#YOTP

[eiswolfzero]

'meet cute' for YOTP 2023 Prompt List August

Wally's just helping a friend out and Bruce is in Central for some business.

Bruce is absolutely gonna know every little detail about Wally the moment he's done with his meetings.

#wally west #bruce wayne #batman #flash #batflash #yotp #personal art #I don't wanna see this no more #I meant to give it cute coloring but my motivation is goneeeee #the outlines alone were tragic #bruce doesn't wanna be drawn by me atm #happens

[yearoftheotpevent]

hi everyone! just a reminder that, while we're not running new prompts this year, the collection will remain open for anyone that's catching up or coming to the challenge late. we still want to see what you create!

#yotp23 #yotp 23 #year of the otp #year of the otp 2023 #yotp

[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - February

For V-day, I'll give you the YOTP fic for February.

A reluctant OTP, but an OTP nevertheless...Please, have some Merestor x Glorfindel (with art from @sauroff)

Lots and lots, heaps and heaps, of love for y'all!

Pairing: Glorfindel x Erestor

Prompt: Valentine's Day, Pollen/Fear Gas/Truth Serum, Established Relationship/Long Distance, different, mermaid, "If I kiss you, will you shut up?"

Words: 2 500

Warning: Sacrifice, implied monsterfucking, Merestor is a savage, nudity

(very sexy art and not very sexy fic under the cut!)

“We are sorry,” the councilman whispered as he stood, outlined by ominous darkness on Glorfindel’s threshold. “You have been chosen. We are hoping—”

“I understand,” Glorfindel replied before the old man could rattle off the perfidious reasons for their cruel decision to send one of their most valued warriors to his death. It made sense, he thought, the threat with which the town had been dealing for quite some time now was not one he or anyone else could fight with swords and arrows.

Thus, he had become superfluous—dead weight, really, and he recognised that much without fail.

“Today is a good day to die,” he added, deep sadness making his voice sound as hollow as if it was already coming from the grave. “I cannot bear the festivities anyway.”

“You must find it heartless—”

“Not at all,” Glorfindel interrupted again. “It’s strangely poetic, don’t you think? Give me an hour to put everything in order, tell the neighbours, and distribute what few riches are left to me, and then I shall be all yours.”

“Very well. I am sorry, please believe me,” the man who had known the condemned for many long years breathed softly.

“I know,” Glorfindel said soothingly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I am not loath to die. Especially not today!”

As he went through his meagre possessions, the golden-haired hero of another time smiled wistfully to himself.

Outside, maidens and young men were giggling breathlessly as they sang songs of love and hope and waved their elaborate bouquets through the fragrant night air—this was their day, the day of lovers, and Glorfindel felt ashamed of his visceral, asphyxiating resentment of their happiness.

Once upon a time, he had been much like them. Returning from a faraway war covered in glory and illustrious distinctions, he had managed to capture the heart and hand of a beautiful, smart, enchanting young man.

For a few blessed years, he and Erestor—for that had been his beloved’s name—had lived in peace and plenty. Every year, they’d light candles on this hallowed night and sit on the porch of their little dwelling to watch the procession of giddy youths, dancing through the street with elation.

Then, one day, Erestor had disappeared. Glorfindel had waited, searched, and despaired, but no trace of his darling had been found.

Looking back now, he realised that the “deep”—an ominous threat that had transformed the previously merry village into a ghost town of whispered conversations and furtive steps—had first made itself known around the same time.

Nobody knew exactly what it was and what it wanted, but it was generally understood that Erestor—Glorfindel’s very own husband—had been its first victim.

From that fateful spring on, cattle, people, and treasures vanished from the riverbanks and the edges of the underground lake that had always been a highly favoured bathing spot for the villagers. Fear fell like a shadow over the hamlet, stifling all life and laughter.

Soon, people avoided all running water, coming up with complex rituals of superstition and idiocy, but Glorfindel was too heartbroken still to even fear for his life; he wanted to know what had happened to his sweetheart.

At first, the elders had refused that he or anyone else should leave the safety of the village to seek out the mysterious creature that had been glimpsed by a few but never fully seen, and Glorfindel had reluctantly bowed to the pressure of public outrage.

Then, the sacrifices had started. Miscreants and rebels, bound and gagged, were left in the cave to feed and soothe the “deep”—and, to everybody’s horror and delight—they were gone by the time the guards came back in to check on them. As the mouth of the cavern was under perpetual surveillance, it was undeniable that it had to be the sea monster that had taken them.

A part of Glorfindel had always known that, sooner or later, he would be picked to be delivered to the pernicious pestilence haunting their home. His adamant refusal to wear the protective amulets or steer clear of the river had branded him an insurgent and a sceptic, and a community ruled by fear could and would not abide such disruptive, potentially dangerous faithlessness.

Thus, on the night of lovers, he was called upon to do what was necessary to keep a society from which he had almost entirely withdrawn safe. This would be his last act of heroism.

Glorfindel felt relieved and almost happy as he walked, flanked by the mayor and the councilman, down to the cave. Maybe, he thought, he’d be able to find out something about his lost lover; either way, he’d be freed of the torturous half-life he had been leading.

As he entered the cave, he was surprised and more than just a little touched to find countless candles burning in every nook and cranny.

The villagers had carved well-wishes into the melting wax or written down their prayers on little scraps of paper that were now buried under the slow-moving tide of pristine white, dripping off every wall.

“We have to…” the mayor looked up at Glorfindel with undisguised misery as he lifted the length of rope he had been kneading in his sweaty hands. “You can keep the clothes to prevent chafing.”

Chuckling wryly, Glorfindel shook his head slowly. He had promised his last possessions—the garments on his back and the bells in his hair—to the two brave men who stood by him as he set out for his last expedition.

“I hope that you’ll at least get a tankard of ale each for these,” he said as he laid the adornments he had cherished through many a hard year into their unworthy palms. “Now tie me up and leave. For all I’ve done for this village and for you, I think that I deserve the dignity of meeting my fate without having to worry about an audience.”

They complied readily, desperate to get away from the dark water lapping rhythmically against the sloping ground of the cave.

In their furious haste, they were less gentle with this season’s sacrifice than he’d have deserved, but Glorfindel was unfazed by the nails scraping heedlessly across his bare skin and the sharp bite of the rope into his tense flesh.

“Where…”

The councilman pointed at a few worn, discoloured pillows at the far end of the cavern, just a stone’s throw away from the frightening, liquid threat of the purling underground lake.

“Tasteful,” Glorfindel commented as he was heaved, pushed, and dragged to the designated spot. In his mind, images of his first successful attempts at seduction danced as if to taunt him.

He was no stranger to promiscuous poses and elaborate bondage, and—on this lonely night of lost love—he could truly appreciate the irony.

“I am ready,” he declared. “Withdraw and save your lives. Think of me fondly, and don’t let this ruin your evening. Go light a candle in my honour. Maybe, look the other way if you come across a particularly adventurous couple, I don’t know…”

He huffed—it annoyed him that he was still the one trying to comfort and calm the men who had condemned him to an undoubtedly horrid demise, but he couldn’t bear their sad, mournful gazes.

“I am not dead yet,” Glorfindel grunted when nobody moved. “Remember me like this—beautiful, alluring, and very much alive!”

Tensing and squirming against the irregular, badly tied knots, he averted his face which finally convinced his two hangmen to scamper away like the vermin they were.

“Let’s hope this monstrosity makes haste at the very least,” Glorfindel mumbled and leaned back against the smelly cushions as much as he could without cutting off his circulation.

Thankfully for the integrity and safety of his limbs, Glorfindel did not have to wait long until minute ripples on the hitherto perfectly placid surface of the lake heralded the imminent arrival of whatever lethal foe was lurking in the murky depths.

“Ah, a new one,” a voice resounded. To the intended victim’s utter astonishment, it sounded tired and impatient rather than gleefully wicked. “Why do they keep pawning their unwanted villagers off on me?”

Spellbound, Glorfindel twisted as much as his bonds allowed to see a shimmering, mesmerising creature cleave through the water.

“Eh, same as ever,” the aquatic being muttered and launched itself out of its watery habitat, twirling like a falling star and filling the stale, damp air with a fine powder that tasted sweet and cloying on Glorfindel’s tongue as he drew a deep breath. “What is it that you truly desire? Do not even try to lie to me—the spores you’ve just inhaled force you to tell the truth.”

“I want to know what happened to my love,” Glorfindel replied immediately, not even trying to struggle against the sudden heaviness pervading his limbs and befuddling his racing mind. “All I want is to find out where Erestor went.”

With a muted splash, the creature fell back into the arms of the inky lake until only a pair of brightly flashing eyes—as eerily familiar and yet entirely foreign as the accents of that enchanting voice—were visible.

Taking the monster’s silence as an invitation and unable to stem the tide of words that had been unleashed by the potent dust he had ingested, Glorfindel kept babbling about the one he had loved and lost, detailing Erestor’s indescribable beauty and admirable wit and sighing longingly.

“I know that you’ve taken him, and I’d beg you to reunite us!” he finally pleaded.

“You think that I have killed your lover,” the creature mused, its words setting off a flurry of bubbles, dancing over the glassy surface of the water. “And you’d be willing to meet that same fate?”

