#and he was so clearly devastated

[sporadicfrogs]

oh no I'm thinking about journey's end and Donna begging the Doctor not to make her go back

[reineydraws]

i have this fic series i'm still working on where mihawk sort of becomes rayleigh's kid and spends ages 11-17ish on the oro jackson.

shanks and buggy imprint on him (bugs considers him a sort of older brother figure/sparring inspiration and shanks has a crush that eventually turns into full-blown love) and this is how i imagine they're like on the day mihawk sets off on his own haha.

[sovamurka]

...

I'm horrified and devastated at the thought that Ekko will basically find Jinx at her absolute lowest point

it's such a sad and awful turn of events.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

Sorry, but can I just stress something about Louis that drives me insane? 

In his route where you've saved him, he kills Dorian. Louis directly kills another person. He shot her with a crossbow through the mouth.

It’s unavoidable. 

Sure, it’s considered an accident, and even so, it was also self-defense—Dorian sure wasn’t there for a friendly chat, after all. 

But here's the thing... of the Ericson crew, we know that Clementine, AJ, and Marlon have killed someone. And Minerva if you want to count her, too, since she once was part of the group . But the others? Maybe they have killed before and we just don’t know about it, whether it be out of mercy or self-defense.

Violet in her route had the chance to kill Minerva, but understandably, she didn’t. She opted to shoot her in the shoulder instead… but we never see her kill anyone herself. 

Maybe you could count indirect kills because of the bag of bricks/log that kills Yonatan, and maybe you could consider Mitch’s death as indirectly Tenn’s fault… Speaking of Mitch, he tried to kill Lilly, but we all saw how that turned out, didn't we? 

…but Louis? He killed Dorian. That was his first kill. His first. 

And he feels awful about it! He apologizes to the body as it lays warm at his feet! He’s shaking and can barely speak!! It feels like bile! He doesn't even have time to process it because uh oh, the boat's going to explode!

But he’s also been so hardened over the season by everything that’s happened to him that he comes out of it glad that he has it in him to kill because if that’s what it takes to protect Clementine, AJ, and his family and home, then he’ll do it even if he doesn’t want to.

How does that not drive anyone else utterly mad?

Fandom considers him the funny guy! He's cute and silly! He makes Clementine laugh!

He's also done murder! He's taken a life! Just like Clementine and AJ have! Just like Marlon did!

And honestly, I think this also leads to him forgiving AJ for killing Tenn because at this point, he understands. He hates it, and he wishes it didn’t have to be this way, but he gets that AJ saw something that he didn’t. Louis knows that AJ’s hurting just as much as he is, he even says as much if Clementine says anything other than ��AJ saved your life” on the bridge. 

He relived Marlon’s death when Tenn died, but it’s not like his hands are clean, either… and neither were Marlon’s. Clementine’s hands definitely aren’t clean. 

It drives me crazy that best friends Louis and Marlon have each killed someone in TFS but Marlon killed Brody in a moment of panic because he’s a coward who wanted hide what he did while Louis killed Dorian in a moment of panic because he was trying to save Clementine from Minerva and she came up behind him like… hhhhnnnnggggggggg, y’know?

Oh, and don't even get me started on the clouis aspect of this because I'll lose it. He talks to her about it because he knows she'll understand, just like how she's always understood him. How he goes out of his way to tell her that having a home means protecting it and he's going to protect it [that home being her, AJ, and Ericson] no matter what because he wants to build this new life with her aaaaaaaaaaaaaand I've lost it—

[rawbin-hsr]

Aventurine x reader

You die.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

TW: DEATH, heavy angst, gore, blood, kind of disturbing, a bomb explodes, derealisation/disassociation, graphic, I'll be so honest this fic is kind of fucked up

Lmk if I should add any more specific warnings!

If you're sensitive to violence and dark themes, you probably shouldn't read this.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

This mission had gone terribly awry. 

It was only meant to be a routine checkup. The IPC was planning on allocating resources from this planet, something the locals had not been pleased about. Aventurine understood. He would not be particularly happy to have his planet drained of all that made it worthwhile either. (He had not been happy. But all things considered, he thought he was being generous. Nobody was being directly killed, the IPC merely wanted a cut of the many materials the planet offered. The Avgins on Sigonia had all been very intentionally exterminated. He was not doing that to these people.)

Still, he couldn’t afford to take risks, hence the many IPC assigned bodyguards he had brought along. Deals like this, where the clients were undeniably on the losing end, were bound to go wrong in one way or another. Often violently so. 

