#cw: mentioned major character deaths

[lilybug-02]

Weird Route...

Spoilers for CT Weird Route below.

Please check tags for anything triggering ❤️

Afterlife...

........

This is not cannon, as the weird route is finished and it will not be added upon. But.......I often find myself wanting to draw for it. So here you are...

The weird route ends abruptly and without art for a reason. I wanted to make it painfully obvious that as YOU continue the route/story YOU stop getting anything out of it. You're only hurting the characters, and by the end, there's nothing left to do except start over.

I had thought of Asriel discovering Chara...well, dead. But I think that would have been too much for the scene. I didn't want to get any more depressing than it already was.

tbh I only hope that I can make an ending even half as good as this one. I still think about it often and I'm proud of the amount of work I put into it.

[stoutguts]

Been re-playing 09 recently, and like what if what if—

(the idea is low-key out there but just hear me out, also MAJOR ANGST, MCD, trigger warning/content warning for implied/briefly mentioned s*ic*de)

Price knows that he's in a vídeo game. Like, he figured it out after the first couple of resets,—after the first few playthroughs of the campaign. He has sentience across MW’s 1-3, while everyone else doesn’t.

No matter what he does, the outcome always remains the same.

Like a broken tape recorder, history repeats itself.

Forced to sit by and watch as his men die, again and again.

With their being absolutely fucking nothing he can do to stop it.

The plot is predetermined, and the programming just won’t allow it.

No matter how many times he tries to fight it, no matter how many times he tries to scream or say something off script, or move his body in a different way, it’s all futile.

First, it’s always Gaz.

Killed by Zakhaev, with that damned Desert Eagle.

Failing to protect him from the shot, time and time again. Even when he tries his best to shield him, it just phases right through him.

Then eventually it’s time for Ghost and Roach to go, and it’s never not devastating.

His transmission over comms is always just a smidge too late, no matter how many times he tries to warn them.

The worst part of it is that they’re not even able to recover the bodies,—Shepherd took care of that and then some.

But the most soul crushing of all—

Soap.

The bloody game has the audacity to give Price and the player some sliver of hope,—that maybe Johnny’ll make it out alive somehow.

Shepherd didn’t manage to kill him,—he survived that near death experience at the very least.—But that all comes crashing down after Modern Warfare 3–“Blood Brothers”.

The most brutal of them all, (in Price’s opinion), and it’s of course for the person he cares about most.

His (essentially) adopted son slowly bleeding to death, as they’re under heavy gunfire and surrounded by enemies on all sides. Before finally kicking the bucket from explosives planted by that bastard Makarov.

Of all people, why did it have to be him?

Yuri is gone before he even really got to know the guy.

So blah blah blah, the cycle continues over and over again, and the loop remains unbroken for a long time.

Price tries everything he can possibly think of, and eventually he runs out of options.

By some miracle however,—perhaps some fault in the game’s coding.—There comes an opportunity to end the cycle.—Price meanwhile, has slowly and progressively lost his mind,—until he finally snaps.

After he’d killed Makarov for around the 1,000th time, he can finally end his suffering.

As he watches Makarov’s lifeless body hanging from the rappel, instead of the usual lighter he pulls out to light his cigar, he gains just enough control over his body to pull out his pistol and pull the trigger.

A mass recall of copies of MW3 ensued after the discovery of this “glitch”, due to a outrage within the fan base and community. No matter what the developers and devs tried too, it couldn’t be patched. The game was then rewritten to where Price is the one to die, while Soap lives and is the one to kill Makarov instead. Re-released in 2013.

The idea came to me while listening to/was heavily inspired by the song “S.I.U” by Maretu btw.

If any of you know that song or are familiar, you’re a real one.

Also, completey unrelated, but is it just me or like does 09’s Makarov not sound and look like fucking Ben Shapiro lmfao??? He more so sounds like him though, or at least he reminds me of Ben Shapiro—

[skulldetergent]

could we all please start tagging MCD properly?

if i have to look at another post of ghost waking up to an empty bed with no warning i will combust

it only takes a few seconds to put the additional "cw mcd", "mcd" or "major character death" tag on your post, so please do it

[wolfprincesszola]

Echoes of 50 Masterlist

Hello everyone! This is a work that's been in the making for a little over 5 months now! I really hope you guys enjoy this, as it is only one of the amazing fics of this year's Big Bang Event hosted at @tss-storytime! As with every big bang event, there's always an artist and I'm so lucky to have worked with @thebestworstidea. The art she did for my story is absolutely phenomenal, so go check her out! ------------ Summary: Logan Sanders had spent his entire life hearing thoughts from everyone around him: strangers, family, friends, and more. He had learned more about people than he ever wanted to hear, but it became very useful when it came to gaining useful information.

His one goal in life? Find out what the government filled to the brim with powerless people has in store for him and the rest of the population with powers and stop it from happening.

Which was why it was even weirder when he had run into the prettiest man he had ever seen who just so happened to have the answers he might have been searching for. Unfortunately for him and for some frustratingly unknown reason, Patton Morris was immune to his telepathy.