“Yes. Life itself is worth nothing if it’s to be devoid of all joy and love!”

“You have ever been such a soppy fool! I should have known that my sacrifice would come to nought due to your reckless stubbornness!”

Heaving itself from its fluid realm once more, the creature drew inexorably closer.

“Who made those knots? What a mess! Just look at your beautiful skin!” Razor-sharp claws sliced through the rope without hesitation, and Glorfindel sat up, rubbing the sore spots his writhing had left behind.

“Erestor?” he cried as he now fully faced the well-known and desperately missed frame of the one he had sought for endless months.

There was no doubt about it, that visage—gleaming like mother of pearl and gold in the flickering light of the white candles—was the very one he saw in those terrible nightmares that haunted his every moment of respite.

“How? Why? What has happened? How have you come hither? Have you been enslaved against your will? What can I do? I have missed you so much, you can’t imagine! Oh Erestor, my love! Or…did you leave me of your own accord? Was I not a good husband to you? You should have told me that you were unhappy—I would have done anything to alleviate your dissatisfaction—”

“If I kiss you, will you shut up?” Erestor interrupted, and—not waiting for an answer—pressed his cool, wet lips against Glorfindel’s burning mouth in a gentle caress that grew frantic and heated almost instantly.

“Why?” Glorfindel whispered against the fragrant skin for which he had yearned with every fibre of his being.

“Old enemies came for you—you were out, at the market if I recall correctly—and they spoke terrible threats…” Erestor explained sheepishly. “You were always too rash to heed the warning signs of the deeper, darker secrets of the world.”

“But—”

“I’ve offered myself. What else could I do? The town needed you more than they did me!”

“I needed you! To hell with the accursed village—they’ve left me here, bound and naked, to be eaten by some fearsome monstrosity!” Glorfindel cried passionately.

“So they did,” Erestor agreed, anger and regret turning his eyes into splintered onyx. “It seems that I’ve been mistaken in my assessment, a rarity as you well know. I did not expect you to waste your time bemoaning my loss.”

“How dare you?” Glorfindel roared. Not minding the sharp protrusions on Erestor’s fingers or the dangerously pointy teeth flashing in the semi-darkness, he grabbed his lost husband by the shoulders and shook him vehemently. “I have never stopped looking and waiting for you—loving you—and if that ass of a mayor had not been so laughably terrified, I would have found out the truth much sooner!”

“Do they really think I’ve killed all these people?” Erestor inquired, leaning against the comforting, dry warmth of Glorfindel’s chest.

When the golden-haired sacrificial offering of beauty and valour nodded, he tossed back his head and laughed heartily.

“Believe you me, I did no such thing. It is in my power to grant one wish to those who seek me out in exchange for something they treasure—and what idiotic things they were—and so, I’ve helped every single person you’ve thrown down here escape the prison of paranoia and worry into which you’ve seemingly turned our once peaceful village.”

Glorfindel stared until his eyes overflowed with hot tears, leaving warm streaks of salt and salvation on his sculptural, freckled cheeks.

“I am so happy to see you—have you been well?” he asked breathlessly. “You should not have offered yourself that without consulting me! Of all the things to lose, I’d rather lose a limb than you!”

“I can see that now,” Erestor admitted. “I am sorry for doubting your love and your strength—they were very persuasive, and they tapped into my secret insecurity that someone like me—cerebral, somewhat scrawny, and undeniably mean—could never keep the love of one so glorious, handsome, and popular as you. It was all so new, and they made me believe that you’d soon grow tired of me anyway…This sacrifice was meant to be my parting gift.”

“And you dare call me a fool?” Glorfindel rasped as he bundled his merman husband—long, iridescent tail and webbed hands—onto his bare lap fitfully. As soon as that smooth, cool skin collided with his own heated flesh, he felt his body and all its dormant desires and impulses flare back to life.

“My love,” Erestor said warningly as he felt the testament of Glorfindel’s enduring, evidently unconditional ardour press against his scaly rear, “this is hardly the moment. I still have one wish to grant you—choose wisely!”

“Do you enjoy this life?” Glorfindel asked seriously, cupping Erestor’s soft cheek and searching his petulant gaze for any signs of dishonesty.

“Yes,” Erestor admitted after a moment’s reflexion. “It is strange, certainly, but I like it well! You’d…you couldn’t understand…”

“Then my wish is to join you!” Glorfindel exclaimed. “It is my turn to offer my life for your happiness. Make me what you are!”

So, that was my contribution to the YOTP for February!

I hope you've enjoyed this! Lots of love!

-> Masterlist

#og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #YOTP #yotp 2023 prompts #Glorestor #Glorfindel #Erestor #February #Truth Serum #Long Distance #Established Relationship #Different #Mermaid #Vday #If I kiss you...

[pbchocmint]

I’m a month late lol but steddie @yearoftheotpevent april prompt: peace

#st #steddie #yotp #yotp 2023 #year of the otp #stranger things #Eddie Munson #Steve Harrington #my art #art #digital art #op #my st art #I love em so much #also I finally found an opportunity to do that sweet sweet blinds lighting that I’ve always wanted to attempt

[creativitygoggles-artblog]

Happy Halloween From The Bright-Futured Class A!

-

YOTP October - Couple Costumes

#bnha #fanart #bnha fanart #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #iidatodo #tenya iida #shouto todoroki #todoiida #dkbk #bkdk #kirimina #halloween #yotp #yotp 2023

[bcbdrums]

Event Horizon

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

A/N: Monthly OTP prompt fills from this list for Spirit and Stein, because I cannot stop writing about them. I’m happy to hear recommendations each month for which prompt to write next. February’s chosen prompt is: 2. Fear Gas I had ideas for most of February's prompts in my head, but, this one grabbed my attention the most after chatting with some people and mulling over ideas. I took some extreme liberties on how it's interpreted, but gotta follow the muse. And, this fic is late because the muse has been drained. Too much has happened in the last month for me. But! Writing this story is seeming to revive me, so, we shall see what the future holds. Sometimes...the OTP goes through some...tough times... Spirit is 18 years old. Stein is 15. Maka is not yet one. Manga or anime canon, leaning heavily into my headcanons regardless. Also, this lovely art is referenced. And lastly, this is a gift for @cannibal-nightmares, whose art, kindness, and cleverness inspire me...constantly. Do check out their art! Uh...sorry for this one? I guess. Enjoy.

Event Horizon

Spirit stopped short as the book atop the stack in his arms began to slide away. He lifted his shoulder to adjust the balance of the stack, using gravity to shift the heavy volume back into position.

"Hurry up, Death Scythe."

"Y-Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir," Spirit said as he hefted the stack higher and hurried after Lord Death. He realized he probably could have checked out fewer books—especially with his propensity to speed through them—but every topic had him practically salivating with curiosity. From the history of demon weapon kind to the very first death scythe, Spirit's mind was alight with thoughts of battle and honing his skills.

They left the library and turned the first corner, Spirit still trailing a few paces behind as he bore the burden of too many books. But as academy students passed in the other direction Spirit held his head higher. He still felt a swelling of pride each time people paused to stare or whisper about him, the newest personal weapon of the Grim Reaper.

To that end, a couple of younger girls caught his attention by their giggling, and he wished he had a hand free to wave or make some other gesture of acknowledgement besides his million-dollar smile. But it wasn't needed as the two took a few hesitant steps in his direction, hands shyly lifted to wave.

"Hi Mr. Death Scythe!" one said too-loudly, and Spirit felt a flush of pride rise under his collar.

It would be too much to toss his hair, not to mention the risk in dropping the books, which would negate any air of prestige he was trying to effect. He merely met their eyes in response, held their gaze as he maintained his smile while he passed, and another thrill rose from somewhere in the pit of his belly as he listened to their giggles all the way around the corner.

"Spirit Albarn."

Spirit startled at Lord Death's address; he'd only called him by his title ever since becoming his weapon.

The reaper had stopped and turned slightly, and Spirit hurried to catch up. Lord Death didn't move again until Spirit had reached his side and then matched his pace as they continued down the hall. He felt rather than saw Lord Death's slight turn, the white mask looking down at him in a way that dampened Spirit's former rush of pride.

"You're a married man."

The last of the pride shriveled up until his throat felt tight, and his cheeks were flushing in embarrassment now. The reaper's discreet reprimand had been unexpected and brought every thought in Spirit's mind to a halt as he mechanically followed his newest meister through the twists and turns of the academy's halls.

He hadn't been thinking of his wife...which, was apparently the problem. He hadn't really been flirting with those girls...students...had he?

Spirit frowned as a gloom started to sink over him while he trailed after the reaper, through another set of heavy doors and down some stairs. Those girls were students. He was their superior. And he'd been thinking of them like classmates.

He was Death Scythe. He needed to get the real meaning of that into his oblivious skull, and not be worried about the attention he might get from girls.

That had been the start of his problems in the first place.

"Death Scythe, are you listening?"

"Wha? Oh... Sorry, Sir."

Spirit blinked into sudden awareness as he realized they had left the brightly painted academy halls and descended into a place more broad, dark, and foreboding. Lord Death had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and Spirit continued his descent more slowly as he took better stock of his surroundings.