He just had not expected the bombs. He had not expected the mass amounts of guns. The people were more capable and vengeful than he had assumed, then. Ultimately, it was his own fault.

Most of his goons were dead. Most of the government officials were dead too. It made sense they’d want to go out in such a loud and proud way. A declaration to their people they wouldn’t lay flat before the otherworldly corporation that had come to essentially take away what made their planet their home. Bold to be ready to kill so many of their own, but he could respect it. 

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be very angry. It was fair, all things considered. He’d had this long coming; being killed by the people whose lives he was ruining. In their positions, he’d love to kill him, too. The only issue was that this hadn’t happened under normal circumstances. 

No, you were with him. You’d been just a bit away from him when they opened fire, when they set off the bomb. 

It was so stupid. It was so, so unbelievably stupid that he’d let you come with. It was your job, yes, but he should have reassigned you to some other mission. Something safer. Something that didn’t involve visiting planets to drain them of all their worth. Something that didn’t bring about rage from the clients. 

He could see you. He’d been saved from the brunt of the impact, and his luck had once again protected him from serious harm. He had only been slightly grazed by a bullet, had only been slightly burned by the heat of the explosion. Nothing serious. Nothing he couldn’t walk off within a week or two. You had not been so lucky. 

Your arm was outstretched over your head, body lying limply on the floor. Missing the other arm. There was only a gaping, red hole where it had once been attached to your body, a little bit of bone sticking out of the gory mess. The blown off hand with your engagement ring lay close enough to him that he could touch it. Maybe intertwine his fingers with it for the last time. The pinky was missing.  

He pushed himself onto his feet on unsteady legs. He could barely feel his own body at all. One glance down at it told him he’d been right in his initial assumption, though. No parts of him were missing. He was intact. 

He stumbled over to where you lay, your expression calm, almost peaceful. No pained pinch between your brows, no worried frown on your lips. Were you unconscious, or were you dead? Though he knew it was unlikely you’d leave this place alive either way, he hoped desperately for the former. 

He fell to his knees next to you. Something was buzzing beneath his skin. Something was buzzing in his vision. Had the world always been so blurry? Had there always been such a loud noise ringing in his ears? His hands trembled as he carefully reached out, a hand tenderly cupping your cheek. Your face was red, slightly burnt in places. Your hair was singed. You felt hot to the touch. 

No, not hot. Warm. Warm as in alive. He couldn’t hear you breathing, but warmth meant life. Warmth meant life. You were alive, surely.

He brushed his thumb under your eye. Tried to find something to say, but he found his mouth refused to open. Carefully, so carefully, he shifted you onto his lap. He stared at the dust from all the debris that had settled onto you. He couldn’t breathe. 

(He thought back to a time when the dust had been sand. He thought back to the red that had painted the ground then as it did now. He thought back to another body he had pulled closer, with hands much smaller and weaker than the ones he had now. He thought back to the taste of salt as tears fell in an endless stream from his eyes to cover his face and hers.)

He moved his free hand to your neck, gently pressing a finger to where he knew he was supposed to find your pulse. It wasn’t there, but only because he wasn’t searching hard enough. He carefully felt around, and though he couldn’t find it, he knew it was still there. He just didn’t dare press down hard enough to find it. The same applied when he felt your wrist. He was just bad at finding things today. 

(He stupidly hadn’t found a good enough reason to put you out of this mission. He stupidly hadn’t found anything that happened before the explosion suspicious enough to leave early. He stupidly hadn’t found his way next to you quickly  enough to save your life.)

When his hand landed on your chest, absent of a heartbeat, tears started falling from his eyes. But why was that? You weren’t dead. In fact, the longer he looked at you, the more sure he became this couldn’t be you. Your skin wasn’t this hot. Your arms were both still attached. You did not have fresh burns covering your face. Most importantly, you were alive. Alive and well and happy and safe from this little mishap. He had misremembered, you had stayed home during this mission. The hand he’d been so sure belonged to you had been someone else’s, he’d merely mistaken the ring for yours. It was such a bland ring, after all. He’d have to buy you a new, much prettier one once he came home to you, and apologise for his oversight in giving you such a boring design. 

He ignored the repeated whispers of ‘not again, not again’ going through his head. Nothing was happening ‘again’. This was not Sigonia. This was not a person he loved, or even knew. He couldn’t understand why his body curled over the stranger’s, sobs wracking his frame as he pulled them close, soft apologies tumbling from his mouth. He nuzzled his face into your- their hair, hand carefully cradling the back of their head as the other supported their back. 