The worst part? This cute guy seemed to be completely opposed against the government just as much as he was. Now it was up to him to decide if Patton was telling the truth and if Logan was to trust him in his crazy plans to try and overthrow the government. ------------

Characters: Logan, Patton, Roman, Remus, Janus, Virgil, Thomas, Emilie, Remy, Unsympathetic!Joan, Unsympathetic!Talyn, Unsympathetic!Orange Side, Unsympathetic!Friends_of_Thomas

Pairings: Logan/Patton (Logicality), Background Roman/Virgil (Prinxiety), Background Remus/Janus (Dukeceit), Hidden Remy/Emilie (Remilie)

Word Count: 55,210

Trigger Warnings: Major Character Death, Medical Trauma, Experimentation, Panic Attacks, Emotional Trauma, Abuse, Manipulation, Neglect

Content Warnings: Food, Swearing, Fighting

Art by @thebestworstidea

Read it at archiveofourown (click the underlined)!

<Prologue>

<Chapter 1>

<Chapter 2>

<Chapter 3>

<Chapter 4>

<Chapter 5>

<Chapter 6>

<Chapter 7>

<Chapter 8>

<Chapter 9>

<Chapter 10>

<Chapter 11>

<Chapter 12>

<Epilogue>

[shadedheart138]

The Blood We Shed, It Never Dries

His hand cradled the back of his brother's head, gentle and firm and there. He whispered a curse, a prayer, a promise of love. His voice wavered, broke. He began to cry, soft at first and then louder, louder, until he was crying and sobbing and holding his brother like the most precious of treasures, the most holy of all holy things. Cradling him as of he were a child, something sacred, something to be cherished. Should be be cherished? Did he deserve it, after all this time?

His brother certainly seemed to think so, whispering how he was so sorry, he was so, so scared, and how much relief he had felt to see him alive. Alive, alive, alive.

He didn't feel alive. He felt hollow, he felt small. He was small, in his brother's arms. Something fell out of his limp hands as his brother sank to the dusty, bloody ground with him in his grasp. He didn't look at it, it didn't seem to matter. Was he alive? Did he deserve to be?

He blinked slowly, hearing his brother's sobbing through water. His head hurt. He was thirsty. He wanted to cry, but he was too tired. He wanted to wrap his arms around his brother, this man, this simple, loving, amazing man who was larger than life, who was his rock, his shelter, his home. But his arms were too small, made of lead. He couldn't even lift his head.

Was his breath getting shorter? Or was he just tired? Was it evening into sleep, or was he dying? He couldn't tell, and that made him panic. His breath sped. Good, not dying.

But once it sped, it didn't slow. His brother gave him a worried look, then a soft call of his name. A firmer hug. His breath continued to speed, gasping like a fish out of water. Maybe he was dying. Maybe this was it. Why when he realized it, was there such a profound fear? Did his friends feel this fear when they died? His eyesight was blurry- ah, there were the tears he'd been too tired to cry.

" ... 'M dyin'." He slurred quietly, chest shuddering- was it with final breaths, or sobs?

"Oh, honey. You're not dying." His brother said, with a teary laugh. "Not dying at all. You had me convinced you were going to, but you didn't. You're safe and sound right here."

He looked to the side, and could catch a glimpse of blood and a limb and someone's face, a bandanna, a boomerang, an eye - before his face was gently directed away and back to his brother's chest, holding him there, caging protecting him.

"Who-?" He croaked, bringing hands up to grasp at his brother, his rock, his lifeline. His parent.

"No one you know. Not one of us. Not Tune, not me. Not Tune, not anyone you need to worry yourself with." Names. Oh, those existed. Kokiri didn't bother with names, they only had them when Link was there.

He wasn't Kokiri anymore. And he wasn't Link.

"... T'ne's 's safe?" Mask slurred, blinking slowly, grasping a little less tight at the Captain's shirt. One hand lost its grip and fell, before Mask sluggishly tried to get it back up and latched onto the Captain again.

"He's safe." His brother easy lied, keeping this child, his child, his brother, his son, in the sweet and blissful dark. Mask didn't need to see the Sailor yet. No one did. No one would see this field but Mask and Captain Link, Mask made sure of that.

"Good." Mask whispered, eyes fluttering. He was so, so sleepy. For once, he didn't snap at the Captain for holding him so dearly. He was tired. It felt nice. Tune was safe. Where was he?

"T'ne?? Tune?" Mask whispered, mouth full of cotton, as he tried calling for his brother. Wars gave him a sad look, with both joy and grief in his eyes. Who was the joy for, and more importantly, who was the grief for? "Shhhh, dear. He won't answer right now."

Mask shuddered. There was something the Captain wasn't telling him, wasn't there. He knew that look, that crinkle in his brow. He could see early gray hairs at his right temple, and he reached to touch. His hand was covered in blood. Was it his own???

Mask startled and pulled his hand back, leaving a very small, bloody handprint on the Captain's face. He was about to whisper an apology, but Captain Link cut him off. "Shhh, shh. Shh. It's not yours, it's not mine. I've got you. How about you take a nap, hmm? I'll get you all washed up and you can sleep?"

Sleep sounded phenomenal. But there was a part of the Captain missing, it was clear. Maybe multiple parts. At least a single visible one.

"... Sc'rf?" Mask fingered the edge of Captain Link's collar, leaving blood there. "You wouldn't want to see it now. All dirty. I'll get it cleaned."

"Mom?" Mask whispered, sniffling. "Wh'r's T'ne?" He wanted his brother. Tune's hands were warm and his hair smelled like salt and his eyes were sea green. Captain's were cold, too big, gripping tight, as if afraid Mask would disappear. Tune would know what to say.