A chill in the air told him they had gone underground, and the architecture was similar to that above but looked as if it had been constructed in a past age. There was also stonework among the wood, and an eerie painting of an inverted trio of eyes on the floor at Lord Death's feet. The gloom he had been feeling turned to a sickness as he arrived at the landing and looked up to the black holes in the white mask that were studying him.

"Oh well. I suppose you can read about it in all of those books and then ask me questions later," the Grim Reaper stated, and shifted his gaze toward a door ahead of them.

Spirit looked at the door where the inverted eyes were painted again, just visible on the dark wood framed by a square of red stone. Two gray statues stood on each side the door, oddly shapen and with their arms raised as if holding up the ceiling. They each had one large eye, oriented properly this time, taking up the whole of their misshapen heads.

As Spirit stared at the strange artwork, he felt a sudden pressing of darkness against his soul. The sick feeling rose from his stomach up to his mind and swirled into fear that froze him in place as solidly as if he had fallen helpless in his weapon form. Blackness filled his vision, and with it came a sudden onslaught of thoughts, all crashing over his mind at once and twisting and overlapping and confusing him such that he was barely aware of his feet on the ground.

Who was this old deity telling him what to do anyway? He had never seen the masked figure so much as leave Death City let alone fight, so why should he feel guilt for whatever he might do that displeases him?

And why shouldn't he flirt with those girls, or anyone he wanted to? He was Death Scythe after all and could do anything he wanted. It wasn't like his wife ever stayed home at nights when he finally clocked out anyway.

They were supposed to be a happy family but she never acted like it. He should teach her a lesson for her taking off at every opportunity when they had a daughter to raise. Leaving him all alone to deal with bottle feeding and diapers and the crying and what had he wanted that baby for anyway?

Spirit gasped.

Shuddering breaths racked his frame as his eyes pierced the darkness swirling through his mind, fixing on the door in front of him as he tried to will away the sickness that had his legs shaking.

Was he standing still? Or was he moving? He couldn't tell for the way the room seemed to rise and fall on waves and his body with it. He was certain he would fall at any moment and that if he did he would never be able to get up again.

"Spirit."

A great hand, heavy on his shoulder, was turning him around carefully to face the stairs again. Spirit blinked repeatedly as the spinning of the room slowly began to subside. The darkness started to move away, touching only the corners of his eyes.

He sucked in air and fell to his hands and knees, and the impact of an elbow on stone stairs jarred him further into the present and out of the evil place his mind had been fast going.

"Spirit," Lord Death repeated gently, and the young weapon let the familiarity of the voice be an anchor, hearing it again and again in his mind until the darkness had faded from his vision and before his eyes was only dust-covered stone.

"M-Maka..."

He shivered as tears fell from his eyes and mingled with the dust.

He didn't mean it. He would never mean anything like that. Maka was the most important person in his life. He didn't want to breathe if her perfect face wasn't the first thing he saw each morning and the last thing he saw each night. He would do anything and everything for his daughter.

So where had that horrid thought come from?

He shivered again, more from the anxiety than the chill around him, and slowly started to right himself. Never-mind the books scattered on the floor behind him. He needed to get home to his daughter.

"Spirit?"

"Maka..." he repeated, his breaths quick.

He felt the hand squeeze his shoulder and he looked up. Worry exuded from the Grim Reaper, and it was a further anchor to reality bringing Spirit back from... From...?

"What...what was that?" he asked, his voice sounding small to his ears. As if Lord Death could somehow know what had happened that caused his mind to flood with more disturbing thoughts and feelings than he had ever experienced in his life.

"That...was the kishin's madness," Lord Death said gravely.

Spirit's eyes widened and he whirled around to face the door again. The trio of inverted eyes, a mere painting, seemed to stare through him, and he felt a fresh wave of fear penetrate him like daggers.

"Asura?"

Lord Death bent down to gather the dropped books.

"Yes. Through those doors is the path to where the kishin is imprisoned."

Spirit shuddered again as the sensations lingered in his mind and left his wavelength feeling ill and out of balance. Lord Death offered him the stack of books, and Spirit swallowed nervously as he took them, and then turned to follow the reaper back up the stairs.

"After you read about it in detail, we'll talk," Lord Death said.

Spirit looked down, and it took several attempts before his eyes would focus on the title of the book at the top of the stack. Kishin it read simply, with no author listed like a great many of the books on the fourth level of the library, and Spirit wondered if Lord Death himself had penned it.

"Ah... Lord Death, Sir?" Spirit ventured cautiously as they reached the landing.

"Yes?"

"Can...can I go home?"

Lord Death paused, but Spirit slowly released the breath he'd been holding as he felt the understanding and almost-warmth coming off of his new meister.

"Yes."

Spirit felt unsteady on his feet again despite the relief in his soul as he strode forward with single-minded purpose, hefting the books higher in his arms. He knew any fear was irrational, but he couldn't rest until he saw for himself that Maka was okay.

"See you tomorrow, Death Scythe," Lord Death called after him, and Spirit paused to turn and nod acknowledgement even as he sighed silently. He would make sure Maka was fine, but...he still had his new job to do.

---------------

Spirit opened his eyes to a blinding light that obscured his surroundings. When he tried to lift his hand to block it out, it wouldn't move, and testing each limb one at a time revealed the same immobility for each. His head felt as heavy as lead when he peered down to try to find the source of whatever was restricting him, but he was only able to move just enough to see a gray strap tight on his wrist, restraining him where he lie.

"Awake, I see," a familiar voice intoned flatly, and a shock of fear ran across Spirit's nervous system like electricity.

"S...Stein?" he said weakly, his mouth sluggish in response to his brain's command to speak. "What's...happening?"

"It's time for your punishment," the voice said from a distance. Spirit tried to look around for its source, but he was still being blinded by the overhead light.

"Punishment? Stein, what... What are you talking about? Where are we?"

Spirit pulled against the strap at one wrist, but it had no give whatsoever. He lifted his head to look around again and discovered he was without his shirt, wherever he was, and a large gray strap was around his waist as well as his ankles and wrists.

"For entertaining madness. It's the ultimate crime."

"What? But I... I didn't—"

"Evil desires entered your mind. And you...a death weapon. There's no coming back from that."

Stein's voice was growing nearer, but Spirit still couldn't see the teen. Cold fear swept him at the harsh edge of judgment in his former meister's voice, and he pulled at his wrists and ankles again but found the effort as futile as before.

"It wasn't my fault! I would never...I wouldn't act on those things!"

"But you've already flirted with other women," Stein reminded him.

Spirit choked, his next protest dying on his lips. It was true... And that had been before the encounter with the madness below the academy.

"But I... I didn't mean..."

"What you intended doesn't matter. Idle thoughts and mindless errors are as criminal as deliberate intent."

Spirit shook his head violently as finally, the familiar form of Stein appeared above him, blocking out some of the light.

"But that's not true! You don't believe that anymore than...than Lord Death does!"

Spirit ceased his useless thrashing when Stein didn't respond, and he blinked the dark silhouette above him into focus. The young eyes, so familiar to him, were now distant—sad and cold as he gazed down at the weapon with his mouth fixed into a frown.

"What matters is that you believe it," Stein said.

Something prickled at the back of Spirit's mind as he turned over the strange words. He had never believed any such thing. Stein had to know that. And why was he looking at him that way?

"So, it's time to cut out your soul."

A hoarse cry left Spirit's throat as Stein slowly lifted a massive cleaver, its sharp edge gleaming in the bright light.

"What!? No, what are you thinking!? Stein, stop!"

"Goodbye, Senpai."

The blade came down.

---------------

"Stein!"

Spirit sat up so fast his vision swam, the nightmare still vivid in his mind as the brightness of the laboratory contrasted the dark of his bedroom. He blinked repeatedly until the texture of the blanket came into focus in front of him, the way it sagged between his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

Finally, he groaned and fell back against sweat-stained sheets, letting the blanket fall away. He could hear the rapid pounding of his heart in the silence of his bedroom as he let the cool night air tend to the moisture on his chest, slowly wicking it away and soothing the tension that had coiled in his body.

After a moment he let his arm stretch out and feel in the empty space at his side, the sheets dry and crisp for their lack of any recent occupancy.

Spirit sighed through his nose and shifted to squint at his alarm clock. Nearly two-thirty in the morning and his wife wasn't home.

She'd not been home that afternoon either when he'd arrived back early from work. Finding his home empty had only increased his residual horror from the experience underground, and he was grateful that his first call to the academy had located his daughter, safe in their daycare. What had surprised Spirit was to learn that she had been there all day, and was there most days.

This had been the catalyst for the argument when his wife had arrived home that evening, already spitting fire due to Spirit's discovery of her ongoing deception. It wasn't fair, she had seethed, that she stayed at home all day every day with dirty diapers as her only company, unable to live her life, while he lived out his dream.

Spirit only grew more bewildered at these claims, as his dream was two honey-haired girls in the cheap apartment they shared together.

Perhaps due to the terrifying experience he'd had that afternoon he wasn't as discerning or eloquent in his choice of words as he could have been. Fear was speaking for him when he ordered his wife to stay at home where she belonged, caring for their daughter and not leaving her in the hands of academy students while she went gallivanting off to Death knows where.

Her response had been another departure. But at least this time...Spirit had Maka.

