfortune of wounding up as their victim.

Your methods were unlike hers. Not calculated, not planned, not meticulous - completely erratic, like a hurricane.

But she needs the man that one of you has knocked out in your scuffle. While you? You just saw him walking past you while he was making his way to his car and decided he'd die tonight. She stiffens and reaches back for the gun she brings for emergencies as you straighten up but finds herself bewildered as you begin laughing maniacally.

"Have 'im, Ms Piggy" She sees your grip loosen on your weapon and her fingers uncurl from the handle of the gun. "Ya' clearly need 'im more than I do" and just like that, you're gone. The only thing she hears is her own breathing and her racing heartbeat.

Amanda is feverish about finding you. She reads everything she can and scours wannabe psychos and sociopaths' blogs dedicated to your crimes. (slasher name) becomes an obsession.

When you meet again, you find 'Miss Piggy' eyeing the interiors of your home. She's unsure of what she feels as she imagines you moving about the space but she smiles when you begin chuckling like a hyena and reach for the knife you had on you.

"I need your help, (Y/N)"

"Will it be fun?"

Amanda's smiling under her mask. She's seen your research of her work. The newspaper clippings, paint (or blood) of your theories on the wall (among other 'deranged' scribbles) you were familiar with her.

"Wouldn't have asked if it wasn't".

Fun was an understatement. You were a wildcard, someone that could cost her this entire game but the carnage you spread was so beautiful...she wasn't sure if any device or game she sets up could compare.

You two end up working with each other more and more. Your unpredictability makes the FBI tear their hairs out - you were, ironically, the balance she needed in her scales.

When you two confess to each other, you're soaked in someone else's blood. She approaches you from behind, watching your shoulders and chest rise and fall.

You lick the blood from your lips, your smile stretching over your cheeks looking almost uncomfortable.

Her eyes flick to your lips then up to your eyes.

"Come 'ere, Miss Piggy" she leans in and you meet her halfway.

Most would argue that you would be the worst guy to be in a relationship with.

They're wrong.

Amanda knows the ins and outs of your twisted heart because you bare it to her as it beats for her in your palm.

She doesn't take advantage of it. Tests it? Sure, just to feel more secure, but never to the point where you doubt her love for her.

Amanda thinks your ingenuity and creative mind is her favourite part of you (among other things).

You've jokingly told her she could split your skull open to get those ideas fresh - she giggles and you gather her in your arms.

Amanda leaves the window of your bathroom unlocked. Just for you. She knows you need to 'hunt' sometimes and doesn't discourage it (though she makes sure you know her targets so you don't end up killing them). When you crawl back home, you make sure to shower first before you shuffle back into bed.

She tends to your wounds, scolding you only if she knows you could've avoided it in the first place. "More fun that way, 'Manda" she huffs "So you'd leave me forever just for more fun?"

She knows you're pretty screwed up in that brain box of yours, she's not above manipulating you to bend to her whims but she only ever does it out of love, (Y/N)!

She's highly protective of you. She'll ensure your identity is safe if there are any loose ends during your 'hunts'.

She can't lose you. You can't lose her. Both of you are monsters. Both of you belong together - can't live without the other.

If a victim manages to get an upper hand on either of you God help them.

The second one of you is in danger, the other only sees red.

You've literally taken several bullets for Amanda.

She was so gentle with you that night. Her kisses silent apologies. Seeing her cry as she looks down at you makes you move to sit - despite the pain and her protests. Her breath hitched as your tongue slithers in, Amanda's lips warmed by yours.

"You're hurt, (Y/N)" "Don't care, need you"

"You're hurt because of me!" her yell makes you tilt your head "I should've been more careful!" she continues.

"I want you, Amanda" you whine, cupping her weeping face in your hands. "I'll want you even if you hurt me, even if it kills me. Don't say no to me, Piggy?"

The nickname wins her over.

By the way, she calls you Froggy or Kermit (Kermy too!). It's cute.

(She buys green and pink items because they remind her of the two of you and you've gifted her two hearts that you'd cut in half, coloured pink and green and sowed together. She placed the gift on the desk she works on, it's displayed in a dome glass case and she fights back a smile every time she lays eyes on it)

The satisfaction she gets when victims scream as they spot you in the same room as them. Just so fucking proud of her killing machine.

When you go overboard, if the emotions get too overwhelming for you and you only think of how to get rid of the pain - Amanda grips the nape of your neck and pushes you onto your knees.

You bow because it's her. You breathe because it's her.

"(slasher name)" Your eye twitches, gaze still floating around the room but she knows she has your attention.

"You all there, Kermy?"

"I'm right here, Piggy".

Brahms Heelshire (The Boy) -

Initially, you'd taken the babysitting job as a cover to lay low. Things were getting heated in (insert wherever you're from) and this secluded manor was perfect.

The sight of the doll didn't make you falter. Hey, you got a few screws loose yourself so you didn't judge the Heelshires for how they cope.

Brahms was intrigued by you from the second he laid his eyes on you. The way you instantly gathered the doll in your arms without an ounce of judgement makes butterflies flutter.

He is elated to know that there's a chance you won't freak out if you see him.

He quickly finds out you're not exactly the Average Joe.

You brought the rat traps inside, he inches closer to the hole in the wall when you suddenly froze. The rat squeaks furiously and your non-dominant hand idly reaches for the drawers. Brahms did not expect you to pull out a meat tenderizer.

There's a mix of emotions in the boy as he skitters to his room. He laid awake that night, a part of him wondering if you were just like him and the other feeling guilt at the excitement.

His parents tried their best to nurture him into a decent man. Even if it didn't work, their voices still linger in his head but when he sees the tender way you cradle the porcelain extension of himself the next morning? Your voice sickly sweet, lips pressing into the cold temple of the doll?

Brahms craves you.

Malcolm, poor, stupid, Malcolm.

Brahms wasn't the only one that wanted him gone. The only reason you reciprocated his advances was to fulfil a different type of lust.

(Malcolm wasn't your type anyways.)

Brahms's nails nearly break as he digs them in the wood of the walls, breath labouring as anger consumes him. Malcolm was on top of you, unworthy hands gripping at you like you were some common whore.

He's moved from behind the walls to the closet when you're on top of him. The grip of the 'missing' meat tenderizer was so tight his hand was trembling.

Malcolm yells in pain and Brahm pauses as he watches you laugh in pure delight as you dig your thumbs inside Malcolm's eye sockets.

You turn to him, smile still etched on your features and Brahms gulps as you bring your thumb to your mouth to suck the blood and gore clean.

"Cute mask"

The kitchen utensil drops with a comical 'THUD!' while you two stare at each other.

Your relationship falls into a steady, domestic, pace much quicker than both of you anticipated. How could they not? The secluded land was beautiful when the weather wasn't so dreary. Even if it was, the grand fireplaces were extremely nice to cosy up next to. It's hard NOT to fall deeper and deeper into each other when everything was so romantic.

Malcolm's death was covered up thanks to the wild animals on the land. Brahms watches from the window as you whistle, beckoning the scavengers as you spread a few of Malcolm's innards around.

You tell him everything about your kills. Effectively burying his parent's voice in his head as you sink him deeper and deeper into your hell.

"You're beautiful just like this, Brahmsy" he pants from beneath the mask and you place a kiss on those cold lips. "They won't understand like I do, we're meant to be like this so we can find each other" his pupils are so blown out as he stares up at you.

"You're my good boy, Brahms, forever and always. Okay?"

"Okay, (Y/N)". Your smile was sculpted by the king of hell himself and Brahm's eyes roll back as you move your hips.

Brahms feels vindicated and free. For once, guilt doesn't whisper accusingly in his shadow. Instead, there's you.

Your routines overlap his. Your hands pull him from the darkness. Your voice haunts him every second of every day.

The bodies pile up in the woods. The rats are scarce with the sudden spike of scavengers drawn to the Heelshire manor.

You love spoiling him with victims, love watching him release his creativity and curiosity. He's so good with his hands and all that raw strength? It's not an odd sight for you to make love in the showers after 'play time' was done.

He loves helping you freak the shit out of your victims, pretending to be the ghost in the walls and making them so paranoid they think they've gone crazy.

When they're dealt with, Brahms often makes snacks for the both of you.

Oh! He makes a mask for you. To show his love and for you to wear when you need it.

He doesn't like that you leave the manor. It causes BIG arguments. Vintage vases flying to the wall kind of arguments. But you were a bloodthirsty hound, you needed to stretch your legs.

He'll be sullen but he gets over it. This routine annoys the shit out of both of you though but over time, he learns you need it just as much as he needs his quiet times.

He welcomes you when you get home, lifting his mask to kiss you and you giggle as your hands slide up his wifebeater.

"Miss me, big boy?"

"Always" he pouts.

Corey Cunningham (Halloween Ends) -

Corey knew before you did.

You were just like him. The darkness spills from your eyes as you tell him how the front of your car got wrecked.

"A deer scared you?" he wipes his hands on the front of his uniform, turning to you as you nod and stroke the large dents and scratches on your hood. "Swerved into the woods, didn't hit a tree head-on - Thank God, right?" Corey nods.

He pretends not to see the splatter of blood and hoses down the hair and chunks of flesh from your tires.

Guessed you missed a spot, hm?

He's good at being undetected. People...people avoid him nowadays.

You don't have to ask around much to learn about the cute, outcasted, mechanic's past. You find it all a bit pathetic. These people were really that terrified of him over what sounded like an honest mistake?

Corey wonders why you've gone to Allen's family's abandoned house during his nightly routine of stalking you.

He watches you from the windows, knife in hand though with no real intent of using it...on you anyways. Blood had already stained the blade.

You pause at the sight of dried blood and gaze up the spiralling staircase. Much to his chagrin, you lay down and place your head right on the bloodstain.

Your laughter makes blood pool under the skin of his cheeks. Your hands splay out to your side and you're laughing so hard your sides hurt, Corey finds himself pressing a hand to the window and wishes he was right beside you.

The next day, Corey's parked right out of the supermarket just as you come out. He grins boyishly and you ask if he needs anything. He holds himself back from saying "you" and instead asks if you're free tonight.

You don't expect him to be so forward but you're intrigued. So you ask if he'll be the one to pick you up (considering your car is still in his garage) and Corey pretends to be interested as you write down your address as he imprints the sight of your semi-focused expression. He already knows where you live but you don't have to worry about that, (Y/N).

The night was perfect from the get-go. Your warmth pressed against his back as he drove the two of you to a bar that was further away than usual but was the only one he could go to without people whispering — you don't mind.

Then drinks got involved and suddenly you're dancing with him, some shitty pop song playing over shitty speakers but neither of you cared.

Then reality came crashing in. Someone had loudly — drunkenly — mentioned Corey's past. Everyone gives him looks and although he could care less he pretends to by pulling you out of the bar.