"Don't worry, honey. Just sleep, okay? Just take a nap. We can worry about it later." Treating it as if it were another bloody spot on his tunic. Mask wanted to ask more, wanted to cry, to call out for Tune again... but his eyes closed. "L've you Mom." He whispered quietly, not noticing the way The Captain looked over the destruction before him. "I love you too, Mask. Get some sleep."

The Captain laid his son, his brother, his kid down on the dusty ground and moved to his other one. The one that wasn't moving, and wouldn't. Only sixteen. A giant scarf draped over him, like a burial shroud. Warriors held a limp hand, the only part of his other kid he could bear to look at.

"I'm so, so sorry, Tune. So sorry. I love you. Mask loves you, and he's sorry. He won't know how you died. Only I will. And I'm sorry for that. But he doesn't need to kill himself to attempt to make it right. I can't lose both of you. Losing you is hell enough. I love you." And he kissed the place where Tune's forehead was supposed to be, covered by bloody cloth.

Link went back to his currently sleeping child, hands curled up, only nine, unaware of the grief and destruction around him. Link stepped on the cursed, bloody, wooden mask as he went by, cracking it clean in two and then picking up his child. It wasn't Mask's fault. It was his namesake's.

He didn't hear the god scream in pain from it's vessel being broken. Mask curled up tighter in Link's arms and started to whine, covering his ears. He could hear. Link helped cover them.

Then he carried him home.

fin.

[drrealityslenderverse]

Helpless

A03 Request: Alex(MH) x HABIT, with a hint of Evan x Alex (MH), hurt/comfort with a pinch of fluff

CW: Most hurt with very warped 'comfort' considering it's coming from HABIT. Warning as well for gore and mentions of cannibalism

Back to main Contents || Back to One-shot Contents

“I don’t know what to do.” 

“You think I do? You think anyone does?” Evan spoke quietly, hand lazily combing through Alex’s hair. 

“I killed my friends… and—”

“And it was because It manipulated you.” A glance down where the man was crumpled, hunched so his ear could rest over Evan’s heart. “You didn’t enjoy it, right?” 

“No!” An immediate response full of disgust at the idea he might’ve taken pleasure in his girlfriend’s death or in killing that guy in the tunnel or hunting down Jay, Tim, and Brian. 

Evan hushed him, gently rubbing circles on his back through the jacket he wore in an attempt to soothe him. Alex took a moment to settle, eventually lulled back into a more relaxed state listening to the heartbeat and the way the shorter man’s hands continued to trace patterns along his back at random. They eventually trailed upward and back into his hair to once more comb through it. A quiet breath escaped as his eyes half closed from the sensation. It had been so long since he’d had contact with anyone like this. He savored every moment. 

The pulsing sound of a heart pumping blood picked up until it was racing and pounding in both his ears. The hand in his hair went from the soothing motions in the memory to yanking him up off the floor, wrenching him back into the current reality. A hoarse shout escaped his dry throat.

“Wakey, wakey.” HABIT’s mocking voice stung worse when it sounded so much like Evan. 

But Evan would never speak to him like this. He’d never do this to him. 

“I brought you a gift.” 

Alex grunted as he was pushed back onto the hard ground. Half closed wounds stung as he forced himself to sit up again, dreading what this ‘gift’ might be. His stomach churned at the mutilated sight before him. It looked like Tim, he’d escaped, it was entirely possible it was Tim. Alex opened his mouth, to say what he wasn’t sure himself. A mix of emotions spun around: hatred for Tim for bringing hell upon them yet regret and fear for him was there too. Evan had helped him where he could never have trusted Tim to do and his time before HABIT took over gave Alex back some of his reasoning. Tim didn’t deserve to die, none of them did. 

HABIT crouched and leaned closer, whispering in his ear with a gruff voice that sounded much too pleased at the reaction he was getting. “You like it? I found him for you… You want him dead, now’s your chance.”

Tim was alive? Horror stabbed deep in his chest as if he’d physically been stabbed. Alex didn’t think anyone could look like that and still be alive. “...Tim?” 

A twitch of a finger just barely noticeable and a faint gleam of recognition as dark eyes, or was it just one eye now, looked his way. Alex heaved, bile momentarily overwhelming the coppery stench of blood that had seemed into the room itself. Breaths came out in pants as he choked up more. Alex felt dizzy, battered body swaying. 

He wished he was dead. He wished Tim was dead so he didn’t have to suffer at HABIT’s hands. At least the others were. HABIT couldn’t touch them. Perhaps Evan had it worse of all though, being forced to do as HABIT wished with his body without being able to do anything about it. Alex hadn’t believed at first that Evan was aware… a short break where HABIT let Evan take over again had swiftly changed his mind on that. 

Dry sobs sent pain through his lungs. It was hard to cry when you’d cried yourself to oblivion each night… or day… or whatever time it was when HABIT would finally be done with him for a while. 

“Alright, guess I’ll do it myself.” HABIT snapped impatiently, standing and sending a hefty kick to his ribs as he walked over to grab a knife. 

Alex let out a soundless cry as he felt a rib snap like a twig. Agonized coughs left red droplets dotting the floor and leaving the familiar metallic taste on his tongue. Hazily, he watched as HABIT approached Tim. For a moment he believed it’d be over quickly now, surely Tim couldn’t survive much longer like that anyway. 