He slowly turned his silver wedding ring around his finger as he rolled over in the bed to face the crib. He could see Maka's sleeping form within, still snuggled beneath her blanket and with her stuffed puppy tucked in next to her.

He wanted to get up, gather her in his arms and hold her until every memory of madness left him. But it wouldn't be right to disturb her precious sleep. So instead he simply watched her. How her tiny, delicate eyelashes rested upon her face. How her impossibly soft hair fell over her forehead and atop her ears. How even at less than a year of age, she was starting to look like his wife.

He turned the ring one last time before moving his hand up under his pillow to be more comfortable. The day had taken a greater toll on him than he realized, for the way his eyes kept dropping closed. His breathing had calmed, and the fear of the nightmare had faded. But the images returned as he let himself attempt to return to sleep, and his brow pinched together as he tried to analyze them.

The bright light, the restraints, and even the cleaver were no doubt due to the horrors his wife had verbally painted for him so many months ago with the discovery of an unremembered scar as they lie in bed. But the look in Stein's eyes... That sadness wasn't anything Spirit ever remembered seeing from the meister in their five years as partners.

And, why had he dreamed of Stein at all?

Spirit's eyes opened as he tried to recall the last time he'd spoken with Stein, and he could feel an ache with the further creasing of his brow when he couldn't place a date.

He slowly sat back up as realization struck... When had he last seen Stein?

Between the busy hours of learning the ropes as Lord Death's personal weapon, the sleepless nights when Maka wouldn't keep a schedule, and the growing number of unresolved arguments with his wife... He simply hadn't had time.

In fact, the last time he could remember seeing Stein, the meister had come there to his apartment, and he'd fallen asleep with Maka on his chest after a round of complaints about his life. He couldn't remember what, if anything, the two of them had talked about. And Stein had been gone when he'd woken up.

Spirit rose from the bed and glanced in the crib once more before moving to his closet. Despite his wife's protests, next to his blazer hung a long white coat that had been cut apart and reassembled with stitches to match an aesthetic that Stein had started adopting heavily in their last year as partners.

That day when Spirit had woken with the sunset in his eyes and Stein gone, the coat remained, draped over he and Maka to keep them warm while they slept.

Spirit pulled the coat from the hanger that had been its home for months, remembering the repeated insistence to his wife that he was just keeping it for Stein and would give it back the next time he saw him.

That had been months ago.

Whether it was residual madness or something else, a sudden urgency had Spirit pulling his clothes from the day back over his limbs, moving quickly but quietly lest Maka wake.

He had been Stein's weapon partner for five years. Even after his sins caught up to him and his life started to shift drastically off the course the two of them had planned, they had still been inseparable.

How could he go months without speaking to him and not realize it?

Once his shoes were tied, he folded the white coat carefully and then stepped up to the large standing mirror on his wife's side of the bed, and with his finger, drew the familiar number into the glass.

"Death Scythe," was Lord Death's unsurprised greeting, but absent his usual flurry of cheerful pleasantries. "Any residual effects of the kishin's madness?"

Spirit blinked in surprise at the reaper's cutting right to the chase, but he supposed he shouldn't have. He knew that he had only been touched by the mere edge of that wavelength, but the impact it had had was profound. He was certain it was the ultimate cause of his nightmare too, even if the subject had been a surprise.

"Ah...about that. I was wondering if...you could send someone to watch Maka for me? For just...just an hour, maybe less. I need to do something."

"Shouldn't your wife watch her?"

Spirit looked down at the coat in his hands, tightened his fists into the fabric.

"I...don't know where she is right now."

Spirit was still looking down when he felt a sudden wave of power and then his bedroom was filled with the imposing presence of the Grim Reaper.

"L-Lord Death! Sir!" he stammered as he moved back until his legs hit the bed, and he fell back to sit on the pile of tangled blankets.

"I'll watch her for you," Lord Death said, and Spirit's eyes widened as the imposing form of the reaper glided over to the crib and reached a huge hand down inside. Spirit's breath caught as one massive fingertip that dwarfed Maka's tiny body tickled lightly at her shoulder. "Oochie-coochie coo!"

"Uhh..."

Lord Death turned back to peer at him through the dark of the room. "It's the least I can do, after exposing you to that. Although, you would have been more prepared had you been listening."

Spirit blushed, and then quickly rose to his feet and tried to throw the bed into a semblance of order. He was glad there was no dirty laundry lying around and that he had taken out the trash bag of dirty diapers earlier that evening.

"Madness is nothing to take lightly," Lord Death continued. Spirit finished arranging the blankets and looked up to see Lord Death nod at the folded white coat. "Just consider your former partner."

Spirit swallowed slowly as he picked up the coat again. He thought of the fear he'd felt, the invasion of thoughts not his own and yet that had seemed to come from someplace within his soul.

Was that what Stein struggled with every day?

He considered the times he had touched the madness in Stein's wavelength when they resonated, the fear and violent desires that while objectively worse than what he had experienced, hadn't remotely carried the terror or dark lust that the wavelength underground had momentarily instilled in him.

Stein had been shielding him all along, he realized, even when he couldn't hold it back entirely. He hadn't wanted Spirit to know the depths of what he battled against. Who would, after all?

And...this was what Stein went through all the time?

Spirit's heart had begun racing again. He clutched the white coat tight to his chest as he began backing toward the door.

"Thank you, Sir, for watching Maka. I, ah... I shouldn't be gone long. The apartment is close. And..."

"Spirit."

Spirit stopped mid-step and looked up at the impassive mask of the Grim Reaper.

"He isn't at your old apartment anymore."

"...What?"

---------------

Spirit's pace had been hurried the entire journey to the city's outskirts, but he slowed when he approached the old, abandoned warehouse that he had passed so many times before without taking any notice. It was the same as always from the outside, but knowing his former meister was within made it feel different somehow; no longer part of the scenery, but something living. And yet for some reason, Spirit felt a heavy foreboding as he approached.

Stein had asked for and been given the building as a home months ago, according to Lord Death, and had hardly been heard from since except to request and take missions. He only showed his face in classes to take tests, which he passed, and would then vanish again.

When Spirit asked why Lord Death had accommodated these eccentricities, the Grim Reaper had been silent. He also hadn't answered any of Spirit's questions about the missions Stein took, except to say that he had recently taken their friend Marie Mjolnir as his new weapon.

Spirit had bristled at the designation, even though he knew he shouldn't. He had left Stein, after all. How could the meister be expected to continue his studies without a weapon partner? And yet for some reason, Spirit had never conceived of Stein working with anyone but him.

This and other thoughts had his head swimming as he propelled his feet down the sidewalk toward the warehouse, his heart rate seeming to increase with each step. He clutched the folded coat tightly to his chest and tried to will away the strange dread that had arrested his mind ever since the realization he'd not seen Stein in months.

He tried to tell himself it was just a product of the residual madness, or something brought on by the bizarre nightmare. It would all go away once he saw Stein again. He would knock on the door, and Stein would answer because the younger teen kept atypical hours. Spirit would apologize for not having seen him in so long and plan a day, maybe two, for them to catch up very soon. Then everything could go back to the strange, evolving normal his life had become ever since the day he'd learned of the pregnancy.

He held his breath when he knocked on the large double doors and then fidgeted with the fabric of the folded coat as he waited. Stein would be glad to see him, surely? But, Spirit suddenly wondered... Why hadn't he come around in months?

Spirit knocked a second time, louder. Perhaps Stein really was asleep, if he was even there.

Spirit counted the seconds until another two minutes had passed, and then with a shaky breath fit his hand to the doorknob. It turned without resistance, and he paused. Perhaps he could just quietly leave the coat and a note for Stein to stop by or perhaps call him when he could.

He pushed the door open slowly, wincing at the way it creaked on its hinges, and stepped into a broad, dark hallway. The walls on either side of him were gray and nondescript, just like the building's exterior, and all was silent as he cautiously started forward.

His brow rose when he heard what sounded like a voice muttering somewhere ahead of him, beyond another set of doors. He strained to listen and soon felt the tension drain from his body when he recognized the voice. Stein was awake after all, probably busy with some experiment, and simply hadn't heard his knock.

A smile was on Spirit's face when he pulled open the next door and passed into a large room lit dimly from a single standing lamp and the light of a computer monitor. Then, he saw Stein. And his expression dropped into horror.

Stein was seated on a rolling chair pushed back from the computer desk, and the whole of his shirt that Spirit could see was stained with layered drippings of what could only be blood. On the desk on either side of the computer were two large mirrors, propped against stacks of books and angled to the forty-five, and atop the monitor was a cracked mirror that appeared to have been bolted to the monitor's plastic frame.

All around Stein on the desk and floor were scattered papers and open books, and the computer screen was displaying some lines of text too small for Spirit to read. But his attention was fixed on the blood, his gaze rising up past where it clung to Stein's neck and soaked his silver hair. Both of Stein's hands were raised and fidgeting with something just as bloody at the sides of his head, fingers slick with the bright red substance, and the cuffs of his sleeves were stained as well.

Spirit's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare, unable to process the sight before him. And that's when he saw the screw.