"Corey, wait" he's too drunk to drive and his hands are itching to feel blood so he pauses as you chuckle the command out. "Stay here, baby" The nickname makes his heart flutter and he nods as he leans against his bike. When you disappear back into the bar — probably left something, he thought — he curses and tries his hardest not to storm in and strangle the life out of that asshole who ruined his date and the closest bar he could go to without reproachful glares.

He contemplates the thought of moving away from Haddonfield with you when his phone rings. It's you. For a second, he thinks you're in trouble but when he answers you're breathless pants of glee tells him otherwise.

"Come to the back, Corey".

The sight that greets him is the asshole with a bleeding mouth and a broken nose. The burst veins in his eyes and the wooden plank that you held loosely in your arm paint a clear picture.

"Night's still young, baby" you muse as you make a faux swing that makes the man whimper from where he was sprawled on the ground. "I know you wanna" Your purr makes Corey shudder.

The Cheshire grin on your face is absolutely maniacal as Corey sheds his jacket and pulls out the pocket knife he kept in his back pocket.

The same one you'd felt against your thighs when you were riding his bike.

Haddonfield was lucky the two of you decided to spread your chaos elsewhere because the two of you were insatiable.

The fact that neither of you stayed in one city for too long also didn't help. You were basically doing an American-wide murder spree.

And Corey would not have it any other way.

You were just like him — wilder, sure, but you understood him in ways no one else had ever done.

"Fuck, baby" Corey has you on the bed of some engineer whose blood was currently being used as lube. The man's body was somewhere in the room but Corey barely gave a shit when you're looking down at him with that toothy grin that makes your eyes twinkle with bloodlust. "Mm, you feel so fuckin' good, Corey".

Somehow you two decide to settle down in a quiet town. Corey going under a different name as he works at a garage. Everybody around you thinks you guys are the sweetest couple — cooing at how young you are and sighing about young love.

They don't know that your weekend trips are spent with blood, guts, and sex. Two maniacs completely enamoured with one another.

"Baby, look" Corey eyes the silver band on your finger. Then the other one is on your palm as you extend it to him. You drop the chopped-off hand of the man the both of you had just killed and inched closer and closer.

"Pretty, hm?" he nods "Till death do us part" At that, he scoffs and pulls you in closer.

"Not even Death can keep us apart, (Y/N) (L/N)" he brushes the tip of your noses together and plants a bloody kiss but your giggle cuts it short.

"Don't you mean, (Y/N) Cunningham-(L/N)?" Corey's grin is nothing short of loving and he claims your lips again.

OG!Michael Myers (Halloween (1978 - 1982)) -

To be completely honest, the way you two met was a blur. Before you met Michael Myers your life had little to no meaning.

When he decided to break into your family home one night, he jump-starts everything. He had you pinned on the dining table, his mask already coated with the blood of your kin. Your feeble attempts at escaping his inhumanely strong grip leave you gasping for breath and you're sure that the building pressure in your head isn't a good sign.

But when you stare into Michael's eyes a sudden force tugs your lips apart into a bloody smile. Your laughter is nothing but strained gasps and squeaks and it makes Michael's grip falter enough for you to finally grasp the make-shift stake beside you (from the chair he'd thrown your way) and drive it into his shoulder.

Michael staggers and without missing a beat, you're lunging at him again. No fear, no hesitation, and frankly, no thoughts behind such a brash action.

The force of your body slamming into him throws his momentum off but he feels something in his chest suddenly beat as your shrill laughter fills his ears.

You, with your wild hair and wilder eyes...

Michael craved you.

He knocks you out.

Then, he watches you. From your recovery in the hospital to the 'safehouse' you were placed in. The detectives thought this could be their chance — to finally catch Michael Myers as he 'finishes you off'.

Michael knows you're done with your kill just from the shift in the air. He enters the safehouse and stares at the splatters of blood and bullet holes in the drywall. He follows the sounds of your laughter and finds you in the dining room in a familiar pose.

You have the detective pinned under you, fingers crushing his larynx as he weakly fights back against you. Michael waits politely, when you're done he moves to the back door and you wordlessly follow.

Eating rats was new but strangely enough the act of catching them was a great bonding activity. Your jokes about meeting the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles — and eating them — fly over Michael's head but his amused silence tells you he doesn't mind your babbles.

He learns fairly quickly that, unlike his silent, effortlessly, intimidating self, you're erratic, loud and pumped with energy when you're hunting.

He doesn't dislike it but it takes some getting used to.

You don't always go on hunts together but when you do he appreciates your gore-y creativity.

The Shape of Haddonfield now has Hellhound by his side — isn't that a cute nickname for yourself, (Y/N)?

While victims shit themselves at the sight of Michael, his stony demeanour is what makes him all the more Boogeyman-worthy. He feels inhuman. That both terrifies and comforts some — but you?

You're entirely too human. Your glee, your rambles as you stab your victims, you're laughter full of excitement.

"Mikey" he glances your way as your fingers stroke up the neck of his mask. Here you were, sprawled all over Michael Myer's lap like a goddamn kitten. You lean up and kiss his rubbery lips, he hums as your tongue licks his mask and pushes you back just enough to lift his mask above his nose.

"Thank you, Mikey" you chuckle, letting him taste the romantic spaghetti dinner you two had helped yourselves to after murdering the old couple.

Their home was isolated enough, that both of you could enjoy living above ground for a few days.

"You taste so good, Mikey" The grip on your waist makes that addictively sweet laughter bubble in your throat.

RZ!Michael Myers (Halloween (2007 - 2009))-

You were the only good thing in his god-forsaken life.

The mental institution had made a big mistake in housing two monsters — especially when those monsters were always so drawn towards each other.

No matter what punishments they inflicted on either of you for sharing glances. It did little to stop this undeniable, instinctual, need to be close to one another.

Initially, the doctors had thought Michael's curiosity was a good sign. A sign that he was showing interest in making friends. Even if you were less than ideal in terms of 'fixing' him considering your own streak of homicide (that landed you in this shithole in the first place) but they were desperate.

So, they allowed controlled meetings. Michael's stare terrified others but you seemed to thrive under his attention.

Guards had reached out to pull you back as you climbed the table and got right up in Michael's face but he is as still as a statue as you carefully brush his long locks of blonde hair back.

"There you are, pretty boy" and with those words and your eyes that reflect back his darkened soul right back at him — Michael is smitten.

When he escapes, he finds you.

When he enacts his revenge, you're the shadow that devours any sacrificial lambs that managed to stray from his grasp.

Oh, he's all yours.

Michael swears that if you're not near him the air feels thinner.

He relishes in the way you mercilessly slaughter anyone in your way — he doesn't ask why you kill but knows that whatever the answer he'll support his batshit insane boyfriend.

"Is this for me?" he nods, showing you the new mask he'd created. You smile warmly, sitting across from him as you carefully place the mask on your face.

"How do I look, pretty boy?"

He places his large hand on your thighs and begins tapping. You encourage him with careful strokes to his bicep.

.--. .-. . - - -.--

Your grin makes his heart flutter. "Thank you, baby" and you reward your darling lover with a kiss which makes him grunt at the mask that blocks him from properly kissing you.

Billy Loomis & Stu Macher (Scream (1996)) -

They had an inkling you were just like them.

Billy says it's the way your eyes become devoid of any light when you're angry. While Stu tells you it's the way you lick the blood from your split lip and smile as you lunge at the opposing team's captain.

(Y/N) (L/N), an athlete of their school.

Meanwhile, to his boyfriends, he's an absolutely merciless murderer.

Everyone sort of avoids you. Even your coach rarely gets in your face to yell at you the way he does at everyone else. It baffles people that Billy and Stu are your lovers.

For them though? It's the perfect match.

You're not Ghostface, however, (slasher name) is always spotted with Ghostface.

A maniac with brute strength that takes hits and stabs and even bullets without going down.

Those who did live to tell the tale of an encounter with (slasher name) and Ghostface mutter that hurting Ghostface? Was a big fucking mistake if (slasher name) is there to witness it.

You're the kind of guy to body slam someone out a second-storey window and just walk it off while the victim who cushioned your fall is wheezing their last breath.

Billy reprimands your unnecessary displays of brutality while Stu simply gushes about how cool it was. They both tend to your wounds, kissing and massaging anything that hurts.

Ghostface is equally as protective of you, make no mistake, even if they're not throwing a chair at a victim they will ensure you don't actually get yourself killed in your bloodlust.

Stu has pulled a gun and shot someone in the face when they threatened to do the same to you.

Billy rushes to the two of you upon hearing gunshots but groans in relief as he sees you making out with Stu mere inches away from the body.

"Hey! Earth to perverts! Time to scram!" Billy is pulled into the make-out session by you and he all but melts under your hold.

"Want you. Now" Stu laughs at your huffy tone but eagerly circles his hands around your waist while you pull Billy closer to your front.

Beauregard 'Bo' Sinclair (House of Wax) -

A new victim of Ambrose? That's what you are, right?

Wrong.

You'd been a solo traveller that coincidentally got grouped up with another group of travellers. You seemed normal enough, Bo thinks as he spots you making your way to his garage.

Cute and handsome, a darn shame you'd have to die but at least Vincent will immortalize your beauty.

He notices that you're not close with the others. When he asks, you explain your vehicles had broken down near each other so Lester rounded up all of you together.

You lean on the hood of the car he was clearly working on, jutting your hips and looking impressed. He shamelessly takes in the curve of your butt before putting on a charming Southern smile when you glance back at him.

"Good with your hands, hm?" Bo feels blood travel south but he just chuckles. The conversation is cut short by the others clearing their throats.

When he kills the group one by one, he immediately notices that you seem excited at the violence he spreads. You don't scream or yelp but you're helping him.

At first, he thinks you're just saving your ass from getting sliced down when you push someone in front of you. But while the others run, you're moaning as he's thrusting the blade repeatedly into the man's body.

He pants as you two make eye contact, gulping he pulls the blade out and offers it to you.

"Fuckin' finally" you coo, pressing a bloody kiss on his cheek before you slip to hunt the others down.

His brothers are definitely confused by his decision to let you stay as a real residence of Ambrose but after another group rolls in you prove your worth to them.

Between heated moments under the sheets and lip-locking with Bo, you confess that the reason you ended up at Ambrose was that the police were hot on your tail.

"It's fate," you say as you trace circles on his chest. "We were meant to meet, to be family" he would usually scoff at such a notion but the way you fit into his deranged life so easily...

"It's something", he gruffs out, watching as you take the lighter from his hand to light the cigarette between his lips. "Whatever it is, it brought you to me so"

"Aww, Bo, you gettin' sappy on me?" your teasing makes him threaten to shove the cigarette in your mouth but you just laugh it off.