Wrong. Oh how many more times was he going to fool himself. Alex couldn’t feel the pain but seeing it had him begging HABIT to show some mercy. Hoarse words fell on deaf ears until finally, there was silence. 

Alex was balled up and huddling against the wall, unable to look at the worsened sight before him. A hand wet with blood patted his head and he flinched away as HABIT crouched before him. Even without the blood he’d look threatening, now he looked downright terrifying. It reminded Alex of a predator looking at its next easy meal. 

A look of apology appeared, the guise so good Alex could almost be fooled that Evan was back. He wasn’t though. The way HABIT’s lips twitched upward at the edges as if to fight off a grin at his state was enough of a giveaway. 

The hand continued to pet his hair like he was a dog, smearing Tim’s blood throughout. A numb feeling was taking over him, accepting the disgusting gesture of feigned affection. “Come on, I thought you wanted him dead. I went through all that trouble to get him here.” 

HABIT shifted closer, practically looming over him as he gripped Alex’s jaw and forced the man to look at him. “You got what you wanted. All of them are dead, except Evan but I’m working on it.” 

“Mno!” His voice was muffled by the harsh grip. 

“Stick-in-the-mud had nothing on me, hmm. Unlike It though, I’m open to reason.” HABIT’s face was inches away now. “But I get the feeling you’ll still say no to helping me… Shame, I was prepared to throw you a bone after holding yourself together so long. Fix you up all nice again, like a little pet to fetch when I said so. We could’ve been great, killing the stick-in-the-mud. But it seems you like suffering, don’t you?” 

Alex tried to shake his head. He hated both options. Help HABIT and he’d get stuck watching others be put in this same position, slow torturous deaths. While killing the Operator was a tempting proposal… Living under HABIT’s command was worse than what the tall entity could ever do. Continue refusing and he’d keep living like this until HABIT grew bored and made Evan watch as he was killed—any hope of reuniting again disappearing forever. 

A malicious glint and the fingers in his hair curled tight enough to pull some of his hair out. Teeth grazed at Alex’s throat. “I’m going to kill you. Slowly over the coming days. Evan’s going to watch as I eat you alive piece by piece, then pick my teeth with what remains of your bones after I’m done crushing them.” 

The decisive tone made his fate feel so final that Alex didn’t doubt the truth of the words. HABIT stood, leaving him with the corpse for the time being. Alex sat there, staring emptily at the floor. Everyone was dead because of him. He’d never see Evan again, he couldn’t save Evan from what was about to happen. Alex felt worse knowing that than knowing he was about to die. He wondered if the others who died before him would be waiting to rip him apart again for his crimes…

[whumpbump]

Cw: manhandling and restraining, describing the death of Whumpee’s mother, gun mention

Whumpee had been rescued and was recovering in a hospital. They had no assigned Caretakers yet and were in the hands of the hospital staff.

Because they had no assigned Caregivers, Whumpee was essentially ignored aside from bandage changes and other medical needs like bathing. Even while eating, the staff left Whumpee alone.

With no one to talk to or engage with, Whumpee began to crave attention in the worst way. Especially hugs. They hadn’t had one of those since, since before they were taken! They remembered their mother who would always give them hugs as they came in the door and as they left. But that didn’t matter anymore. Whumper took care of that, placing a bullet cleanly between her eyes as they dragged Whumpee, screaming, from their home.

Whumpee shuddered as the memory came and faded. They hated thinking about it, about her fate, and began to sniffle. They missed their mama.

A doctor and nurses entered the room. “Hello, it’s time for bandage changes.” ‘Wow they couldn’t even use my name,’ Whumpee thought, annoyed.

They sat on the bed and removed the blankets. As one of the nurses began to remove the bandages, one was stuck on a scab and Whumpee jolted. “Sorry,” she muttered. As she went to continue, Whumpee pulled away, not wanting to feel the sensation of tearing again. The staff looked at each other and then at Whumpee. The doctor spoke up and warned “You need to hold still.” The nurse continued pulling and Whumpee began to howl in pain as the scab was torn from Whumpee’s leg. Whumpee became more antsy and pushed at her arms to get her away. She wasn’t doing it right.

The doctor hit the call bell and two nursing assistants entered the room. “Please hold the patient while we resume the bandage changes.

With a nursing assistant on each side, Whumpee was stuck. However, as the staff changed the bandages and cleaned up their newly opened up leg, Whumpee couldn’t help but feel compelled to sit quietly as they had a warm body on either side of them, squeezing them tight. It felt almost like a hug in a strange way. It reminded them of their mother and they felt safer.

‘I could get used to this.’ Whumpee began to make a habit of fighting back exclusively so they could have a nursing assistant sit with them. They did so at baths, bandage changes, hell, if they were able to have a staff member with them, they would fight until they had it.

In a staff meeting, the doctor and nurses were trying to figure out what had caused the change in Whumpee’s behavior as this would be the opposite reaction that is seen in someone getting better. The easier the bandage changes and the more cognizant the patient is, the better it should be. They began to discuss potential psych meds to put them on and to have them sedated during any medical intervention.

One of the nursing assistants spoke up. “What if they’re just lonely?”

The doctor brushed aside the thought and continued to discuss four point restraints.

The nursing assistant spoke up again. “I’m serious. I think Whumpee is lonely. Have you noticed that once someone is with them or touching them, they calm down?”

The doctor hesitated. The nurses hesitated. “What do you suggest?” They asked.