"S...Stein!?" Spirit gasped in disbelief, his voice shrill. He looked past what Stein was fidgeting with to his countenance reflected darkly in the mirrors. His pupils were mere pinpricks in his wide eyes, and his skin was paler than usual under the streams of blood that ran down his face, even over his lips and staining his teeth where he was smiling broadly between incoherent mutters and soft, manic laughter.

"Stein!" Spirit repeated, taking an instinctive step forward. The folded coat fell from shaking hands as he looked around, searching for some enemy or any explanation for the horror that sat before him other than his ex-partner's own nimble hands.

The second cry seemed to get the teen's attention, and his laughter halted abruptly as he looked in one angled mirror first, seeming to stare in confusion at something in the corner of the room before shifting his eyes to the mirror atop the monitor until his gaze rested upon Spirit.

"Spirit."

Spirit glanced at the corner that Stein had focused on and found it bare, and then took another hesitant step forward. The blood dripping from Stein's stilled hands had his heart racing in a panic, but not more than the long object with which Stein appeared to have just impaled his skull.

"Stein, what... What... What's going on? What are you doing!?"

Stein slowly spun around in the chair and stared blankly at Spirit until his brow knitted very slightly.

"Hm. There's not usually two of you. Are you going to play the angel on my other shoulder?"

"I... I don't... Stein," Spirit stammered breathlessly. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, harder than it even had when he and his wife had battled the witch.

The faint look of scorn slowly left Stein's face to be replaced by the glassy-eyed expression and toothy smile he'd worn when Spirit first entered. His bloody hands had fallen to his lap when he turned, but he slowly raised one again to left side of his head where the larger end of the object protruded from Stein's head just above his ear.

Spirit's initial, instinctive assessment of the object as a screw seemed to be confirmed as Stein set his fingers around the flat, round end of it, gripped firmly, and twisted it backwards. A ratcheting sound came from the object and Spirit flinched away at the same time he took another step forward, the desire to stop Stein, to help him, and to just understand what was happening at war with the horror that had him nearly paralyzed.

"Stop!" he cried. "What...what is that? What did you do!?"

Stein adjusted his grip and turned the object again rapidly. His face contorted in pain as the ratcheting sound echoed through the large room, and the young meister began to laugh. The sound started low in his chest and then rose higher than the usual timbre of his voice as he doubled over and turned the screw a third time.

Spirit didn't know when he'd started crying, but tears streamed down his face as he forced himself forward on legs that felt as stable as jelly. He fell to his knees in front of Stein and reached up, set trembling hands on his shoulders and gripped the blood-soaked shirt.

"Stein."

The action arrested Stein's attention, his laughter ending as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped. He looked down at Spirit as if seeing him for the first time, hand frozen on the screw. Then he looked over to the corner that had stolen his focus before. Spirit glanced over his shoulder; the corner was still bare.

"I don't know if it's working."

It was the closest to sane Stein had sounded since Spirit had entered, but the meister's eyes were still glazed and didn't seem to see him. Spirit watched his face as he continued staring at the corner, could almost see the calculations working behind his eyes.

"This... Stein... Can you fix this?" Spirit said desperately, finally daring to look at the screw that Stein still held onto almost protectively. He leaned left to peer at where the smaller end of the object was protruding above Stein's other ear. He couldn't tell if it was truly impaled through his friend's head, or if some other mechanism was at work; it was impossible to tell through the matted, bloody hair that fell over the dark metal.

Stein blinked, and Spirit's breath caught as the meister's gaze suddenly narrowed on him.

"Don't you see? I am. Fixing this," he hissed cruelly.

Spirit shook his head. "Stein."

"If this doesn't work..."

Spirit listened to the frightened words, low and hoarse as Stein adjusted his grip, turned his hand, and the ratcheting sound echoed through the room again.

"Why would you do this?" Spirit pleaded, still not believing what he was seeing. If it wasn't for his fingers digging tight into Stein's shoulders he would think it was another delusion of madness.

Suddenly, Stein's eyes truly focused on his for the first time, and his face fell into a terrifying frown. It was just enough warning, and Spirit was able to lean back fractionally as Stein's free arm swept up harshly into both of his, knocking him away and barely missing hitting his face.

Spirit fell back onto his rear, caught himself harshly on his already-sore elbow, and gazed up at Stein in disbelief. The action seemed to startle the meister as well, his anger fading as rapidly as it had come. He stared at Spirit with something of confusion, and then looked up at the corner again. A sound of surprise fell from his lips, and Spirit watched as his eyes darted around the room rapidly as if searching for something, until finally settling on Spirit with another frown.

Spirit was frozen by the bitter look of betrayal that suddenly filled his friends eyes, and all he could do was watch as Stein started to shift his hand upward again. But then, apparently catching sight of the blood on his hand, the meister refocused his attention and a placid smile replaced everything else that had been twisting his features into something beyond recognition.

Spirit's tears fell freely as he stared at his friend and the massive object protruding from his head, blood still dripping down the sides of his neck. His thoughts were finally catching up to his horror, and he knew he should probably call someone for help, get Stein medical attention before he lost too much blood, and see if anything could be done about the metal rod that was apparently set straight through his brain. It shouldn't even be possible, Spirit thought, as he felt he would choke for how his heart pounded in his throat. That he had found Stein alive after his self-mutilation was nothing short of miraculous.

"Stein," he began carefully, his voice broken apart for his fear. "You... We need to..."

Stein stared at him with an unsettling calm, and Spirit's mind recalled every time he had had seen that expression before—all the times he'd had to hold Stein back, either physically or mentally, from some terrible desire borne of madness.

Spirit bit down on his words as he felt bile begin to rise in his throat. He shifted to sit upright, but his muscles felt useless under the weight of guilt that was suddenly bearing down on him as heavily as had the darkness underground.

Who had Stein had, to help him fight his madness...in all those months Spirit had forgotten him?

"Stein..." he tried again. He reached up to his eyes, closed them as he wiped away tears that kept flowing. Stein lifted an eyebrow, and Spirit realized his face was likely now streaked with Stein's blood from his fingertips. "Please, I... I should have... I don't... Stein, why?"

He blinked in attempt to clear his vision, gazed pleadingly up at the meister who sat so calmly, as if half his body wasn't stained in red and the air around them didn't taste of iron.

"Senpai," Stein said, his voice finally something familiar. Spirit watched his friend's hand slowly fall, rest limply upon his knee. But the calm ended once more as a wild, toothy smile bisected the meister's face, and something like the distant sadness from the nightmare filled his eyes. "You know better than anyone that I have a screw loose."

Spirit choked on a sob, shook his head as Stein began to laugh. It started low as it had before, but rapidly rose into uncontrolled shrieks that tore from his throat and racked Stein's body in the chair, rolling it back and forth through the drippings of blood on the cement beneath.

Spirit wept.

It was his fault. If only he hadn't forgotten Stein... No, if he hadn't left him to begin with. Then he wouldn't be seated at his friend's feet, watching him possibly bleed to death and collapse fully into the madness he'd fought so hard for years to protect him from.

He let his tears fall freely as memories raced across his mind, questions and possibilities and denials he had replayed countless times before, and conclusions drawn from the voice he had chosen to believe. It was too much happening too fast, all over again. And as over a year's worth of confusion and fear joined with the present and tangled into an unsalvageable mess in his mind, two words slowly formed and found their way to Spirit's tongue.

"I'm sorry."

It was time to rise out of his denial. He needed to ask Stein... To hear everything from his lips, find out what was true and what wasn't... Learn his side of the story. And no matter what, Spirit realized he didn't care; that in his soul the decision had already been made, and all that was left was to come back. To offer to fix what he had broken. It was all his fault, and couldn't they just erase the past, and please...wouldn't Stein forgive him?

"Stein, I... I..."

The shifting of plastic wheels on the floor stopped, and the laughter faded to hiccuped chuckling. Spirit wiped his tears again with the sides of his thumbs, brushed his hair from his face, and looked up.

Stein appeared frozen above him, grin still manic and eyes not quite seeing him even as he stared straight at him.

Stein's shoes pushed on the floor and the chair slowly rolled back and hit the edge of the desk. His gaze remained on Spirit, unblinking. A bloody hand reached back, felt blindly on the desk and knocked a few previously unseen surgical instruments to the floor. And then Stein's hand returned, rose up between them, his fingers delicately holding a scalpel.

"It's about time I gave you some new parts as well."

Spirit's breath hitched. Stein's shoes pushed down, and the chair started rolling forward.

Spirit let out an involuntary cry as instinct had him roll backward and away, far out of Stein's reach, and then he was on his feet and backing toward the door.

"No! Stein, no, listen to me!"

"Hm, but Senpai... Don't you think you could do with a new liver? I have one in my freezer," Stein said, jerking his head toward another door that Spirit hadn't noticed.

The simple movement of his head seemed to cause him pain, and Spirit watched as Stein winced, his fingers tightening on the scalpel even as both his hands quickly raised to grip the ends of the screw.

"Stein, I... Don't... Stay here. I'm going to get help. I'll get..." he stammered as he continued backing toward the door.

Stein's face settled back into the mad grin, the hand holding the scalpel lowering as the other turned the screw.

Spirit flinched at the sound it made, at the tiny laughs that seemed to slip involuntarily from his friend's lips. He shook his head in terrified disbelief as he felt behind him blindly until he found the doorknob.