The body smelled like you. The body felt too similar to yours in his arms. The body had your face, even if your features were a little damaged. The longer he stared, the more he could feel his gut sinking. So he shut his eyes and reminded himself that there was no possible way this was you. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. The universe would not be that cruel to him, would it?

Then again, maybe he had deserved this. If it was real. He was not a good man. He had not come to this planet with good intentions. Losing the thing most precious to him, the only thing precious to him, after taking away so much from so many others was a befitting punishment. 

But you hadn’t deserved this. Wouldn’t have, if it was real. You were so kind and generous and perfect and lovely, so different from him, so different from the position your job wanted you to be. You didn’t deserve to die. 

Die. Dead. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

You were dead. 

(Aventurine had seen so much death in his life. He should have been used to it by now. He was used to it. He had just forgotten how much it hurt when it is someone he loves.)

He held you tighter. If he held you tightly enough, could it piece you back together? If he held you tightly enough, could he replace the parts of you that were missing with his own? The sobs that escaped his lungs were violent, and quickly, some morphing into gagging. He felt sick. He had to turn himself away from you briefly to throw up, not wanting to soil what was left of you further, before he desperately held you again. Would it be the last time he held you?

Maybe if he took you back to the ship quickly enough, something of you could be salvaged. Maybe he couldn’t piece you back together, but he could find someone who would. There had to be something he could do. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t lose like this again. 

He could barely stand. His body was already weak and your added dead weight made it even harder to balance. He picked up the parts of you strewn about on the ground he could quickly spot. Your hand, your shoulder, what he thought might be your bicep. He couldn’t find your forearm and he didn’t have time to properly search for it. Maybe someone could put all of you back together? Maybe you’d be whole again. He wanted you to be whole again. 

(He couldn’t save his people. He couldn’t save his mother. He couldn’t save his sister.)

(But things had to be different now, surely. He was a different person now. He had power, he had wealth, he had everything. What would it all be good for, if he couldn’t save you?)

Other IPC personnel met him outside the building as he stumbled out, and Aventurine’s mind was so hazy he couldn’t make sense of anything that was happening. He was pretty sure his own, now dead, workers had sent a distress signal. People rushed in to find anyone else from the wreckage. After, Aventurine found out he was the sole survivor. (He always was.)

(You had not survived.)

He demanded you be taken into surgery. That the medical staff on board had to get you to breathe again. For some reason, they had been hesitant. He threatened to have them fired or killed if they didn’t get to it. He set you as first priority, putting the best doctors they had on hand to work on you. 

They sewed you back together as best as possible at his insistence. They got your heart pumping blood again, they hooked you up to machines and forced your lungs to breathe. The surgery lasted for four hours.

It did not change the flatline on the screen signalling your brain activity. 

He could find the best doctors in the whole galaxy, but he already knew the line would remain flat. Nothing was bringing that back.

He stared at you for hours after your surgery. Interlaced his fingers with yours, feeling the artificial warmth of your hand. It did not feel like you. The temperature was wrong. The look on your face was wrong. Your body was wrong. Everything about what remained of you was wrong. 

He eventually laid his head on your chest, and then he cried.

He cried until the black spots in his vision grew so numerous he could no longer see, until everything faded and he could no longer hear the beeping and humming of the machines keeping you hollowly alive. 

(Why did he ever let himself love again?)

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Sorry that was messy I wrote everything today because I am con-crunching tomorrow and won't be available for like at least 3 days after this (usually I write over the span of multiple days so I can re-read for grammatical/spelling errors and so my language will be a little more varied + I get fresh ideas). Sorry this fic was ?? kind of messed up ??? I think ??? I think my perception of what's messed up and not is kind of weird (I grew up on warrior cats HELP.) so to me it didn't feel that fucked up to write about Aventurine literally picking up your body parts after you died but I've realised upon mentally summarising that part of the fic that maybe that was kinda horrific. Just a glimpse into my twisted mind heh 😈.... sorry

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[daincrediblegg]

genuinely I don't think they could have pulled a better power move on the mental optics of Arthur Fleck/ Joker than the fact that he holds himself accountable rather than dismiss the violence he had about himself and that he perpetuated on others. it really frames the character himself as someone emotionally capable of meaningful introspection and change which is something you just don't see even remotely to nearly an explicit degree with any other joker portrayal (let alone portrayals of mental illness in mass media and depictions of "villainy" that so often fall so short of this mark)

[nightshadeblooming]

All tongues that rise against Woozi shall fall. I will do it myself if I have to.