“Well, one of us could keep them company throughout the day and be there for bandage changes and meal times and baths and everything that they need done. Realistically, they need a Caretaker. Has the social worker assigned someone to them yet?”

“Well, no, as a matter of fact. We were trying to wait to get them to a healthier place. I see what you’re saying though, they need engagement. Talk amongst yourselves to assign someone to them for this week and we’ll see how it goes.”

After the meeting, the nursing assistants planned out a schedule so someone would always be with Whumpee.

The next morning, after a nursing assistant brought Whumpee their breakfast, they pulled up a chair and sat down. “Mind if I hang out? We thought you might be lonely. Until we can get you a Caretaker, we’ll be keeping you company.”

Carefully listing while chewing their toast, Whumpee nodded. This sounded great! And it was great. With someone to talk to, Whumpee blossomed back into who they were. They made more progress in physical and occupational therapy, had support for bandage changes, and improved overall.

By the time Caretaker was assigned and showed up, Whumpee was in such great shape that they were ready to pack up and take them home. Whumpee cautiously reached out and held their hand as they walked to the car. Caretaker looked down and squeezed Whumpee’s hand with a gentle smile. ‘I think I’m gonna be ok.’

[simple-seranade]

hi hello I would like to present to you this silly little idea: seablings but Life series edition

Lizzie can't remember Jimmy, nor does she really remember Last Life, but she has this strong sense of needing to protect him. She doesn't realize that's her brother, that's the person she's been forced to abandon so many times because she can't remember why can't she remember anything what is wrong with her

Jimmy remembers her though. Jimmy remembers being loved unconditionally and having that torn away from him because tragedy must follow those who bare the canary's wings. Jimmy recognizes her and has to tell himself that this isn't Empires but void, does he wish he could run to his sister when he's too tired to care anymore

But it doesn't matter. Lizzie doesn't remember him. Jimmy is tired of listening.

So why is she trying so hard to team up with him now?

How did she manage to save him from the curse only for Them to strike him down moments later?

:]

I will cry. I will become a Puddle Of Tears On The Floor

i don’t know if you meant this as limited life or what but i am placing this in Unnamed Life Series Game for a moment

I’ve Got You, Brother

Lizzie knows something is wrong. Somewhere deep in her blood, she knows.

It has something to do with that blonde boy, she’s sure of it.

TW: blood, death, all that fun Life Series stuff

not proofread because i’m writing this at like eleven but it’s f i n e

—————

The grass is green.

The grass is crumbled and black and dying, turning to ash under the force of the explosion.

The sky is blue, and then it isn’t, turning a dark inky black, then right back to blue again.

The sky is red and grey, filled with smoke as she coughs and cries out through the crumbling streets of the Grimlands for her brother, where is her brother, where is he?

The water of the river is blueish-green.

The water is disappearing and she knows she should care, but she doesn’t. It’s enough to scare her, but not enough to get her to say a thing as water gives way to dirt and stone and dry land and she wonders why she’s here, where this palace came from, why should she stay?

Lizzie knows these basic facts. She has eyes, thank you very much. They have reasoning and proof behind them, and they’re consistent in this bloody game of backstabbing and death. Some of the reliable truths she can ground herself in when she’s so confused, when Joel is shouting at the others and Pearl is telling her they have to run and Jimmy, Jimmy is quiet and she knows it’s wrong, that Jimmy is wrong, but-

Her mind hits the same block it’s hit for the entirety of the game. Something is off, just off enough that she knows it, but she doesn’t know why she knows it. Why she sees Jimmy’s smile twitch slightly and know the comments have gone to far. Why she feels such a genuine surge of remorse each time his death message pops up in chat.

Why she steps blindly between Joel’s axe and Jimmy’s chest, chuckling nervously that they should go find another topic.

The games usually have a memory block, sure, but- this is different. It’s not hazy recollections of an experience so distant it might be a dream. It’s something ingrained deep in her bones, crying out in words her mind has long forgotten.

She has the fleeting thought to go find Joel, but he’s snoring a few feet away. She doesn’t need to go find him, he’s right there. He’s right there.

He’s right there, standing at the altar with the most nervous look she’s ever seen on his face as the other emperors mingle.

He’s right there, holding her hand as the last of her memory fades before leaving her on the beach.

She doesn’t know why they’re fuzzy. Why Joel and Pearl and Scott and Jimmy all ignite that same ache deep inside her, like a part of her has been torn away and hastily stitched back together with thread that clashes horrible with the shades of her heart. She hates it, because she’s apathetic towards it. Her brain actively tries to ignore these signals, these alarm bells sounding in her soul, and she just wants to listen to them and find out what’s wrong, she’s so tired and scared and confused someone please just tell her where her brother is-

She needs to get out of this damned base, the air must be getting to her. Yeah. It’s the air.

It’s only a moment before the spruce door is shutting softly behind her, Joel and Pearl none the wiser. Wind blows her pink hair past her eyes, and she grumbles as she twists it back into a braid.

With her hair finally tamed, she sighs, tilting her head back as she listens to the night. Thankfully they’ve spawnproofed the area, so there are no nearby creeper hisses or rattling of bones. Just the quiet whistling of the wind, the occasional hum of an enderman, the soft sound of hiccuping sobs, the leaves rustling in the trees-

Wait.