"I'll get help. Stay here! I... I'm so sorry, Stein."

Spirit turned, away from the horror and the sight and scent of blood, and the echoing crank of metal mixed with laughter as he fled the warehouse and ran as fast as he could ever remember moving. Maybe...maybe if only he could reach some help...there was still time.

--------------

In the warehouse, Stein blinked at the metal door until it drifted shut, closing into position with a soft click. Then, all was quiet.

He blinked, slowly turning and glancing all around the room, into every corner and next to every haphazard stack of books, seeking any movement or sign of life.

"Spirit?"

Stein waited. But silence was the only reply he received.

He slowly turned back toward the computer, the feeling of moving his feet foreign as if he hadn't walked in an age. He was going to attempt to analyze that sensation, and why his body suddenly felt as though it wasn't his, when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrors.

He took a few steps forward, not quite believing he was looking at himself. He noted the blood, both the dried and the wet still seeping from his flesh. And then he studied the screw, tilting his head slowly to each side and evaluating its appearance and placement.

Then he glanced around the room again.

"Huh. I guess it works."

Stein reached up to the screw, turned it once. Hissed at the excruciating pain it caused. And then he laughed.

---------------

Spirit was breathless and his limbs ached as he sprinted down the sidewalk to his first-floor apartment. He was so panicked and intent on his goal that he didn't notice his wife approaching the door at the same time until he nearly crashed into her.

"Spirit?" she said in surprise. He stopped, doubled over to his knees for a moment, and then stood again as his entire frame shook from exertion. His wife had looked confused and deeply annoyed at first, but she must have noted the blood on his face, he realized, as her expression dropped to fear. "What's going on? Where's Maka? Where have you been?"

Spirit ignored her questions as he wrenched the doorknob open and darted through the familiar halls to his bedroom.

"Lord Death!" he gasped upon entering, and the Grim Reaper turned from his faithful vigil next to Maka's sleeping form and tilted his great, curious masked expression down to the weapon and took in his appearance.

"Oh, my. What's happened?"

Spirit sucked in air and looked over his shoulder as his wife followed him into the room. She looked properly shocked by the presence of the Grim Reaper in her home and quickly schooled her appearance into something of respect as she dropped her purse on the dresser, glanced at Maka in the crib, and then turned her wide eyes to Spirit and waited.

Spirit took a few more breaths, looked back to Lord Death, and wiped his eyes again. He forced his tears into compliance before launching into a hurried explanation of what he'd found at the warehouse—of the screw, of Stein's mad behavior, and of the supposed threat at the last when he'd made to leave. He stole glances at his wife throughout, noted her astonishment, suspicion, and ultimately, anger.

"Oh, my," Lord Death repeated when Spirit had finished, his words slow and grave. "You stay here and look after yourself. I'll see to Stein."

"Yes... Yes, Sir," Spirit breathed, his lungs still aching in pain for the sprint back through town.

With that, the reaper vanished, using his mirror as a portal in the same way he had entered, and left Spirit alone with Maka and his wife.

With the promise of the best help for his meister possible, Spirit collapsed. He sank heavily to the floor between the bed and crib and let his head fall back against the edge of the mattress, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried to slow his breathing and bring his body back to some semblance of normalcy. But unbeckoned, the horrors from the warehouse flooded his vision behind his eyelids, and he blinked repeatedly to banish the experience worse than any nightmare he had ever had.

He lifted a shaking hand and tried to wipe the salt from his cheeks, feeling the flaky, dried residue of the blood that he knew he would need to wash before Maka woke up. And then he suddenly realized how overheated and sticky with sweat he was from the run, and achingly peeled himself out of his jacket.

"You...went to see Stein?" his wife's voice broke through his thoughts.

He rolled his head sideways on the edge of the mattress until her scowling face filled his vision.

"After everything he did to you!? I thought you were smarter than this!"

Spirit's brow furrowed. "I don't think—"

"You told Lord Death yourself, he threatened to cut you up again tonight! And he's gone totally mad! How could you do this to me? To Maka?"

Spirit shifted, started to push himself to his knees. "Angel, I—"

"Don't 'angel' me anything! What if he'd killed you? Your stupidity would have left me a widow and Maka fatherless!"

Spirit stared dumbly up into his wife's furious face. He wanted to argue that she'd hardly been a mother or wife, with her lying almost every day about where she was and leaving Maka in daycare, and then heading off again at nights when Spirit got home. But he was too exhausted, too overwhelmed by the horrors he'd experienced, and too worried about Stein to even begin to put any of those thoughts into useful words.

"He's my meister," was what finally escaped Spirit's lips, though he knew the argument was already lost. Even when he held the higher position, somehow with his wife, he always wrong.

Her eyes widened. "What?" she seethed.

Spirit realized his error as her face reddened further in anger, even though technically she couldn't claim to be his meister anymore either. Lord Death was the only one who would wield him now.

He was expecting an explosion, like usual. Words of censure and revulsion, to remind him that he was a dreadful husband and only Death's weapon because of her, and what thanks did she ever get for it?

But none of that came, as her feet padded softly between he and the crib, and then Spirit stumbled to his feet as he heard Maka's soft whimpers of distress as she was lifted out of her bed and into her mother's arms.

"What are you doing?" he said anxiously, a panic that was becoming too familiar racing across his nervous system.

"I'm going to Azusa's. Have your head on straight by tomorrow night, Death Scythe," she fairly spat, tucking Maka against her chest as she turned on her heel to leave.

"But... Kami!" he cried, stepping after her. But the door had already slammed shut.

He stumbled back against the bed, fell seated to the mattress as he heard Maka begin to cry from the sudden and startling sound. He listened to the second slam of the front door and Maka's cries growing distant as she was carried away from him, away from the home that suddenly didn't feel like it deserved the name.

Spirit's bloodied fingers found his wedding ring and twisted it slowly around his finger.

How, in just one day, had everything fallen apart so completely?

Spirit took a few breaths and then pushed himself to his feet. He walked on shaking legs into the bathroom, turned on the light and blinked against its harshness. His stomach turned as he stared at the red streaks on his face and that had matted some of his hair. He felt the prickling of tears in his eyes again, but with effort he swallowed them down.

His wife was right about at least one thing. He was Death Scythe. And he needed to be prepared for whatever he may need to face.

Maka would be fine, if they were going to be at Azusa's. Marie was still her roommate, unless something had changed, and often all the young weapon would talk about was the day she too had the privilege of being a wife and a mother. Maka was in good hands. And tomorrow, after some rest, he would deal with the issue of his wife's deception and leaving their daughter at daycare all the time.

That left the more urgent issue of Stein.

Spirit wanted to go back. He wanted to find out just what Lord Death would do to help his friend, to see for himself that Stein was going to survive the horrible self-mutilation, and could it even be undone? And, what of his madness?

Spirit thought again of what he'd experienced underground, the terror of those invasive thoughts, and how real and demanding they had been. Was that truly what it was like in Stein's mind? All those years that Spirit had felt the bristling, violent edge of his thoughts whenever he and Stein resonated... How Stein must have been holding it back, protecting him from the worst of it...preventing him from seeing the true depths of the madness.

Spirit took a slow, deep breath to hold the tears at bay again.

How could he have believed his wife? When she insisted Stein had been conducting illicit experiments on him, convinced him that the younger teen couldn't be trusted. Stein's refusal to offer either affirmation or denial was all the proof she had needed, and it had seemed the easiest way to ease hostilities to simply accept her word.

To abandon his partner.

And now, Stein may die because of him.

What kind of death weapon was he?

Spirit splashed water on his face and ran it through his hair, scrubbed at the blood until his skin felt raw and his scalp ached. Fresh tears mingled hot on his cheeks with the cool of the water, and when the only red left on his cheeks was the flush he felt from humiliation, he turned off the light and stumbled back into the bedroom.

He was no one anybody should be looking up to, or offering flirty waves in the academy's halls. He was an idiot and a failure, and everything his wife always accused him of being. He was probably a bad father, too.

He sniffled as his gaze locked onto the empty crib while he stumbled across the carpet, hoping that his wife would bring Maka back to him soon the next day. So focused was he, that his foot caught on something just under the bed and he tripped, falling so that his knee grazed the hard item when he hit the floor, and he hissed against the pain.

He felt in the dark for the offending object and soon pulled out a small, forgotten lock-box. His eyes widened on the sight, and familiar warnings rose in the back of his mind with too many words to form into coherent thought as he looked at the small, combination lock, the number sequence easily called into memory.

His thumb began turning the dials.

He had promised to stop drinking the day he found out about the pregnancy, and he had been true to his word. The box of expensive liquors was just for very special occasions, like the night after he and his wife had defeated the witch, and the day that Maka was born. And just a single shot those times, he had insisted, because it wasn't worth the risk to have more. Not when he was Death Scythe. Not when he was a father.

Stein's expression had been bittersweet when he told Spirit he was proud of him. Spirit had never understood that look.

He flipped the lid of the box open and lifted out one of the bottles, and his brow furrowed in confusion. It was nearly empty.

He considered for a moment, and then his eyes widened in understanding.

So, his wife had other secrets she had been keeping from him besides her daily excursions.