"Love ya', Bo" he averts his eyes but mumbles.

"Love you too..."

Vincent Sinclair (House of Wax) -

Instead of catching Bo's eyes, it's Vincent's heart that you grasp.

A solo traveller that somehow got roped in with another group, a victim of circumstance is what Vincent would have called you.

But instead, you've ruthlessly wormed your way inside his heart.

While the others ran like headless chickens when Bo started killing, you were dragged by another girl to hide in the Sinclairs' house. Stupid move on her end really, but you were curious about their headquarters of sorts. So you follow, breathing raggedly to sell this whole 'helpless victim' façade.

You find the basement. Despite the chills that run down your spine from the scent of death (and wax) you convince her it'd be a good place to hide.

Vincent hears her as she shakily steps into his lair. He thinks she's the only one but finds it odd that she looks desperately over his shoulder as he slices her head off with a pair of garden shears.

Until he feels a blade pressed right at the base of his spine.

"You're pretty strong" Your eyes twinkle from the corner of his and he goes rigid as you dig the tip of the blade deeper. You reach to brush locks of his hair behind his ear, a growl raises from his throat but you shush him.

Your lips brush on the shell of his ear.

"I'll bring more of them here, I want to watch while you turn them into pieces of art".

Bo is feeling an inkling of worry at the sudden lack of victims. He rushes to see if they've decided to overwhelm Vincent and finds you swinging your feet while Vincent is organizing the bodies of the group.

Bo is distrustful. He thinks you've seduced his twin and while that is true, you've no bad intentions like he thinks you do.

Vincent is painfully awkward compared to your nonchalant energy. But it works, the two of you just work.

He scolds you when you get new wounds from the victims fighting back but it's a bit hypocritical when he does the same.

Though he prefers wax figures, he did dabble in oil paints again as he attempts to recreate the scene he sees of you demolishing victims.

A watcher, a stalker; an artist.

Vincent usually stays in the basement but ever since you came? When the hunt is on, he's watching you. Imprinting the image of your body shaking with muffled laughter as you pull your jaws away from the bleeding neck of a victim, spitting out their vocal cords with a satisfied hum.

"Vinnie" your coo makes him flinch but he walks out from the shadows as you beckon him with your hand. Your boyfriend stands in front of you, reaching to wipe some blood away from your cheek but really the only thing he does is move it around.

"Was that pretty, Vinnie?" he huffs through his nose and lifts your chin up so you stain his waxy lips with warm blood.

He pulls away to sign, 'Always beautifull'.

Lester Sinclair (House of Wax) -

You rode with him on the way to Ambrose.

He's taken by your looks and feels a sense of pity and regrets that you'd be dead soon. Especially since you were the only one among the others that weren't a complete asshole to him.

"Ambrose, huh" he nods, tapping his steering wheel as his eyes flit between the road and you. "Must be pretty secluded, haven't even heard of it", he laughs and tells you it's because you aren't from around here.

"See ya'" he waves at you but you scan him from head to toe in a way that's not scrutinizing but lustful. He feels his cheeks warm, you nod to him as a goodbye before you turn to walk into the death trap that is Ambrose.

He's surprised to find you covered in blood and right outside his shack later that night. Jonesy growls near his heel but you were just sitting there on his porch, casually testing the weight of the hilt of a hatchet in your hands.

"Your brothers should use you more than a glorified Ferryman" he is confused but tense. His muscles are rigid like a snake coiling to bite.

Blood drips from the ends of your hair and nose, you place the hatchet down and crouch, beckoning Jonesy' with a sweet baby voice that has the poor pup confused between staying by Lester's side or sniffing you.

"I like Ambrose," you tell him, your eyes squished into an adorable crescent shape.

"Can I stay, Lester?"

His brothers aren't aware of you until at least a week. They were extremely distrustful of you, their baby brother was someone that they did not want to be harmed. Hence why he stays out of the nitty-gritty of it all.

When you show that you're just as protective of Lester, they approve of your relationship. Not that you would let their approval get in the way of your love for him anyways.

Your boyfriend has to get used to your sudden disappearances and reappearances.

And he has to learn how to stitch you up as well. He doesn't scold you though reminds you to be more careful but drinks up your stories of the victims being crushed under your foot.

Whoever manages to stray far enough from Ambrose to find Lester's shack will find themselves in an entirely different but just as torturous hell.

Jonesy enjoys the raw feed though.

"I gotta go" Lester laughs as you whine and drag him back to your side. "I gotta check if anyone's 'lost'" he reminds but you stubbornly shake your head.

"Can't leave me, I'm hurt and defenceless"

Yeah, Lester's seen you shove the end of a rake down someone's throat with a broken arm and a concussion all while laughing. You could protect yourself with the scrapes and boo-boos from the night before just fine.

Feeling yourself lose this battle, you press a kiss to the nape of his neck as he sits and it makes his breath hitch.

Your hands circle his waist and his head hangs low as you slip your fingers down the band of his underwear.

"Stay" you plead.

"Jesus H. Christ" he turns and you grin triumphantly as he kisses you.

[nowimjustastranger]

Somebody to Call My Own Lore | Part 2

This was too big to fit in one post so I had to split it into two parts, you can find part 1 by clicking on the AU tag! Please feel free to pop into my askbox if you have any questions about any of my AU's, I'm itching to ramble about them.

Trigger warning for suicide. Also, 77/H Ford's relationship with his brother is mentally & emotionally abusive.

Ford has far more advanced technology than what earth is capable of, taking inspiration from the dimensions he's visited to design a tattoo made of nanobots that allow him to teleport short distances, he still has to use the gun for long distances. But if he can see his destination, he can teleport there using the tattoo. The ink is red and the tattoo is the outline of the Stan o' War.

When Ford comes across dimension 77/H, he is pushed to the breaking point. Stan’s fate is to eventually take his own life after his brother guilt trips/emotionally manipulates him into staying by his side while Weirdmageddon swallows the world. Stan wouldn’t even be an official part of Bill's freaks, seen as akin to Ford’s pet by the group (Bill included).

Stan would end up suffocated with survivor's guilt and the worst self-esteem ever seen in a Stan, regarding himself as Ford’s loyal dog instead of a person. His hopelessness and despair wear him down until he is driven to take his own life, Ford wiping their dimension out entirely in his grief. The kicker is that Bill could’ve stopped it but didn’t because he wanted Ford all to himself, jealous that Stan got the majority of Ford’s attention and affection while Ford was reserved and cold with Bill. So Bill simply let Stan die, and that was ultimately his downfall.

419”3 Ford stays up for days in order to scour the timeline for a series of events that doesn't end with Stan killing himself, but most paths lead to the same destination while several others are decidedly worse and are immediately discarded. Ford gets more manic as his window to step in without catastrophic consequences to the timeline rapidly closes, his self-inflicted sleep deprivation and desperation pushing him to act rashly.

Stan had received the postcard like in canon, but the difference is that Ford had teamed up with Bill and opened the portal to bring Weirdmageddon onto earth. Ford had planned to have one of the freaks fetch his brother for him once they came through the portal, but the anti-weird barrier surrounding Gravity falls was an unexpected setback. So Ford opts to send his brother a postcard and work on finding a way to break the barrier while waiting for Stan to arrive, Bill doing his best to convince Ford that his brother would only be a distraction.

Ford didn't take kindly to Bill’s poor opinion of Stan, proving a point by ignoring his work for several days until Bill reluctantly apologized and agreed to spare Stan from the apocalypse by letting him live in luxury in Gravity Falls with Ford.

419”3 Ford steps in quite literally at the last minute, Stan’s car unknowingly approaching the barrier that separates the rest of the world from Weirdmageddon. Stan, of course, panics and yanks the wheel when a man dressed in all black and wearing a biker helmet darts into the road in order to avoid hitting the stranger. Stan’s car swerves into the ditch, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel when he hits a tree.

Stan is –understandably– disoriented as the figure pulls him out of the totaled car, Stan's awareness coming in waves. Stan thinks he sees a giant pink woman on fire watching them from the other side of the “Welcome to Gravity Falls” sign before the stranger adjusts his grip on Stan and his vision is overtaken by blue as he’s effortlessly hauled into a wormhole that deposits them in 419”3 Ford’s current headquarters in a different dimension.

[dootznbootz]

Im going to be so so so so so so so so so so soooo fucking for real. I hate Circe x Scylla with every FIBER every INCH OF MY BEING

Why? Because it's honestly victim x abuser

Ik we all like our toxic yuri, but let me out it this way: There are two main versions of Scylla's myth, that is, where Scylla is turned into a monster.

In one, she's turned into a monster by Circe for rejecting Glaukos. Which- She literally got her entire life TAKEN AWAY BY CIRCE because she rejected some dude she didn't like. And that Circe happened to like

Scylla didn't do anything wrong, that's just Circe being a bitch

And in another one, she runs away from Glaukos when he tried to charm her. And yadaya he went to Circe to ask for a potion to charm Scylla. Circe thought the gods wouldn't like something like that (idk that's what happened in the myth. But we all know our Greek mythology so this is kinda weird-) and offered to be Glaucus's lover instead. When he refused her, she got so angry and jealous she turned innocent Scylla into a monster.

SHE TOOK SCYLLA'S WHOLE LIFE AWAY BECAUSE SHE WAS PETTY 😭😭😭😭😭😭

And NO Circe book, Circe didn't feel sorry about it.

I love Circe so much, like so much, but Scylla deserves someone so much better. Justice for Scylla I feel so bad for her. Girl rejects a guy she didn't like, and then gets morphed into a man eating monster

And also, ama need people to stop trying to put all the blame on glaucus and trying to justify Circe's actions. Just please acknowledge your "girl's girl girlboss doesn't need no man feminist icon" is actually a really terrible person. Shipping Circe with Scylla is like shipping Hera with one of the innocent women she killed for sleeping with Zeus (even though they didn't have a choice most of the time), it's literally just so ehh for me

And I'm not here to hate on anyone who likes the ship, but me personally? I hate it so much bro

Oh, I absolutely get where you're coming from. In general, when it comes to "toxic ships", it'll always be so much fascinating to me to just have them fucking hate each other. No romance or attraction and/or "hate-fucking".

I can understand the appeal of toxic yuri in a way (I've always preferred yuri in general over yaoi lol) but like, I think it's juicier even to have that visceral fucking hatred. Especially from Scylla's end. And even then, Circe talks mad shit about Scylla in the Odyssey.