It’s much more noticeable now that she’s noticed it, which she’s fully aware is redundant, but that’s the only way she can describe it. Like her brain was hoping she just… wouldn’t notice it if she didn’t think about it too hard.

Focus. Focus.

Focus because the crying sounds familiar. Focus because it has your feet moving and your heart pumping with no input from you at all. Focus because you already have a name on your lips as you round the corner, one that you have no business in guessing.

Focus because Jimmy is sitting by the riverbank, crying.

She doesn’t realize she’s beside him until he jolts under the touch of her fingers carding through his golden hair. He freezes, wings twitching and shoulders shuddering from the effort of suppressed sobs. “Sorry- I didn’t mean- I didn’t think you-“

“Do you need a hug?”

Silence.

Then he melts into the touch, turning and leaning his face into her shoulder as she plays with his hair, whispering quiet words in his ears. They’re drowned out by his own, ones she doesn’t understand.

“I jus’- I jus’ want you back. I jus’ want to be a brother again.” He murmurs, and she doesn’t think she’s supposed to hear this. “Please, please, whoever is listening, I just want to be a brother again. I- I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll die first, I’ll do whatever you need, but please- please-“

“No.”

She doesn’t know why she says the word, where it comes from, but the words ‘I’ll die’ coming out of Jimmy’s mouth sends such a cold bolt of fear through her that she doesn’t care.

“Don’t- It’ll be ok, Jimmy. I promise.”

He laughs, wooden and hopeless against her shoulder. “Don’t make promises that can’t be kept. It’s fine, Lizzie. You don’t need to worry about me. You don’t worry about me, period. Not here.”

“Jimmy, I-“

“Can we just keep hugging? Please? I need to pretend everything is normal. Jus’ for a bit longer.”

“… yeah. Yeah, sure.”

She doesn’t know when she fell asleep. All she knows is one moment, Jimmy is in her arms, and the next, she’s shaken awake by Joel with no sign of the blond but the golden canary feather tucked behind her ear.

—————

The world is chaos.

That hasn’t changed.

There’s blood starting to stain the ground.

Just like back then.

Everyone is screaming, she’s at low hearts with broken armor and an arrow in her shoulder, Pearl has Cleo engaged in a swordfight that Lizzie suspects she isn’t fully trying to win- it’s still going on after all- and Joel is arming his axe with that look in his red eyes.

She loves Joel.

She loves Joel.

She doesn’t want anyone to die.

Please don’t let anyone have died.

Joel lunges forward, diving into the frenzy. The Reds have turned on each other faster than usual- there are still yellows. There are still yellows, and yet.

And yet.

No one has permadied, but there’s no doubt that won’t last for long, not when Joel is cackling, swinging his axe with wild abandon, completely blinded by bloodlust and not even noticing who he charges for as he swings at-

At-

At golden canary wings. At blonde hair and brown eyes as a heart of gold. At a man who already looks resigned to his fate.

He’ll hate himself for this, if he does it. She knows that much about Joel for sure.

“I’m gonna protect him, if it comes down to it. He- he gets so sad, Lizzie. I don’t like seeing him like that.”

She’ll hate herself for it, if she doesn’t stop it.

“I’m sorry I left. I won’t do it again, I swear it.”

The sound of the axe slicing through fabric and flesh fills the air. Joel laughs, throwing his head back before his comm buzzes. He looks down, expecting the message that means he’s winning.

His heart shatters.

LDShadowlady was slain by SmallishBeans

Lizzie is dead. He killed her. She’s gone.

It’s not long before he charges off again, considerably more unsteady on his feet and tears streaming down his face. Lizzie watches him run through the carnage.

It hurts more than you would expect, being a ghost. The sharp sting of an axe wound across her chest isn’t fading, and she can barely make heads or tails of what’s happening in the realm of the living. It’s thick, hazy, dripping down her vision like a cold sludge. She sees just enough to watch the arrow fly. To watch it find its mark, right in the back.

Then he’s in front of her, clutching his chest and heaving.

Jimmy.

Her brother.

Her eyes widen as she thinks it, no longer messy static covering the words.

Her brother.

Her brother.

Her brother.

She’s pulling him into a hug before he’s even aware she’s there, squeezing tight and trying not to cry.

“I’m not- I didn’t die first. I didn’t- Lizzie? Lizzie, you-“

“Jimmy,” is all she can say as tears fall from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I- I forgot- I-“

“No, don’t apologize, never apologize. You- you saved me, Lizzie.” The words are spoken with no small amount of awe and wonder, and soon she feels tears hitting her shoulder.

She has a brother again. She’s a sister again.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

—————

that got mildly out of hand, but I hope you enjoyed lol

[katia-dreamer]

okay I absolutely adore your Percy and vex hcs omg how about top 5 hcs about whitestone???

<3 <3 you, my friend are just the best. FYI. :)

Eventually, Whitestone built a monument to those lost in the revolution against the Briarwoods. (the de Rolos names included)

2. Whitestone becomes a haven for its people. There are arguments and problems, of course, but they have been through a lot and they do grow. They grow together.

3. After Vex dies, her children commission a sculpture of an archer that is made of willow to be placed in the Parchwood. Like this x

It's a silent watcher, always reminding those that pass through the forest that though Lady Vex'ahlia de Rolo is gone, her memory is still beloved and treasured by those left behind.

4. Whitestone Winter's Crest Festivals become a time for joy and feasting. The de Rolo family makes it a point to partake. The children especially are fond of eating sweets, listening to the stories told by the puppeteer, and playing different games.