Spirit slowly turned the bottle over in his hand. He felt the warnings prickling all the way up his spine. He heard the echoes of his promises. He heard Stein's kind but melancholy praise.

And then he thought of his wife's lies. And the blood dripping down the sides of his friend's head. And the mad, defeated laughter as Stein had looked at him like he was a stranger.

Spirit replaced the nearly empty bottle, and then lifted a full one out of the box. He took a long, slow breath as he leaned back against the side of the bed. Felt every one of his nerve endings tingle in fierce opposition. And then he twisted open the cap.

He could keep some secrets, too.

#soul eater #soul eater fanfiction #franken stein #spirit albarn #lord death #maka albarn #maka's mother #kami albarn #CrossStitch #death scythe #stein #spirit #year of the otp #writing prompt #yotp

[alexversenaberrie]

#reyroseweek2023 #reyroseweek #soulmates #rey #rey skywalker #rose tico #rey x rose #soulmate au #year of otp #yotp 2023 #year of the otp #yotp #soulmate

[kiljoius-writes]

bonds beyond the brokenness

Ao3 Link | Full YOTP Series Found Here

Pairing: Hanabi Hyūga/Konohamaru Sarutobi

Summary: Hanabi visits Konohamaru in the hospital.

September prompt: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1.5k

Rating: T

Word of Konohamaru being beaten to a bloody pulp only makes its way to Hanabi through long-distance osmosis. She’s passed out with her head on Hinata’s hospital bed, snoring away with a hand clutched on the sheets where her sister's hand rests, when the news hits her ears. But she doesn’t realize it immediately, she just dreams about it. It’s strange, like all dreams are, with Konohamaru talking a big game like he usually does and subsequently being thrown around like a ragdoll. Flashes of the mysterious figure that sent her own sister into the ground appear in her mind, and that same figure is killing Konohamaru.

Keep reading

#naruto #konohana #konohamaru x hanabi #konohamaru sarutobi #hanabi hyuuga #hyuuga hanabi #sarutobi konohamaru #hanakono #naruto fanfic #naruto fanfiction #konohana fanfic #hyuga hanabi #hanabi hyuga #year of the otp #yotp #angst

[giustoart]

“Kiba, you’re hurt, you should go to the hospital…”

“Don’t care, just wanted to see you. Now kiss me.”

Happy Valentine’s Day!!!

Not totally convinced of this pic, but I didn’t have much time to do it, so…

Prompt: yotp’s Valentine’s Day

#kiba inuzuka #kiba #kibatama #tamaki #kiba tamaki #naruto fanart #naruto #naruto shippuden #yotp 2023 #yotp #valentines day #kiba x tamaki

[eiswolfzero]

'vacation together' for YOTP 2023 Prompt List July

[insert News article here about how Bruce Wayne has been seen with his current boyfriend on vacation together. Gotham's favorite billionaire has been carrying around his exhausted partner and everyone swoons about the chivalrous gesture]

#wally west #bruce wayne #batman #flash #batflash #yotp #personal art #why do my colors turn out so different from tablet to pc haha #I mean they're cool colors! #but it's always leaning towards yellow waaay more than usual

[yearoftheotpevent]

January Prompts for YOTP!

Kick off 2023 with a bang and join the event focused on inspiring fanworks all year long!

The only requirement is that works submitted must include a relationship focus (platonic, romantic, familial, threesomes, moresomes, or whatever else!) and be inspired by one of the prompts on our sheet (pinned)

YOTP started as a DC-based event with the idea of focusing on one ship for the whole year, but we want to provide a platform of encouragement for anyone in any fandom (including original work) with any number of favorite ships to participate and consistently post new work throughout 2023 January prompts - first kiss, mission fic, fake dating, "whenever I look at you...", snow, historical AU AO3 collection and FAQ can be found here.

#YOTP #Year of the OTP #2023 #ao3 stuff #fanwork event #writing event #art event #YOTP 2023

[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - April

I've only realised now that this has never been posted! I am so sorry! I am really not super good at keeping track of these things.

Pairing: Caranthir x Finrod

Prompts: pranks, canon divergence, (seemingly) unrequited love, "No, I am not dating your brother", peace, university

Words: 2 205

Warnings: sadness, insecurity, misunderstanding

Caranthir frowned.

His brothers would have qualified his present mood as cantankerous—he would have called it the “status quo”.

As such minor inconsistencies in vocabulary did nothing to dispel the storm clouds sitting heavily on his fair brow, though, he put the thought from his mind and returned his focus to the vexing problem at hand.

Before him, in the middle of his perfectly orderly desk, flanked by neatly arranged stacks of notes and copies, lay a garish flyer, announcing the upcoming spring ball organised by and held at his university.

Usually, Caranthir managed to avoid this kind of overly dramatized, idiotic social gathering, but a strange sense of unease and helpless frustration had kept him from simply throwing away the crumpled piece of paper.

He wanted to go.

Of course, he would rather have bitten off his own tongue than admitted as much to anyone alive, but a part of him was sick and tired of being perpetually alone—undeniably unloved and universally unwelcome.

Nonsense, he chided himself sternly. It would only exacerbate his reputation as an unpleasant curmudgeon and his subsequent misery if he were to turn up alone and uninvited to a party where everyone else was making out in deserted classrooms and unsanitary lavatories.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed softly and pushed the flyer under a stack of homework—he was already late for his afternoon classes, and he’d rather not lose any more time just moping around.

The first thing he saw upon stalking into the much too brightly lit foyer of the university was his brother, winsome as ever, and his mood soured even further.

Leaning suavely against a very old, very valuable pillar, Maglor was entirely caught up in a hushed conversation and thus didn’t notice his younger brother sweeping past dramatically.

Caranthir’s heart sank—for a fleeting moment, he had considered approaching Finrod to find out whether he had any intention of attending the laughable circus that was upon them.

He knew for a fact that his co-student—ridiculously radiant and blindingly handsome—was not entirely averse to mopey, overly serious, and unbearably stiff specimens of his own gender; after all, he had dated Turgon, the only man who could compete with Caranthir’s glowering looks and hostile demeanour, for a while.

Considering how bright-eyed Finrod now looked, though, as he hung on Maglor’s full, sensual lips pointed to another conclusion: the cheery, popular, charming object of all Caranthir’s repressed desires had surely grown tired of men of his calibre. It made sense—unfortunately, that sober realisation did nothing to alleviate the painful twinge in Caranthir’s heart despite the quick onset of gruesome rationalisation and well-rehearsed self-denial.

Huffing an unnerved sigh, he hastened up the winding steps and slammed down his supplies on an old, worn table, determined to lose himself in his statistics class. He’d think of that silly ball and his agonising loneliness no more.

As soon as the class was dismissed, Caranthir slipped into the comforting silence of the library so he could make sure that he’d not meet anyone else, crush or sibling, once he was ready to return to the self-imposed isolation of his childhood room.

There was much work to be done, and he prided himself on his irrefutable excellence. This, he knew he could not only do, but do well, and so he disappeared into theories and long lists in his sullen escape from the bleak reality of wanting.

Every so often, his phone vibrated in his pocket, but Caranthir didn’t feel like reading the updates in the family groupchat, undoubtedly pertaining to the exciting plans of his various brothers to which he was never invited anyway.

The sun had gone down and the world seemed to have been dipped into translucent black ink by the time he re-emerged from his frenzied study session, and Caranthir dragged himself to his locker reluctantly.

A pounding headache was taking root behind his bleary eyes, and it took him a moment to realise that the flash of white he’d only vaguely registered upon tugging at the rusted metal door was a note addressed to none other than himself.

With trembling fingers, he unfolded the missive and gasped. It was an invitation to the very party he’d refused to obsess about all day long, and it was unsigned.

Caranthir was known for having no patience for this kind of childish game, but—as nobody but the mysterious sender—knew about this, he didn’t have to pretend that he was utterly untouched by the instinctive excitement such a communication would have incited in any living soul.

Nevertheless, before his fancy could absolutely get the better of him, he shoved the precious paper under a stack of hefty tomes and went to bed without expecting to find much sleep with the way his heart was pounding, and his mind was racing.

“Lame,” Beren commented as he folded a half-torn flyer into a paper aeroplane and sent it sailing across the spotty lawn. “How about you come with me and Lúthien instead? She’s had a rad plan for…”

“Something illegal?” Finrod interrupted pointedly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be your get-away driver this time—I’ve been recruited by another mischievous rogue for his morally questionable scheme.”

“Oh? Tell me all about it,” Beren exclaimed, suddenly no longer fashionably bored by the mundane and yet deeply moving intrigues of the small university his friend attended. “I truly hope there is a handsome someone involved…”

“Several,” Finrod purred.

“Not your stuffy ex, though?”

Shaking his golden head, Finrod leaned back on his elbows and stared at the sky wistfully—he had no doubt that, once he’d explained the whole ploy to Beren—he’d be mocked cruelly for his fatal weakness when it came to overly serious, lethally handsome men with dark hair and flashing eyes.

“Your stuffy crush, then? A bird has told me that you were seen in an intimate conference with Maglor,” Beren—who somehow always managed to stumble upon the most extraordinary bits of information—drawled provocatively.

“If you know everything already, there’s no point in testing my patience!”