In there lives Scylla. She has a dreadful yelp. It’s true her voice sounds like a new-born pup, but she’s a vicious beast. No mortal man would feel good seeing her, nor would a god who crossed her path. She has a dozen feet, all deformed, six enormously long necks,      with a horrific head on each of them, and three rows of teeth packed close together, full of murky death. Her lower body she keeps in her hollow cave, out of sight, but sticks her heads outside the fearful hole, and fishes there, scouring around the rock for dolphins, swordfish, or some bigger prey, whatever she can seize of all those beasts moaning Amphitrite keeps nourishing in numbers past all counting. No sailors                 yet can boast they and their ship sailed past her without disaster. Each of Scylla’s heads carries off a man, snatching him away                         right off the dark-prowed ship. [...] Why won’t you yield to the immortal gods? She’s not human, but a destroyer who will never die— fearful, difficult, and fierce—not someone                you can fight. There’s no defence against her. The bravest thing to do is run away.                              If you linger by the cliff to arm yourself, I fear she’ll jump out once more, attack you with all her heads and snatch away six men, just as before. Row on quickly past her, as hard as you can go. Send out a call to Crataiis, her mother, who bore her to menace human beings. She’ll restrain her— Scylla’s heads won’t lash out at you again.     

(Book 12, Johnston)

(I think it's interesting how Circe yells at Odysseus about how he won't yield to immortal gods but that's a bit outta context AND an entirely differently thing.)

It's kind of a curious thing in which Circe seems to imply that Scylla was BORN as a monster based on how she mentions Scylla's "mom". I don't know if this is just "Homeric version" of the myth or what but it's something neat to think about.

And honestly? My Circe, being the wacky potion making scientist gal I have her as, would probably be even more of a bitch in how "ooooo experiment time." only to realize "Oh wait, I made her too scary and TOO powerful. hm. nevermind. Not going near her."

With Circe and shipping, idk, I've always felt like she'd be like "messy". It's not that she's not capable of love, I think she's just like, so much of a "I do whatever the fuck I want" that she probably wouldn't really respect her partner's boundaries. She's like Maureen from "Rent" and/or PotC's Calypso where the only reason why she didn't see Davy Jones after he waited was "It's in my Nature".

In which she's just like "Look you either want me as I am, meaning I do whatever the fuck I want, OR you leave."

Like she loves, but she's not like, a ride or die partner. (I mean Odysseus was an experiment to her, as that's how she views mortals in my stuff. She thinks Mortals are kind of gross. She only has sex with him once because of this.) She's FwB with Hermes in my stuff as well, as yeah, Gods are less "gross".

Honestly, I think if people wanna ship Scylla with someone, I think Caribbidis would be fun?? Monster Wives??? (HOT) Both were cursed, they're close to each other, etc. Like, idk how much sentience Caribidis has, being a giant fucking mouth, but idk. maybe they could chat and bond?? even just as friends.

[icycoldninja]

Hello. I have a head canon question. If Vergil was to find love only to have them killed…so he loses them like he did his mother

how does he react…does he silently grieve or does he storm into the underworld to make Mundus…..because of course it would probably be him pay

Aww, super angsty! Enjoy!

Vergil x Reader killed by a demon headcannons

Tw: Death and injuries incoming, if you are uncomfortable with these themes, DNI!

-When Vergil came home and found the house trashed and you missing, he flipped into hunting mode.

-He would find whoever did this, no matter how long it takes, and boy God, does he get MOTIVATED.

-He scours the entire country, looking for you, not even bothering to catch a wink of sleep. He's too tense, too nervous, too afraid of losing you.

-When he finally finds you, he's beyond devastated. How could he let this happen again? Didn't he have enough power? Why'd you have to be taken away from him, just like Mama?

-Shocked, Vergil collapsed to the ground, unable to take his eyes off you. Tears start to well up in his eyes, and he wishes you could hold him till they disappear, like you always do.

-Gingerly, tearfully, he scoops your cold corpse into his arms and cries. He doesn't care that people might find him, or about his pride anymore. He's just so heartbroken that he lost the love of his life, his soulmate, his best friend, his literal everything.

-He kneels there for a long time, sobbing his heart out till his eyes burn. When he's done, he wipes his tears and gives you one last kiss, before lifting you up and taking you somewhere senic where you'll be buried.

-After this, Vergil is a changed man. He is even colder and more MOTIVATED than he used to be, except now his motivation isn't you, it's to avenge you.

-He opens a portal to the underworld and slays every demon in sight, making his way for Mundus's chambers. When he finds them, that old mass of flesh is screwed.

-It takes a while--nearly weeks of nonstop fighting, during which Vergil sustained heavy, excruciating injuries that made him wish he could just die and get it over with, but the thought of avenging your untimely death is enough to pull him out of his miserable trance and MOTVIATE him to keep fighting.

-Eventually, Vergil wins; Mundus and nearly all the demons of hell are dead, and for a moment, Vergil knows peace.

-You can rest in peace now, your boy did it; he avenged you and slayed all the demons in hell in the process. He hopes that way up in heaven, you're proud of him.

[jnece-maharlika]

LMK MUSIC MONKEY AU

A porty clone fic

Chapter 1: The mark of a start

AUTHORS Note: I couldnt help my self so here's a fic. Not very cannon compliant but it's there.

Info here: Masterpost

CHAPTER 1

---

If you asked Porty what being a clone of the Monkey Kid, successor of the Monkey King, is like, he would tell you: “uhhh, it’s pretty cool, I guess. We get to beat bad guys, keep the city safe and…stuff.”

That answer, while true, is not how he fully feels about being a clone. If you were to ask for a genuine answer, he would sigh and tell you, “Being a clone is tiring.”

That answer might confuse you. How in the world is being a clone tiring? Shouldn’t it be exciting? I mean, you’re a copy of the Monkie Kid! You can do anything and everything he can! You are a Monkie Kid!

While true, you might want to take a step back and remember just what a clone is.

An MK clone is a copy of the original that’s summoned from magical hair to fulfill a task and disappear right after.

When Porty was first created, he was made for one thing: to party.

That’s what he was meant to do, it’s what he wants to do, it’s what he is.

But he might have gone a bit too far with that, and the whole Mei incident happened. Ever since then, Porty was only ever summoned for either combat or as a distraction.

And isn’t that tiring?

Porty was made to party, but all he’s allowed to do is:

Get summoned

Fight

Get unsummoned/poofed

Then wait for whenever OG summons him again.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s totally cool with the whole fighting-to-save-the-world thing. But there really isn’t anything tying him down to do it; he has no reason to do it other than he’s being asked. Sure, he doesn’t want people to die, but there are other people in the world who aren’t him and can do a better job. He’s more than happy to sit back and just watch the world be saved rather than participate.

He wants to do something else—literally anything else than the endless cycle of getting summoned and killed. He wants to go to parties in different parts of China, party all day, all night, or maybe something else! Maybe he wants to pick up an instrument or something; maybe he’ll be a well-known DJ!

Oh, he likes that idea.

Someday, if OG would let him, he’d like to leave and become something other than what he is now—maybe even become his own person and not just the party clone.

---

Porty watched as the severely one-sided battle against a demon (he didn’t bother learning who) went on. He winced and gripped his shirt; he could feel his fellow clones disappearing one by one. It felt like something was repeatedly being plucked from his chest—might be hair; he’s a hair clone, after all. It’s not a very painful feeling, just very uncomfortable.

He doesn’t know why; he doubts he’ll ever know. But he’s always felt a little more connected to the other clones in a lot of ways. Unlike OG, who had to scour the entire city to collect them when they went rogue, Porty could feel where they were within the city.

Then there’s the whole “he can feel them poofing” thing, too. It’s just him; none of the other clones have it. It’s weird, but Porty tries not to think about it—not right now.

Porty sighs. He really doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He’s not a fighter; he’s a party man. He’s meant to sit behind a DJ table and blast songs to a sea of drunk people while being blinded by flashing lights. And if he has to fight? He’s going to sit back and snap his fingers at the other clones as he barks out orders. That is what he’s supposed to do, just like back during the whole anti-gravity arcade thing. He’s pretty sure OG didn’t mean for him to be made that way, but it’s always been what he thinks his purpose is—like it’s written in his code somewhere, just like partying.

A strong thump came from his chest, making him groan. Delivery Clone is done. Fuck—he—

Help.

He freezes and looks around. No one is talking to him. Must be the telepathic link, then.

Another thing he found out was that clones had the ability to talk to each other telepathically, though they aren’t able to talk with OG through it. He discovered it by accident during the gravity arcade takeover. He had been thinking about how cool it would be if the other clones were to come and party too. A few minutes later, the clones were knocking at the gates, saying he had called for them.

He didn’t tell OG about this out of pure spite. It was rude to stop the party, after all.

The other clones didn’t really care but kept it a secret anyway.

What is it? he sent back.

MK, the clone replied. Trouble.

Ah, fuck. Now he had to go rescue. He would give anything for a drink right now.

He really doesn’t want to be here.

---

Porty sits back on the ground in a crater and sighs. His bones are sore after doing so much fighting; he swears his arms are about to fall off anytime soon. He watches as the Monkie crew talks happily, celebrating their victory with so much energy you’d doubt they’ve just been in a fight. Do they ever get tired?

The sound of feet sliding down the crater caught his attention. His eyes widened. “Artsy??” he gasped. “You haven’t poofed yet—wait, no—” he shakes his head. “That was rude—are you doing okay, man? You, uh…” He looked him over. “You don’t look so hot.”

The artist clone looked worse for wear, like he had been dragged across grass and rocks for miles. Leaves, sticks, and stones were stuck in his hair; his body was covered in cuts and bruises. But despite all these obvious causes for concern, the artist clone shrugged. “The only thing that could hurt me is an artwork gone wrong,” he says nonchalantly.

“huh?”

“I’ll be fine,” the artist says as he takes a seat, cross-legged, next to the party man. His brow raised as he inspected the other. “You’re even worse than me.”

While Artsy looked like he was dragged for miles, Porty looked like he had been to hell and back. A big gash on his stomach was still bleeding, along with several smaller but deep cuts. He was pretty sure his ankle was sprained.

Luckily for him, clones either have a really high pain tolerance or a really messed-up sensory system. He’s pretty sure it’s the second one, he doubts it’s the first one. No way OG would have managed to build up such high pain tolerance in just a few months of fighting and training.

“Eh, it’ll go away when I poof.”

Porty shrugged it off. “I’m fine.”

They sit there in silence, leaving each other to their thoughts for a bit.

“I don’t think you’re fine,” Artsy breaks the silence.

“Uh—what?”

Artsy turns to look Porty in the eyes. Pure white eyes stared into Porty’s soul. For some reason, his irises never came back from when he went art-crazy. It’s weird, but it made it easier to spot the artist in the sea of clones. “You have the face of someone who doesn’t want to be here.”

Porty tensed. He looked up at the night sky and took a deep breath. He sighed, “I…well…” he looked down and picked up some of the small pebbles in the dirt. “…Yeah, you’re right.” He threw the rock at a bigger rock. “I hate it here.”