5. Every summer, the people of Whitestone stand around the base of the Sun Tree and light candles. It's a memorial, but also a celebration. Because now, in the branches, where there was death, there is now life.

Thank you again, friend! <3

[huntershowl-moving]

drabble 002: blackbird.

she was hidden behind a mirror.

light refracted off of its polished surface and showed persephone her own face, gaunt and pale from the lack of a sun. black hair coiled into smoke around her chin. she kept it cut short – it stayed out of the way when she tucked it behind her ears. moreso, leto said it looked professional, and amari fletch had finally assigned persephone a long-term job for the unseen. a chance to prove herself. years of rebellion had transformed into a fairly solid, if bitter, loyalty to fletch. say what you will about them, but they take care of their own. fletch had personally guided every step of the recovery process after ripping persephone's arms from her. they had taught her how to shoot, how to write, how to pick up a fork with the new ones. they had kept her comfortable in their manor, attended to their every need, trained them every day, deftly dancing around her with their ever-changing array of weapons. all of this from the leader of an international crime syndicate – they'd taken the time out of their year to build back up what they'd broken in two. now, fletch was her compass.  it was described to her as a protection gig. persephone would be the personal bodyguard for a voidblooded noblewoman for an indeterminate length of time. she wasn’t told why the girl needed protection, only that her parents were allies of the unseen and so the job would be done to the best of their ability. “i don’t... like killing people,” she told orion while he cut her hair for her first day.

“you still might have to kill people,” orion retorted, ruffling persephone’s hair to fluff it out once he finished.

“sure. but it’s to keep someone safe. and i don’t have to kill them.”

“you’re not gonna be able to avoid murder if that’s what fletch wants you to do.” 

“yeah, but—”

“just... be careful,” orion said, his hands pausing on her shoulders, carefully avoiding the vast expanse of gnarled scarring across the collarbones and scapulae. “please. i love you too much to watch them hurt you again.”

––––––––––––––––––

now, she stood in front of a large, wide mirror in the noble’s sitting room, one hand resting on her rifle as she perused the books on the surrounding shelves. old books. artifacts, classics, trophiesfor the astute literary collector. the walls were decorated with surrealist landscape paintings. but there was no woman to be found – no bedroom, either, despite the parents’ insistence that this was the right door. 

“you’re a criminal, aren’t you?” the voice came from somewhere behind the mirror, soft and melodic with a touch of hesitance. persephone looked up towards the reflection with a furrowed brow.

“i am,” she replied.

“what kind?” 

“hitman.” persephone had never been the type to mince words.

“do you enjoy it?” the voice drifted from the right side of the mirror to somewhere further left.

“no.” 

“hmm.” a pause. “if you wanted to kill me right now, how would you do it?”

persephone blinked, rendered speechless in shock. the voice sighed – “what? i'm curious. being locked up in here is a complete bore. come on. be honest.” 

“uh...” she began to reply, but hesitance gripped at her throat. “i don’t know. you don’t have any windows up here, so i couldn’t shoot you. smash through the mirror and use a knife to slit your throat, if we’re going with effectiveness. find whatever mechanism opens it and sneak in, if i wanted to be quiet. slit your throat, again, or snap your neck — depending on how hard you fight.”

there was silence for a moment, then the sound of footsteps and a soft thump. like someone was sitting down. 

“alright. you are hired.”

“w –” persephone stepped toward the mirror, plopping down in an armchair propped up across from it. “i was already hired. your parents –”

“ – have tried to get a protection detail on me for months. i’ve sent away everyone else.” 

“then...” another pause, as one carbon fiber hand moved to rub at the back of her neck. “why are you keeping me on?”

silence, for a few moments.

“call it a hunch?”

––––––––––––––––––

it took several weeks for the girl – aya – to pull the mirror down and show persephone her true self. short and plump in stature, she had a bob of feathery black hair and an inquisitive gaze. moles dotted her face and her arms where her somewhat-archaic sense of fashion left them exposed. most striking, however, was the pair of giant, ravenlike wingsjutting out from her shoulder blades.  inky hell. no wonder she needed protection.  the feathers were dark and iridescent, obviously sourced from the void just like the smoke coming off of persephone’s hair. suddenly, looking at this radiant woman, every flaw upon their own face and body felt prominent – their bony stature, unusual height, the gnarled scars along their torso where flesh met prosthesis. at her invitation, persephone vaulted through the mirror into aya’s brightly-lit bedroom. six false windows shone with bright, warm light from some built-in mechanism in the walls, each decorated with a lifelike depiction of a sprawling coastal landscape. aya stepped deftly around her. the wings made a soft shuffling noise as their tips dragged along the hardwood floor. above them stretched an unusually high ceiling, the walls closer to it jutting with decorated platforms — persephone imagined aya taking a leap and gliding between them, those magnificent wings spread nearly from wall to wall. a brief smirk flickered across her stoic face. “make yourself at home, bodyguard,” the girl said as she neatened the writing materials on her desk.

“this room...”

“yes, i know. this is the closest i can come to being happy without going outside.”

“you–” persephone’s words stopped, pale eyes darting from the ceiling light back to aya’s face. “you’ve never gone outside?” 

“not even once. my parents are well-known among the city’s nobility. if people knew they had a voidling daughter, it would hurt their status.” the words sounded too flat. like they had been rehearsed time after time. the isolation aya must have felt all these years... the frustration, the pent-up anger, persephone could only imagine. what a living nightmare. 