At once, the shaggy-haired youngster lifted his hands—palms outward—in a gesture of apology and goodwill. “No need to be so touchy! My source, of course, misunderstood and speculated that you might go to the ball with the pretty singer. That doesn’t sound right to me, does it? Tell me then, what is going on?”

“He’s asked me whether I’d consider inviting his brother to the party,” Finrod replied anticlimactically. “And I’ve agreed.”

“So, it’s some elaborate hoax?” Beren cocked one eyebrow in unashamed scepticism. “You know that you’re allowed to disagree with people, right? You may say that their idea, at the root, is not a bad one, but also express your uneasiness when it comes to their way of going about things. This sounds like one of those stories that get you into serious trouble only because you were too kind to share your doubts.”

He took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth downturned expressively still, and then shrugged lopsidedly. “So, did you ask the brother out?”

“I’ve sent him an anonymous letter,” Finrod confessed—he’d just been all but explicitly called a coward, which took the wind out of his sails regarding his big reveal.

“Sounds more and more like a prank,” Beren groaned. “You bloody fool. What’s his name again? Cat something?”

“Caranthir,” Finrod sighed longingly. “’Moryo’ to his brothers, hitherto ‘unobtainable’ to me…”

Nodding seriously, Beren pondered the matter for a while. “Say,” he then piped up, startling Finrod out of his own longing thoughts, “how will he let you know whether he accepts or rejects your invitation?”

“I thought that I’d wait for him in the foyer, flowers and all, a banner maybe…” Finrod admitted sheepishly.

As expected, Beren was highly in favour of that ploy, and, strangely enough, his very enthusiasm—earnest and exuberant—gave Finrod pause. He knew that this friend would have broken into the darkest, dankest dungeon or wrestled a wild beast for his girlfriend, but Lúthien was a woman who expected and enjoyed ridiculously grand gestures—Finrod was almost certain that Caranthir was not.

“Wish me luck, man,” he muttered as he changed his mind and cut his timeline in half. “I’ve got to run!”

He’d pick his secret date up at home, he decided, so as to give Caranthir a chance to let him down discreetly without anyone but his brothers witnessing the embarrassing scene. It was a sacrifice, and it left Finrod very little time to make all the purchases he’d planned, but he was now sure that this was the right way to go about his own grandiose gesture.

Caranthir paced across his room nervously; he felt foolish for having gotten ready for a party he might very well not attend after all.

Fingon had arrived 20 minutes earlier and was presently regaling his parents with funny stories while Maedhros was trying desperately to keep from blushing every five seconds—Caranthir hated them, and he loathed his father’s throaty, echoing laughter booming through the whole house.

Celegorm and Curufin had also already left; as always, they had “things to do” before even considering going to the ball, and everybody only half-expected them to make an appearance.

The twins had gone to the cinema with friends, and Maglor was sitting on the stairs, yowling to himself.

Drowning in an ocean of sound and life, Caranthir felt profoundly lonely.

And then, the doorbell rang.

At once, he threw his door open and hastened out onto the landing only to hear Maglor’s pleasant voice. “Ah, finally. I’ve been awaiting you.”

Of course, Caranthir thought bitterly. His brother had secured a date with the most beautiful, eligible bachelor on campus, a fact he’d banished into the remotest corners of his usually meticulously rational mind.

Now, though, the envy and jealousy almost made him black out with impuissant rage—here he stood, in a suit he’d stolen from Maglor’s wardrobe and embroidered in long hours of painstaking labour, to be the only one left behind, again.

Not that anyone would notice, he thought miserably; everyone was so enthralled by their own pleasure and delight that nobody would even remember that he, sullen and unloved, was still puttering around in his room.

“Good evening, Maglor,” Finrod’s chiming voice resounded, followed by a suspicious pause. “Will those do?”

“Carnations,” the gracious host cooed in his most detestable singsong tone. “How adorable!”

Caranthir was already halfway back in his room when he heard his name being called, no yelled, up the stairs for Maglor’s voice carried far and wide, and nobody could outrun it.

“Moryo, for Eru’s sake, tell me you’re ready! Nelyo said you were good to go half an hour ago…”

Leaping down the stairs two by two, Caranthir came to a slithering halt—wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked—in the brightly lit entrance, only nearly missing a stunningly handsome Finrod who was kneading a bouquet of bright red flowers in his slender hands.

“I wasn’t sure you’d accept my invitation,” the latest arrival said carefully. “So I thought I’d give you a chance to politely decline without witnesses present.”

“Ooops, that’s my cue,” Maglor laughed and moonwalked into the living room and out of sight.

“I…But…I thought you were taking out my brother,” Caranthir stammered, his eyes darting between Finrod’s luminous face and Maglor’s retreating frame. “Aren’t you dating?”

Throwing his head back, Finrod gave a merry peel of laughter. “No, silly, I’m not dating your brother. Maglor, as ever fond of dramatics, has graciously agreed to be my confidant in this.”

Caranthir gave a strangled hum of doubt and insecurity, dreading the imminent and inevitable arrival of the others on the scene, laughing at how gullible he was, to share a ride or just to distract their father so someone could steal some liquor from his private cabinet, and rubbed his thumbs bemusedly against his other fingers in a desperate attempt to soothe the contradictory impulses and desires raging within his chest.

“Please, say something,” Finrod pleaded. “I realise now that it was cowardly not to ask you in person, but—after Turgon—I wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to stomach another rejection…”

“Rejection,” Caranthir jeered feebly. “Of course, I wouldn’t have declined. I’m not doing so now—I just need a moment.”

“Certainly,” Finrod said fervently, extending his battered bouquet jerkily as if he’d forgotten that it was there. “Here, these are for you. They compliment your charming complexion.”

“Charming complexion,” Caranthir muttered mockingly. “Sure thing, my man.”

“You’re lovely—you must know that!” Heartened by the quasi-acceptance he’d been granted against all odds, Finrod quickly grew bolder and grabbed one of Caranthir’s pale, trembling hands. “I will make it up to you; I promise. Please say you’ll be my date for tonight!”

“Very well! As you can see, I’m already dressed. Let’s go before Maglor wants us to go over in a big cluster of noise and strangely clad limbs…lest you’d prefer going with my brothers?”

“They’re of no consequence,” Finrod assured him. “Let me walk you to your carriage then.”

And, extending his arm gallantly, he promptly abducted Caranthir from his parental home unnoticed.

How did those two become one of my OTPs? Nobody knows (well one person certainly does)!

Anyway, thanks for indulging me!

-> Masterlist

#No #I am not dating your brother #og post #Fanfiction #writing #IDNMT writes #jrrt #Tolkien fanfiction #YOTP #yotp 2023 prompts #Finrod x Caranthir #Caranthir #Finrod #April #Fairy tale AU #pranks #canon divergence #(seemingly) unrequited love #peace #universi

[pbchocmint]

Steddie road trip pt.2 cuz I wasn’t happy enough with pt.1 and I’m much happier with this one 🤗🤗🤗

(@yearoftheotpevent March prompt: road trip)

#st #steddie #steddie fanart #st fanart #stranger things #stranger things fanart #my art #op #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington fanart #eddie munson fanart #road trip #prompt list #yotp 2023 #YOTP

[creativitygoggles-artblog]

YOTP December - Holidays Together

Festive iidatodo for my final YOTP piece. It’s been a fun year of drawing them!

#bnha #fanart #bnha fanart #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #iidatodo #tenya iida #shouto todoroki #todoiida #yotp #yotp 2023 #holidays

[riddikuluspuff]

one shot: just say yes

♢ just say yes

written for @yearoftheotpevent

june prompt(s):  wedding/proposal

relationship: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger

rating: mature

synopsis:  It was the announcement of the season. The happiness that wavered throughout the Wizarding World rippled every single person that waited for an announcement like this to appear in the newspapers and be whispered among gossipers in Diagon Alley. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were engaged to marry. The big Malfoy wedding has been scheduled for the springtime in the Malfoy Manor gardens. The event is deemed to be planned by the groom's mother, Narcissa Malfoy, and the couple's best friend, Pansy Parkinson-Longbottom. Everything will be discussed in this newspaper, and this reporter will be following everything about this Malfoy wedding. So, be sure to constantly check out what The Daily Prophet reports on the events following the soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Draco Malfoy.

word count: 4.1k

! ON AO3 !

#YEAR OF THE OTP #Year of the OTP 2023 #YOTP 2023 #yotp #dramione fanfiction #dramione #Dramione fanfic #dramione ff #dramione fandom #dramione author #dramione writer #dramione ao3 #Draco #Draco Malfoy #draco lucius malfoy #draco x hermione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #Hermione Granger #hermione #Hermione Jean Granger #wedding #proposal #fluff #Family Fluff #romance #light smut #Smut #fanfic smut #weddings #fanfiction

[sapphicblight]

burning red and talking sin - a vegaspete pwp

Year of the OTP 2023 May prompt: sunshine What starts as an innocent application of sunscreen turns into something much hotter.

key tags: post-canon, pwp, face sitting

#vegaspete #kinnporsche the series #kpts #fanfiction #fanfic #vp fanfic #writing #mine #sapphicblight #ao3 #pwp #yotp #yotp2023 #yotp 2023