Artsy nods. He looks toward the direction where Porty is throwing the rocks; his empty white eyes somehow looked warm to Porty.

. “MK and I share a lot of things in common.”

Porty snorts, “Well, yeah, we’re his clones. We’re literally copies of OG.”

“Hmm…” Artsy takes off his bandana. “Do you really think that?” he asks as he moves closer to the other and gently pulls Porty’s feet toward him. “Do you really think I’m just a carbon copy of MK?” he gently wraps the bandana around Porty’s sprained ankle.

“I…” Porty leans back. “Ye-...no?...” he leans forward and plays with the hem of his torn shirt. He thinks about it. Technically, Artsy is a clone of MK—they both are—so technically, the two of them are picture-perfect copies of OG, similar in every way to the point that it would be hard to tell which is which.

But that’s not really the case for them, is it? They aren’t perfect clones, far from it. They don’t obey orders properly and have a tendency to take things too far. OG never told Artsy to make the boat look perfect, OG never told Delivery to stress-eat the deliveries, and OG never told him to make the party go nonstop. But they all went and did it anyway.

They took a simple order and went too far with it.

While the other clones—the more recent ones—were more of what you'd expect from a clone, following orders to a T and then disappearing, the first three clones were different.

Maybe it's a magic issue that made the first three clones so unique.

“No…” Porty decided, trailing off.

Artsy nodded. “I don’t know why, but—” he took off his jacket, “I’m different.” He moved closer to Porty and gently wrapped the jacket around the wound in Porty’s chest. “OG treats art like it’s just a hobby, but for me? I lose my mind if it’s anything less than perfect. MK likes to go outside and get inspiration, sketching the scenery quickly, but I’m more than happy to stay in hammerspace and obsess over the same canvas for weeks.”

Inside OG’s magic, there was a black void where all the clones gathered when unsummoned. Here, they could interact with each other and manipulate the space as they liked. In what seemed to be the center of the endless void was a screen that allowed them to go through MK’s memories or see the real world through MK’s eyes in real-time. They weren’t exactly sure what this place was, but they’d decided to call it “hammerspace” after seeing cartoons in MK’s memories.

This was another piece of info they kept from OG. I mean, how in the world could they even tell him that the clones could spy on him?

“Why…” Porty hesitated. “Why are you telling me this?” He looked down at the jacket wrapped around his bleeding torso.

Artsy sighed, looking into Porty’s eyes. Blank white eyes stared into Porty’s brown eyes. “We know you want to leave.”

“W-what?” Porty stammered. “What—what?” He scratched his head nervously. “What gave you that idea? Why would I want to leave? I like it here! It’s not like there’d be anywhere bet—”

“Cut it, Porty clone,” Artsy interrupted with a stern look. “We’ve all noticed. Every time you get a turn on the screen, you always watch the memories that show nightlife, parties, festivals. Y-you…” He sighed, his gaze softening. “You always look so happy—like a little kid seeing an ad for Disneyland. It’s obvious: that’s where you want to be.” He patted Porty’s shoulder. “That’s where you’re meant to be. Out under the moon, bright and happy.”

Porty looked down at the ground. Artsy had always been able to read others like a book; guess it came with being a detail-oriented artist. And he wasn’t wrong—Porty did want to be out there, under the night skies, surrounded by stars and flashing lights as he danced the night away in complete bliss. But he couldn’t have that. He was just a clone, not a real person.

Porty shrank into himself. “Yeah…” he admitted quietly. “But I can’t do that. OG wo—”

“Why not?”

Porty’s head snapped to look at the other. “What?”

“Why can’t you do it?” Artsy raised a brow.

“Well…” Porty pointed at MK, who was busy happily chatting. “OG wouldn’t let me—not after the whole Mei thing.”

Artsy leaned back, brow still raised. “Since when did you care what MK thinks?” He sighed, “Look, what I’m trying to say is… you should go.”

Porty’s eyes widened. “Wh-what?!”

“You should go,” Artsy repeated. “Go find whatever makes you happy, whether it’s partying or anything else.” He smiled. “I already talked to the other clones—they think so too. You should go, Porty. We support you.”

Porty felt a mix of emotions welling up. Part of him wanted to cry, while another part wanted to feel joy that his team would support him in following his own dreams. But he couldn’t possibly just leave them here. What if OG needed him? What if OG needed the others? Who would look after them? He couldn’t just—

“We’ll be fine,” Artsy interrupted his train of thought, sighing. “We’ll be fine, Porty. None of us really mind the whole being-summoned-to-fight thing.” He shrugged. “We’re quite fine with it, but it bothers you.” He smiled softly. “Porty, you’ve done a lot for us. You’ve helped us out a lot.” He held Porty’s hand. “We want to see you happy too.”

“I…” Porty looked down at their hands. The thought of running away into the world wasn’t new to him. He’d watched MK’s memories and even found himself accidentally mapping out escape routes in case he ever did it. But he hadn’t acted on those plans. No matter how tempting it was to abandon a fight and run off to the nearest party, he didn’t. He couldn’t leave the other clones to fight on their own.

But now, he was given permission, his clones had given him permission.

The idea of leaving them scared him a bit, but the excitement and desire to see just where he could go and what he could do outweighed that fear. Maybe… maybe he’d give it a try, go for a few weeks, have fun, and check in on the other clones if they were summoned every once in a while. If things didn’t work out, he could always poof himself back to OG.

He smiled, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Porty nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Artsy beamed. “Good!” He stood up and pulled Porty up. “You should go now, then.”

“Wa-wait, what?” Porty stumbled a bit as he got up. “Wait! Now?!”

“Yes!” Artsy whispered. “Keep your voice down so they don’t notice,” he said as he nudged Porty forward.

“W-wait!” Porty whisper-yelled. “Like, right now?!” His eyes widened; he hadn’t expected to be sent off so soon! “Wh-why? Why not the next time I’m summoned?”

“No!” Artsy answered. “MK keeps a close eye on you since you went a little rogue the first time, but right now, he’s distracted.”

Porty sweatdropped. “Can’t I at least say goodbye to the others?”

“I’ll pass on the message.”

“And if OG looks for me?”

“I’ll tell him you poofed.” Artsy gave Porty one last push, making him stumble before he regained his balance. Porty looked back at Artsy with a hesitant smile.

“Go,” Artsy encouraged. “Live your life, be happy.”

The clones had always been supportive of everything. Delivery—being the big guy—would always give Porty big hugs every time he felt down about not being able to freely have fun. Artsy, despite his quirks, was observant and gave great advice. Even the less sentient, more MK-like clones were supportive of Porty and what he wanted to do, despite OG keeping an eye on him for any signs of villainy. They were his family, his friends, his brothers. He’d taken care of them and worried a bit about leaving them. But he knew they could stand on their own and… they wanted this for him. They’d have to cover for his absence a lot, but they still wanted him to go, to do what made him happy.

Artsy smiled at him. “Go,” he said. “Don’t worry about us.” He waved his hand in farewell. “Have fun.”

Porty’s smile grew wide, warmth spreading in his chest. “Okay…” He raised his hand and waved. “I’ll… see you next time.”

This marked the start of Porty’s own chaotic life. The first chapter in his story.

[griffynbird101]

The Black Family tree is weird as hell (not for the reasons you think)

Hi, so a few days ago I made a post talking about squibs in the Harry Potter world and how JK Rowling doesn’t make sense and in it I mentioned how Cygnus Black was part of a child marriage and that prompted me to scour the Black Family tree for more examples…

It is deeply weird. In more way than one.

First of all; Cygnus was not the only child to have children at 13. His father Pollux also started at 13. This isn’t like a trend in the Black Family; most have children in their 20s and 30s, and the pair have siblings who have children at reasonable ages. It is completely random. Cygnus has 3 children before he finishes Hogwarts so it wasn’t like an accident or anything. I could’ve excused Pollux as a one off thing because he has Walburga but then it’s 13 years before Cygnus is born… but then Cygnus goes and has 3 children before he’s 17 so I don’t know what to think. (Especially since Alphard appears to be older, so why wouldn’t they have Alphard get married instead?? Like why did JK Rowling need to do this?)

There’s also a weird, but not impossible, trend where a bunch of Black Family members just don’t get married or have kids. In a normal family I would say that it made enough sense, but this is a family who puts having Pureblood children above everything so it doesn’t really add up. There are 8 people on the family tree who don’t have children and don’t get disowned (Granted we can cross of Sirius I and Regulus who both die young so it’s more like 6). It’s oddly progressive of a family who also at the same time thinks children are so important that they need to marry off 13 year olds??

Moving away from the topic of marriage; there’s an event that happens in 1990-1992 that I like to call “The Purge of the Parents” where all the remaining Black Family Members who aren’t imprisoned or disowned just die. Like literally, only Narcissa is left. The 5 other living Black family members die in 2 years (3 in 1992). It’s not just the Black Family either, I know Abraxas Malfoy also dies in 1992. There was just this massive genocide of an entire generation within 2 years and it’s not mentioned in the story at all. And while I’m writing this I’m starting to think JK Rowling just really hates Narcissa (“Oh Narcissa is your life going well? Well I’m gonna kill your entire family for no reason. How do you feel about that?”) There’s a massive plague or something that killed all the old people in the wizarding world; Harry was just too dumb to notice.

Unrelated to Marriage or death: Each generation has at least one trio of siblings where the second child is disowned. I like to think at some point the Black Family just collectively agreed that 3 was an unlucky number and they had to disown the middle child on principle. (Like; Alphard didn’t do anything against the family he just give Sirius some money, Cedrella still technically fulfilled the family wishes by marrying a Pureblood just not the right one: They were just looking for excuses at this point)

I’m rambling a lot so I’ll just say this; The Black Family tree is surprisingly not impossible. All the things I mentioned are plausible, but all together it makes for a very improbable and odd family tree. Honestly just leads to believe the family as a whole was incredibly unstable; possibly due to the fact that Purebloods in general are likely inbred due to breeding within the same few families for 1000 years. Also; tragedy for only Narcissa that the entire family just died out.. I get the feeling that it’s actually not… that terrible of a thing.