[kacievvbbbb]

This to me is obviously Bucky and Steve. Like this is Bucky in Civil War, not quite Bucky not quite the Wintersoldier just someone looking for peace.

His memory is spotty at best, still comes and goes. He remembers the good times but he remembers the horrors as well, he’s not sure what’s real and what’s not. Doesn’t quite know when the torture started or which one it was. Which time was he saved by Steve and which time did he lose his arm. It all blends together.

he doesn’t always remember Steve and Captain America are the same person, he can’t remember their differences either. But he knows that they both make him feel the same way. That one of them, both? Is a promise of safety. That he could weep and never stop and they’d still be there.

[nachosncheezies]

People like Bill Jr. got all kinds of things wrong about Scully but probably none moreso than thinking it was tragic that Mulder was dragging her along on some descent into madness, when actually the real tragedy was how few of the people she loved ever realized it wasn't a descent.

(It couldn't be bc 1. it's not madness and 2. she was already there.)

[science-lings]

Rip AA1 Phoenix Wright, Kay Faraday would’ve loved you

[toastytrusty]

who up thinking about pedro acosta and augusto fernandez. how pedro has never lost a world championship while in possession of the 37 plate and never won a world championship while using a different plate. how he therefore has never won a championship while augusto was his teammate but has never lost it without him. how he's always chasing this guy up through the ranks, always either below or beside him, who he can admire and look up to because he's older and more experienced, and in some cases winning when pedro isn't. how in 2022 augusto won the moto2 title with 37, then left for motogp the next year, and pedro won the moto2 title with 37 again. how the 37 didn't stop winning for three years straight between the two of them. how pedro has won with it only after augusto won before him and relinquished the 37 to him. and yet now pedro is in motogp alongside him, and it's like the world revolves around him, and augusto is still there beside him, and yet he's also nowhere at all. the promise he showed was stamped out by someone clearly much more skilled than he is. someone so much younger than him, who he has now watched crash out of his first pole position in every class he's been in. someone who uses 31, because augusto already uses 37 and augusto got here first. but he won't be here last. pedro is the superstar everyone is watching and augusto has all but entirely faded into the background, but even now he still has that one thing that pedro wants, that pedro will never have while augusto is beside him as his teammate. and one can only assume pedro will use 37 again next year. and it will be like a part of augusto stayed with him because that 37 has always connected them. even if it becomes fully separated from augusto in the minds of most people who associate it fully with pedro and don't even know who augusto is, there will still always be those times when pedro had to use 31, because augusto used 37, and augusto got here first

[woodsborostabathon]

pondering the kirsch siblings orb yet again and you really cannot convince me that quinn would not have been moving like depression era bella in new moon from the moment she even FOUND OUT richie was moving to modesto...

[irregularbillcipher]

it kills me that the only understandable, semi-lucid line from birdie that isn't either naming his boys and saying how much he misses them, or drunkenly attaching himself to the first people to be vaguely nice to him and saying that they're Good People who he loves and actually he totally doesn't need his family anymore is just him seeing that brad is about to kill him and only being able to muster a line that equates to "welp, lemme have one last drink before i go." can we talk about the fact that he seems so passively willing to die hello can anyone hear me

[thecityofdoors]

was getting so fed up & irritated w astarion this playthrough that when i failed the persuasion check to get him to save the spawn & he decided to leave, i was just like fine!! see if i care!!!!! i’ll just get a hireling!! whatever!!!! it’ll be great not to have to put up with you anymore. good fucking riddance. good. bye.

so why do i miss him so much?? his exaggerated gestures. his petty little comments. i was convinced i didn’t like him, but against my will the fail elf has grown on me. ugh.

[probablygayattorneys]

@vaptainhammer has found the head researcher and in the process found the character who suffers most of all in Ace Attorney

Mrs. Hudson

[bravevolunteer]

"michael is dangerous he's an out of control delinquent" literally all you need to do is be kind to him and he'll look at you like YOU'RE fucking insane. just treat him like he's worthy of empathy and he does not fucking know what to do with it there you've bested him. if there's enough trust ( and i mean that so seriously you need it ) all it takes is a good hug and he's t minus five seconds from crumbling. paper mache type guy.