(Yay for that one Gamp (not sacred 28) in the family tree that everyone collectively decided didn’t exist. New blood was needed)

[mamuzzy]

From your angst prompt list I'd like to ask for Fives x Deadshot! <3

With either:

"I'm the only one who gets to decide if someone deserves me, and I can confidently say you are that someone who does"

or:

"You're right, I do deserve better"

Depending on how much angst you wanna put into it 😈

Oooooooh boy. Oooooh boy. You really gave me a challenge here @ithillia. But you also made me write the first debut of my babyblorbo in a fanfiction, you can't imagine how happy I am that I could finaly made it happen <3 It took a time while I figured it out how I integrate the lines into the fic without sounding OOC or off but I think I'm satisfied with the outcome. I hope you will like it too <3 PREPARE FOR HEARTBREAK!!! So in the end I went with

"I'm the only one who gets to decide if someone deserves me, and I can confidently say you are that someone who does"

Summary: Captain Rex had enough with Deadshot's digging into the past and decided it's time to have a conversation neither of them wished to have. Word count: 2446 Rating: Mature, no explicit content, characters swear. Talking about a dead person and grief. Characters: ARC Trooper Deadshot, Captain Rex, ARC Trooper Fives Relationship: FivesShots (cloneship) Warning: Splitting. The characters are emotionally conspitated and have mentalhealth problems. NO BETA. Additional tags/tropes: Fives is Rex's adopted son, Fives and Shots is in established relationship, clones speak mando'a (just a little), Deadshot is a little shit. Amnesia due to recondition. AND ANGST. LOTS OF ANGST.

Alright. Here we go. :)))))

“Wanted to speak with me, sir?” asked Deadshot, and since he wasn’t given a permission to sit down, he stood before the Rex’s desk. For his surprise, he was offered a seat.

“Sit” said Rex without looking up from the paperwork.

Deadshot hesitated a bit, he wasn’t comfortable about sitting down to the sligthest but in the end, obliged.The flickering booming of the lights irritated Deadshot just as the silence they had between them, and he couldn’t be sure why he was called the first place. He watched as the captain signed the last datapad, putting away on the top of the organized pile at the right side of the anyway-pristine clean desk. Rex then looked up, straight into his eyes. Dark browns started to squint after the first few second, but in the end - as always -, Rex averted his gaze, cupped his face in one hand until only the furrowed wrinkles were visibe on his forehead which made him look so old, Deadshot almost almost felt sorry for him. Almost. By now everything was clear for Deadshot why was Rex was so hostile with him before but the sweet taste satisfaction and victory killed any compassion he had left for the captain.

“I want you to stop” Rex finaly spoken up, weariness in his tone.

“Sir?” Deadshot scoured the captain for messages wasn’t spoken out loud but he probably should have known without telling.

“This existential crisis of yours.” Oh.

“I have a lot going on, sir, you have to be more specific than that.”

This made Rex come out from hiding, expression exasperated, those dark eyebrows curled disapprovingly. “Don’t be a smartass with me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Rex leaned in his chairs, hands now rested on the desk, fingers tied together and looked at him once more. And Deadshot stared back with his usual skeptical look on his face, ambery eyes ever-judgeful. He started to notice some patterns when the captain was able to maintaining eye-contact with him, irises shifted toward the left side of the eye, probably have found a spot to stare at instead of him. His ears probably.

“You got your answers now.”

Rex had not ask a question so this time Deadshot didn’t respond, just waited for Rex to elaborate.

“You figured it out, who you were. What have you done. What now? What else do you want?”

Deadshot considered his next words. Rex was right about him, he was still in investigation about his past but for entirely different reason now.

“I need to know why I had to die, sir.”

“You know it very well.”

“And I think that’s a lie, sir. I have a gut-feeling about it and…”

“I don’t give damn about your gut-feeling, Deadshot” said Rex harshly. Deadshot was tempted to say that he also didn’t give a damn about Rex’s opinion but, swallowed and just stared into those brown eyes, just to spite him in hope he can manage secure another victory of dominance again. But Rex didn’t turned his face away, not this time, because Rex continued speaking.

“These brilliant gut-feelings of yours will be our downfall one day. Have you ever considered what would happen if someone recognizes you? Do I really need to lock you up in the solitary everytime I can’t keep my eye on you? Maybe you had forgotten what would have happened if someone recognized you on Coruscant?!”

“Sir…?”

“You almost got us killed with that stunt.”

Deadshot couldn’t say anything. Deep inside his mind he knew Rex was right, right about this one at least, but still, the captain shouldn’t have to state it like he was deliberately wanted to ruin the muster with that panic attack. He felt those few bites of rationbars switching places in his stomach. He had to endure it.

“I risk everything” Rex continued. “Everything, my company, my men, my only son remained, the very trust of General Skywalker put in me, to cover your shebs.”

“I’ve never asked for this, sir-“

“But you are here, now, in the present. Now that you know why is it important to keep your identity a secret, you are still reckless. You are an ARC Trooper for fuck sake, and I get it, your duty calls you to work alone, but you have responsibilities toward the company and your personal agenda endangers your brothers every time you decide to going after your own head.”

“So convenient of you deciding when I’m one of you and when I’m just a walking ghost of-“

“DON’T!” Rex raised his hand to emphasise on his objection. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear his name, I don’t want to hear that name ever again. He is dead. He was dead to us even when he was alive.”

“So I’ve heard. And with all due respect sir, I don’t give a shit about it” Deadshot felt a sudden surge of confidence, probably came from his anger and he felt he really wanted to flood Rex with everything he got. “He was an asshole, I get it. For every sin he committed against the Republic, against you against his batchmates, I have to suffer ten times, wielding this burden like it was mine all alone and you know what? It is. It’s mine alone. Maybe I deserve to be treated like shit, maybe I deserve to be spitted on because the face I have or what it represent to those… what, like, three people who actually recognized me?” Deadshot counted on his fingers, gesticulating his inner frustration. “And didn’t gave a single cocksucking shit about me when I needed help? You are all cowards.”

Rex rubbed his forehead again, mouth pressed like he was in pain, stifled any emotion that was about to come out.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” asked Deadshot, confused.

“For not being a good commander for you.”

Deadshot expression distorted by spiteful bitterness faded away, left only cautios skepticism. He finally got to tell him everything this time. His anger, his disappointment in him, the words just flowed like sluice opened to ease the waters behind it before breaking out, under supervision and control. He never would have hoped for such opportunity. His whole body felt the tension, like his inner self scratched the surface of his skin from behind, but this time it wasn’t the crawling sensation in his veins, hoping for an easing scratch, more like, wanting to detach himself, because he wasn’t sure how would he able to handle these uncharted waters of… finally having the attention of Captain Rex.

“I wasn’t fair with you, right from the start. I have responsibilities toward my men but even if you are… YOU, you are my trooper too.” Rex talked slowly, as if the words were hard to spoke. He wanted to be elsewhere, it would have been better to be outside, fight a fight and dying in the process, anything but not to be here. “I don’t know how, or why, but you were given a second chance and you are wasting it away by chasing demons of the past. Like I said, your past-self is dead. You have to move on, HELL, I HAVE TO MOVE ON but I can’t. But I have to. So should you! You don’t have to live with the memories you don’t even have, but I HAVE by looking at you, the way you walk, the way you fight, the same way you stare with those fucking judgmental eyes, your fucking eyes…” and Rex look straight into those eyes.

And Deadshot couldn’t bear to look back. He lowered his head, watchings his own hands fidgeting furiously in his lap. The silence stretched, the lamp still flickered.

“I’m also aware that you fuck my ad.”

Deadshot nearly chocked on air, positioning himself into a more comfortable stance on the chair, and couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh.

“What does Fives has to with this?” asked after he managed to spit out coherent words.

“Everything” stated Rex, more confidently than he was in the whole conversation. “If you choose to continue down this road instead of listening to me, I want you to leave Fives out of it.”

“Sir, maybe I shouldn’t be the one you lock up in the solitary” Deadshot grinned nastily. “Wherever I go, he’ll follow. Nothing I can do about it.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m talking about.

”Sir?” Deadshot suddenly felt sick, the nauseous feeling that the known world is suddenly crumbling around him piece by piece again made his stomach turned 180 degree with a violent slam. Endure.

“With that face of yours and death lingering around, you’ll never have a chance to get promoted. Not if we want to keep your identity safe. Not if I want to keep my men alive. Fives, he has bright future ahead. Has potential to become a leader one day, much better than I ever was. Don’t take this away from him.”

Endure. Endure. Endure.

“But, sir…” Deadshot’s voice rasped, almost like a whisper. “But you just said…”

“When the war’s over, I can reassign you to somewhere else. Soldiers always needed, especially away from the Core. You can live in peace, nobody would bother you, nobody would search for you, we can… Cody knows a vod, he would just erase your whole existence from the database. This is… is the only thing I can offer to help you.”

If Rex told him anything after that, Deadshot couldn’t remember. Rex wanted to hide him. Away from his friends, his vode, his… FIVES, the very thought of being separated from Fives made him think swallowing a thermodetonator, this time, to finish the job the clankers couldn’t do last time but he also had to remind himself, that the clankers never shot him, the clankers never blown him up, it weren’t the clankers who gave him amnesia in the first place -endureENDUREENDURE-, but whatever, killing himself was a better option than living a solitary life away from his loved one!!! It’s not about the promotions, not about being treated specially, it…

He believed, he genuinly wanted to believe in Rex that maybe… maybe there was a future for him even without his memories, they were actually having a normal conversation for the first time and it turned out it was actually an elaborate “nice commander talk” to… to what…?

But despite all of this, Rex was right, Deadshot knew it deep in his gut. The fucking gut-feeling. It’s logical. Completely understandable concern. Fives is daddy’s little boy, even with all the mischief and fooling around, Fives still had a chance to become someone great, if not from his own, then he got protection, from Rex, from the General, from the Chancellor himself, this elaborate network of interest could make it happen for Fives to have a good life after the war while the same network could destroy everything, not just for Fives but for everyone if he didn’t stay put… and he… and he… He was supposed to be dead to begin with.

— x —

0500 standard, his inner clock was always punctual. Deadshot laid on bed, eyes open, stared at the bunk wall. He wanted to sleep but his thoughts already raced into his darkest part of the mind right after being conscious, felt empty yet so weary at the same time, he just couldn’t make himself move and get his gear to visit the shooting range. He just couldn’t. The others were still sleeping, Jesse’s sudden snorts and Tup little pup sounds while turning to his other side broke the silent darkness.

Someone moved eventually, fumbled with the blankets, then barefooted steps, a mild sway during walk… Fives, thought Deadshot. Steps became louder as Fives approached his bed. The mattress slumped under one knee and Deadshot’s felt his own blanket lifted and the sudden cold made him shiver, cowered himself more with his hands. But the cold feeling faded as Fives’ hot, naked upper body pressed onto his back, carefully cover them with the blanket to keep the remaining heat inside and comfortably snuggled to his lover’s nape. When Deadshot’s stiffened body loosened in his touch, Fives embraced him, fingers slowly entwining on the former’s chest.

“Hey” Fives whispered, not to wake up the others and breathed a little kiss on the neck. Deadshot didn’t answer.

“You are skipping the morning routine again” Fives pushed.

“I don’t feel like it now.”

“Four days in a row” and since Deadshot was nitpicky about what to answer, Fives continued. “And you’re avoiding me.”

Endure, Deadshot reminded himself. Endure. He felt a familiar, hot stinging in the corner of his eyes. Fingers between fingers, Fives drew calming lines into the calloused skin.

“Alright. I won’t push. I… I just miss you. And wanted to tell you” Fives lifted himself a bit, positioning himself to reach Shot’s ear. “I love you.”

Deadshot began to tremble, he needed all his willpower not to open his mouth and let his sobbing out like an explosion. He didn’t wanted to be heard, he didn’t want Fives hear him, and definitely didn’t want the others hear him. He felt Fives hand tightening, his head bored to his, whispering calming words.

“Hey, hey, cyare, what’s wrong? Shhh… it’s okay… it’s okay…”

It wasn’t okay, nothing was okay.

“I don’t deserve you” said Deadshot with weak whimper through gritted teeth. Fives gasped at this declaration in disbelief and concern, his calming touches stopped for a moment. Tried to take it heartlightedly, take is as Deadshot usual “crisis-thing”.

“Hey… what’s with that answer?” He chuckled. “You have to say it back.”

But Deadshot couldn’t. The trembling won’t stop, every sweet reassuring words were daggers pierced through his chest, his brain, his teary eyes. The same hands kept him safe for a moment but now he only felt numb inside the embrace. Deadshot’s soundless cry, stiffled sniffing made Fives heart ache for him.

“You know what?” Fives spoke again with the same patience. “I’m the only one who gets to decide if someone deserves me, and I can confidently say you are that someone who does.” Fives hoped maybe his lover become eased by the little joke, maybe saying back something snarky, unimpressed remark about he is able to compliment HIMSELF while compilenting others, but it didn’t happen.

The ARC trooper smalls repressed hiccups turned into miserable whimpering, and his grip on Fives’s hand became so strong, it started to hurt, but Fives didn’t pulled his hand away, this pain was so little what must had Deadshot felt right now, Fives knew in his guts. He decided maybe… maybe he would just stay here, a voiceless-support until Deadshot was ready to talk.

[neko-naruto]

It won't suck (we have each other)

Summary: Kenny isn't really the type to make promises, and Kyle isn't really the type to keep them either.

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, pseudo-immortality, implied suicide, check Ao3 port for full tags.

Authors Note: okay so maybe this a little bit too angsty for day one, promise that tomorrows is a lot lighter than this. Day ones prompt was engagement/promise, and I chose promise, hope ya'll enjoy, and if ya do maybe consider dropping a reblog or checking out the Ao3 port and leaving a comment

"Kenny, I'd do anything for you," Kyle said, reaching for his can of ginger ale once more.

"You'd do anything for me?" Kenny asked tentatively.

Kyle glanced over to Kenny with a raised brow, "Yeah just about."

"Promise me that if I want to die, you'll kill me," Kenny said bluntly, forcing it out of his throat as fast as he could. Sheer shock washed over Kyle at the notions of killing Kenny, he, he knew he would come back. He'd die by the end of the week anyways, Kyles throat was dry, he was having a hard time forming an answer.

"What?" The word came out cracked and weak.

Kenny glanced to the ground, tapping cut nails along the aluminum of his can. "Nothing."

"Bullshit," Kyle answered with, spitting the word was he spoke, "Why the fuck would you make me promise that?"

Kenny stayed silent, tentatively reaching to raise his parka hood.

Kyles brought his hands to push it back down and Kenny looked absolutely ashamed of himself. Regret played itself on his face with ease, he just wanted to hide. Kyles expression softened, "Kenny," He spoke quietly, voice a calm tenor. He used to sing soprano, it'd be a shock to anyone who didn't know him when he was a kid.

Kenny didn't speak, refusing to look Kyle in the eyes.

"Why would you ask me to promise that?" Kyle asked gently.

Still, Kenny refused to say a thing.

A gentle grasp came to tilt his chin and lean him to face Kyle, "Kenny, please tell me."

"Shit sucks ass sometimes okay?!" Kenny snapped, words escaping him roughly and he hated how mad he sounded because he really wasn't.

He just didn't like to talk about it, it was like a fresh wound and every word was simply salt or lemon juice being thrown into it. He edged away from Kyle and took a swig of his drink, he shuffled awkwardly until he was pressed against the arm rest of the couch. He placed down his empty can and reached to grab an unopened one, he cracked it open with practiced ease. The fizzing sound was the only thing that filled the silence.

Kenny heaved a heavy sigh, "Sorry for snapping at you like that."

Kyle didn't respond, scouring his mind for the right words.

"I, I'll leave, I've already had way too much of your guys food," Kenny said as he stood up, reaching for his hood and flipping it up, "What a fucking waste letting me have some."

Kyle was still paralyzed because his best friend, his immortal best friend, wanted to die. And he wanted Kyle to do whatever it took to kill him and make sure he stays dead.

"See you at school," Kenny said as he tugged up his zipper a little bit, starting on his way to the door. He tried his very hardest to keep his voice even because he just bared his soul and he isn't even given a response, "Bye Kyle."

"Wait," Kyle begins to the best of his ability, and Kenny doesn't. He opts to meander over to Kenny, "Kenny wait."

Kenny doesn't respond aside from a partially muffled, "I'm going home."

A hand latches onto his wrist and Kenny freezes entirely, turning to glare down Kyle. His eyes are watering, and his voice shatters as he speaks, "Yeah?"

"Can you," Kyle takes a steadying breath, "Can you tell me more? Before we come to like, a full promise?"

"Sure," Kenny managed to choke out, "Totally bro."

"Wanna talk about it in my room, or on the couch?" Kyle asked as gently as he could manage.

"When are your parents coming back?" Kenny asked, voice wavering just a little bit more.

Kyle glanced to the clock, "Couple hours, it's plenty of time."

"Couch," Kenny said quietly before being tugged over to the aforementioned furniture gently.

Kyle sat down on one side of the couch and Kenny on the other, his full can of soda pop still fizzled. No matter how parched he felt he refused to grab it and take a sip, he already had one, that's plenty.

"You know how sometimes I don't come to school?" Kenny asked, voice muffled by the thick orange fabric layers of his parka, Kyle still understood him perfectly.

"Yeah, totally man," Kyle said, "Usually on testing day."

Kenny nodded, he pushed off his parka a little bit, hand resting tentatively at his neck. He pressed at where the rope once rested, pulled tighter and tighter, "I sort of, took the easiest way out of school- don't use nooses by the way, they suck."

Kyle just gave a vague gesture for him to continue.

"And like, guns are too loud, don't use them unless everyone is out of the house," Kenny said, a nervous chuckle on his voice, "I'm getting off track- sometimes I want to die for a day, a whole twenty four hours. Spend some time in the afterlife you know, me and Damien play chess you know? He's shit at it honestly-"

"Kenny, focus," Kyle said, the slightest hint of agitation on his voice.

"Right, shit, sorry," Kenny answered with, rambling out apologies. He absently reached for the can of pop, he retracted his hand, "Basically, I like being dead sometimes, but I don't always wanna do it."

"And you want me to do it for you?" Kyle asked, he got a nod in response.

"Yeah, pretty much," Kenny said.

"Text me when it happens and I'll be there," Kyle said, holding out a hand.

Kenny took it in a shake, "Thanks man."

"No problem bro," Kyle said as calmly as he could manage.

He almost felt bad about crossing his fingers.

-/-/-/-

The message came at four in the morning and Kyle barely dragged himself out of slumber to respond to check it. The simple, and easy 'Kyle.' properly capitalized and with a punctuation mark. Kenny never used capitalization, or sent short messages, or used punctuation-

Wait.

That's the call, that's the signal. They should've agreed on one beforehand but Kyle can't think of what else it could be. He types back a quick 'omw' as he gets out of bed as quietly as possible. He tugs on his slippers and types out a 'hang tight' before grabbing his jacket and making his way to the door.

He pauses, he'd get caught if he's too loud. He glances to his window, is he really gonna go trek on over to Kennys house in negative temperatures with slippers on? No, he absolutely is not- he wants to pull Kenny out of it but he is not chancing losing his toes to frostbite.

He pushes his bedroom door open as quietly as he can manage before slowly shutting it once more. Urgency laces his slowed actions in a pathetic attempt to stay quiet, he leans his weight on the boards that don't creak. He slides on his boots as fast as he can and fastens the buckles, he barely grabs his hat on the way out.

Please wait, please wait, please wait.

He sees stray dogs as he speed walks down the icy road, he forgot his mittens at the door. He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Please wait, please wait, please wait.

Maybe he should've grabbed a coffee on the way out, he'll definitely fall asleep in the middle of class today. He fumbles uselessly for the one piece of snack food in his pockets and tears open the packing.

Please wait, please wait, please wait.

He traverses through the barbed wire and broken bottles in Kennys backyard to reach his window. He taps on the glass and hopes it doesn't crack more.

God fuck, Kenny please wait.

The window slides in and he's instantly hit with relief like it's a semi-truck. He climbs in and drops down finding Kenny clearly on the verge of tears and holding out a knife. Kyle takes it and throws it out the window, before Kenny can answer with a loud what the fuck?! a hand is placed over his mouth. He only glares.

"Do you want to wake up your parents?" Kyle asked in a hushed tone.

Kenny shook his head.

"I am going to remove my hand you're gonna talk quietly, and stand still or sit on your bed," Kyle instructed, "Understood?"

Kenny nodded and Kyle removed his hand.

The McCormick instantly made his way to sit down on his bed, it was a crappy bed, one or two springs stuck through the fabric and cushioning but they were covered in blankets and pillows. He laid down on his side and Kyle quietly walked over and sat down behind him.

"You said you would do anything for me," Kenny got out quietly, his voice cracked.

"Almost anything," Kyle corrected, "Wanna talk about it?"

Kenny shook his head viciously.

"Wanna just sit here?" Kyle asked.

"I want to die, and stay dead," Kenny said bluntly, "Can't do that though, weird ass fucking curse."

Kyle paused, "I'm not killing you."

"Yeah, you threw out the knife, and the gun broke and there's no rope," Kenny said bitterly as he rolled over to curl into Kyle, a couple tears sliding down his face, "I'm sorry."

"Dude, it's fine," Kyle said, drumming his fingers on Kennys forearm, "Totally fine."

"I'll make it through the day," Kenny said as he rolled back off of Kyle who stood up.

"So, my work here is done?" Kyle asked, stepping dangerously close to the window.

"Can you stay for a bit longer?" Kenny asked as he propped himself on his elbows.

Kyle launched himself back onto Kennys bed, the frame creaked in dismay at the suddenness. He wore a grin, "Of course my good sir."

Kenny gave a small smile, "Thanks."

Kyle held open his arms and leaned on Kenny before squeezing him tight, "Thanks for calling me over."

"I'd rather be dead right now," Kenny said dismissively and Kyle let go of him, "I didn't say stop."

"I won't," Kyle said, returning to smothering Kenny in a hug, squeezing the air out of him, "Love you bro."

"Pretty gay," Kenny said, drawing out the 'E' as he spoke.

"So are you," Kyle answered with, bringing up a thumb to wipe away the few tears on Kennys face.

[lost-technology]

So, I was scouring my back-files and old fanfiction . net for some of my old Trigun fic. It wasn't all terrible, I swear! Okay, so I find a lot of stuff I did 20 or more years ago cringe, but there are a few pieces that are worth it. I was specifically looking for an old fic I did featuring an original character who had chosen to try to follow the "Vash" hero-lifestyle and found himself failing at it. Finally found the thing. Found a story I wrote about Vash having a pet cat, too, mostly comedy, but definitely one you don't want to read if you scour the "Does the Dog Die?" website before you watch a movie. Yes, I used that horrible old trope in the end. And then I found some fic I wrote waaaaaay back around 20 years ago (2004, actually) that was a Rem Lives AU for anime!Rem and the anime!story of Trigun and I didn't read it all the way through, but I skimmed it, having COMPLETELY forgotten about it! I seriously forgot this thing existed, forgot the entire plotline... I remember some of my old fics, obviously, but did not remember this one. And skimming... comparing to my current Stampede-and-Trimax based Rem Lives AU WIP... What is my brain's obsession with making Rem lose a leg? Seriously, it happened twice. It was a different leg (her left in the old fic as opposed to her right in the current and unlike in the current, she gets to keep both eyes) - but... I did this thing? Twice? Huh? I skimmed to the end and apparently rehabbing Knives has started to fall in a weird love with her, too. I used to write some weird shit. Actually, considering that once when I was sick with the flu a few years ago I wrote a crossover between Super Smash Bros and the Star Wars Holiday Special because my brain was on way too much cold medicine... and I spent a good portion of 2021 writing a series of fanfics about original characters that were Galactic Horde-clones from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power being undertakers for their fallen people post-canon...um, I still write weird things. *Sigh* at least that one fanfic I do remember co-writing with an ex-online-friend turned vicious online enemy (whom I could have probably forgiven if they hadn't attacked my SO) is absolutely gone now. There was a person I used to be friends with in Trigun fandom whose fandom name initials read "MF" so I will therefore refer to them as "Motherfucker" when I refer to them... well, Motherfucker and I once wrote out an idea that they had which was a Rem Lives AU but one where Vash and Rem fell in love with each other and Vash was overtaken by a fungal infection that made him violent enough to actually kill people sometimes - it was BAD. Probably the worst fanfic I ever (co) wrote. I hope that no one ever saved that to any hard drive or media. It deserves to be lost. Please.

[felikatze]

*removes the tape* talk about binding blade do it do it do it do it

i lost my whole rant on binding blade's story but it is SOMEWHERE on tumblr and it is NOT TAGGED because i didn't live my truth

anyway. we were talking about idunn. let's fucking. talk about idunn.

i'm disappointed that she's less of a presence in the story honestly she only appears like 2 times but i LOVE HERRRR. she's the proto grima she did it first. dont even get me STARTED on my thoughts about divine dragon lore as it relates to idunn

DID YOU KNOW? IDUNN AND GRIMA AND SOMBRON ARE ALL KNOWN AS "DEMON DRAGON" IN A WIDE VARIETY OF LANGUAGES. GRIMA'S TITLE WAS NEVER UNIQUE AND I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ON THAT

anyway. why i think idunn works. it's mainly about framing. first of all idunn isn't a toddler which makes the whole thing less uncomfortable, second the game frames what happened to idunn as an atrocity. the divine dragons were one of the tribes who aimed to escape the scouring instead of fighting (with some of them presumably heading through the dragon's gate alongside a smattering of ice and fire dragons, and some of them settling down in arcadia in the nabata desert).

The divine dragons wished to flee because the dragons who wished to fight the humans wanted a weapon, and they knew they could turn a divine dragon into one. the divine dragons were horrified by this, and fled - except idunn. idunn didnt escape in time.

idunn was captured, and her mind was broken. she had no will left whatsoever. in the game, she's basically a machine - not following zephiel out of any conviction, but because he's the first person to release her. when jahn explains this, he is RIGHTFULLY called out for it by roy. this shit is disgusting and jahn knows it, but he justifies it anyway.

idunn is 100% the victim. but it is so so so easy to condemn her, to "put her out of her misery." like i know in a lot of FE games the brainwashed girl still has some way to be saved - there's a spell to be broken, a villain to be defeated, a magical object to be destroyed, but there isn't with idunn. her soul is just geniuenly destroyed. it's entirely mental. jahn says there is no way to save idunn.

but fuckin. roy doesn't accept that. there is the slightest sliver of possibility in the binding blade. it listens to its user's will, so perhaps he can....?

i'm kind of obsessed with the way it clicks IMMEDIATLY what roy is planning to do, but he never actually says it aloud until he does it. he just tells everyone to trust him and to let him deal the final blow. he doesn't say "oh this might save the demon dragon we have to kill." he just charges in and does it. does he think the others might try to stop him?? maybe?? i think ch24 has some great characterization that is overshadowed by the massive exposition dump where roy's just there to be the ear of the audience instead of an autonomous character.

honestly, i think roy's desire to save idunn actually greatly parallels how guinevere condemns zephiel. at the start of the game, guinevere is horrified by her brother, but still wants to save him. as time goes on, though, she struggles to hold onto her optimism. when she hands roy the binding blade, she accepts that he's going to kill zephiel.

this deeply pacifistic compassionate character essentially putting her brother to death because to her he is that far gone is such a great writing choice oh my god. (i wish it was in a better story.)

but zephiel believed what he said. he believed humans were corrupt and needed to die - in fe6, there's the general notion of human goodness. that people can be cruel, but they can be better, too, they can choose to become better. and zephiel refused that. zephiel refused to do better, instead just enabling the atrocities he condemned. that is why he dies. because he refuses change.

all his generals are given the option to back down, to live and grow, but they all refuse, and they die for their conviction in a cruel world.

idunn never had that choice. who knows what idunn believes? roy believes in a better world, and he will give idunn the freedom to decide what she wants out of it.

i first got the true ending when i was on the train, and ngl, i did almost cry over it in public. because idunn does get better. if you get the true ending and fae survives, you get a bonus scene - fae and idunn, back in nabata. idunn appears emotionless as fae urges her to play, until fae's enthusiasm leads to a coconut falling on her head.

and idunn - idunn laughs.

for the first time in millenia. there was no spell to be broken on her. roy doesn't snap his fingers and she's happy again. it'll be long, it'll be hard, but idunn will heal. and this is her first step.

i got kinda emotional seeing her spring alt in heroes afterward. she just looks. content. this character who went through so much tragedy and suffering for an eternity can still recover and heal because there are people who will help her do so. fae and roy and all the others.

i just. wargrhhrhr. the core message of human goodness and the capability to be better if you just choose to do so and the empathy to recognize that sometimes people didn't have that choice and you should give it to them, always. if they refuse, there's nothing you can do, but you should still try, right?

i actually really really love roy as a protagonist outside of "roy's our boy" memes and i disagree with the takes that someone else should be the protagonist of fe6. because roy is an outside to this and that is the point. he's just some kid doing the best he can! he's not the descendant of some legendary hero! that's lilina and zephiel! he doesn't have any mystical power! that's sophia! he doesn't have a dramatic backstory! that's elffin!

anyone could wield the binding blade. it's just roy who picked it up. that's the point. anyone can change the world. anyone can do better. anyone can make the universe a little bit kinder, if they just try.

[ava-monstrum]

LCB CH01 [4]

alright, time to get back into it

spoilers below

I think this time around I’ll scour the entire area. It didn’t occur to me that i might be missing out on some parts of the story…ah well. I’ll worry about that later.

I guess I’ll start with the bottommost path to secure a way of getting to that event.

Time for B team

Aww, Yuri isn't handling this well...

Uhh what's happening?

Ooo, Gregor's nightmare...

Uhhh, who?

hhmmm, I don't like this...

jeez, did G corp lock him up in a room?

Ahhh I see, they kept him locked up while recovering from the surgery so he could practice to use his arm as a blade.

HE WAS 15!?!?!?

mannnnn, they really just raised him to be a soldier

B-team isn't doing so hot....

But I got an absolute resonance so I hope that helps

and...three of my guys are staggered

Time to pull out the aleph egos...

That seemed to do it, but they're in shambles

gonna just try the event...

Wait....

I saw this already, and he looks worse…

Ohh interesting, So Gregor being able to regenerate his arm is unique to him, that and the side effects don't seem to affect him (though I knew that part already).

So the guy who operated on Gregor was Hermann...

Oooo, yeah this young dude is getting worse

⚠️body horror!

!!!!!

Man, we're really psychoanalyzing Gregor here...

Oop, event time.

Sure I’ll follow the sound. We’re near a checkpoint

Hmmmm

Good luck Rodion...

Thank goodness I passed

Lol Rodion is priding herself on killing someone, goodness

And she didn't take damage!

Let's see if doing another stage will unlock more story...

Gonna have to use A team though

Oh no it doesn't okay, at least I didn't miss anything though.

I wonder if I'll get more rewards though.

hmm, it didn't announce anything...so I guess I'll just move forward for now.

Awww, Yuri want's to keep Aya's mask

...and of course Outis is being mean to her for it.

Awwwe, Ishmael is helping!!! She's using her boating knowledge

Huh, Yuri joining Limbus Company....

This is too cute, I’m scared now (Rodin, she’s not in the gacha, please. If she says that she’ll join I just KNOW she’s gonna die. Please. The strings of fate are gonna wrap around her neck. I can’t-)

Awww, Yuri's smiling. Please don't die

Neat

I want the event

Awww 😢

"Yet my silly doppelgänger was still holding a silly pose with a confident look on his face."

Oh yikes, the G-corp are getting hate. Hope they don't find out about Gregor.

WHAT IS WITH YOU CALLING GREGOR BABE!? ESPECIALLY WITH YOU GROSSING OUT WITH THE BUG MUTATIONS.

Maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it, but…

My boy's not doing so great.

OH ⚠️another Boddy Horror warning

WE IN A TIME LOOP BABY!

I get Rodion's frustration, but he's trying to help.

Oh wait what's in the sky?

Oh he's asking for help...

Oh crap he was squished by a giant hand

YEP WERE MAKING A BREAK FOR IT

Faust we need a plan please

Ok she's got something

Wait never mind lol

Gregor? What's up?

Oh, he's saying we should get squished. To be honest I trust him.