“i’m sorry.”

“oh, it isn’t so bad. i have my parents... my imagination. and a lot of hope! i want to see the sun for myself one day, not simply feel its light through the windows.”  ah. her parents hadn’t had the heart to tell her that the sun was shattered, then. that meant they had no plans of ever letting their daughter outside. fucking fuck. aya would later claim that she had fallen for persephone first. the assassin did not agree. neither of them could put an exact date on their feelings, but it was somewhere around that first month, even before aya had revealed herself. she made the first move, of course – persephone had always been hesitant with affection, fearing backlash and second-guessing themself. it became obvious over time that she would not initiate. it was a winter night. the city had fallen silent, even the dockworkers sheltering from the cold. snow collected on the manor’s roof and drifted outside of walls without windows, melting into gray slush on duskwall’s sooty streets. persephone stood guard by the mirror-wall while aya pressed snowdrop flowers they'd brought her, wings splayed out behind her body. a small smile played at the corners of the bodyguard’s lips at the sight. somehow, in the heart of this rotted city, innocence had been preserved within one beautiful girl. aya caught her staring. dark eyes glanced over, stopped, held persephone's as a flush bloomed across their cheeks. “what are you looking at?” “what do you think, feathers?” it was an affectionate, teasing nickname; persephone found herself using it more often than even aya's name. they'd always been like that — it came with the territory of having a complicated relationship with one's own feelings. distance was key as an assassin. you wanted to stay unbothered, to be able to dehumanize targets and turn off your empathy. so: nicknames. aya narrowed her eyes, her peach-round face scrunching up a bit. then, she seemed to get an idea. never having learned to put on a social persona, her emotions danced across her face with reckless abandon. persephone could always tell what she was feeling, what she was thinking about, even after only a month together.  “hmm." a low hum from aya’s throat as she stood. her wings shifted back into a folded position at her back (inky feathers always littered the floor, bed, and surfaces of the room. aya did her best to clean them up, but the wings never seemed to stop shedding. the more the merrier, in persephone’s eyes. they looked like jewels.) false sunlight haloed aya’s hair as she sauntered up to her guard. persephone’s heart beginning to flutter in her chest in a way it never had before — like it was trying to break loose. 

“noooothing?” aya teased, voice like honey, breath tickling persephone’s yet-unscarred neck.

“i –”

“i’ll ask you again.” she was giggling between words now, but still there was a fire in her eyes as she gently tugged persephone’s collar to bring them down towards her face. mouth at the guard’s ear, she whispered, “what were you looking at?” 

the word left persephone’s lips, quiet and breathy. “you.” a beat —"aya." no sooner did she murmur the name than aya’s lips closed around hers.

that moment lingers in her mind now, a little piece of gold embedded in her heart to call upon when hellhound threatens to choke the spark from her soul completely.

persephone's hair was unusual in more than one way. she would wake up after nightmares or flashbacks and it would have grown to her shoulders, sometimes halfway down her back after a particularly stressful night. aya took up orion's mantle of cutting it. she liked the way the strands dissolved into smoke between her fingers once she snipped them loose, and persephone liked the way aya’s hands felt brushing against the back of her neck. for their part, they'd run their fingers through the girl’s wings until they both fell asleep. aya would braid tiny feathers into persephone’s hair, fastening it with pins as the strands were too slippery to hold a ribbon. 

–––––––––––––––––– late winter, now. the girls sat together on the bed. persephone lay across aya’s lap as she polished her knife – she only carried one, back then, as fear did not delegate her every move. aya's jasmine perfume enveloped them both in gentle sweetness. it had grown to become a comforting smell; aya wore it all the time. it was uniquely hers. a scent that, like the sight of black feathers, persephone would always associate with better times.  aya hummed, as if she’d suddenly had a thought. her hand moved to the tail of persephone’s coat, flipping it so that the inside showed. “would you mind terribly,” she asked, “if i made an alteration to your coat, love?”  “i wouldn’t,” persephone responded, running a hand down the thick curves and folds of aya’s waist. “what trick do you have up your sleeve, feathers?”

“it’s a surprise. give me two days.” 

“you’d better not make it a vest or give me a chest window.”

“no promises, darling. i would die to see you with a chest window.” aya would toil away in her bedroom for the next two days while persephone stood guard in the library just outside. what a whirlwind of a half-year it had been. love. a love that felt so warm she was certain it was keeping her alive. orion's love was different – the love of her brother was like a pillar of strength. they leaned on each other. they helped each other up when they fell. fletch's love was a complete consumption, a collar and a leash. the love of their parents had been a cold ache, battling with the knowledge that they could do such awful things to their children in its name. every bruise that bloomed across orion's arms, every cut across his tiny cheek that she should have been too young to know how to patch up. “we love you,” their mother had said, and the words had felt like a lie. but feathers – aya – had persephone’s heart in her hands. she held it as gently as one would a baby bird. with orion, persephone was content. with aya, for what felt like the first time in her life, she was happy. 

the alteration aya had worked so hard on was a set of embroidered crocus flowers stitched into the coattails’ lining. the work was meticulous. she’d always had an eye for detail. purple and green and gold thread, every line a work of art in itself. persephone sat hard on the foot of the bed with the coat in her lap, eyes wide, wishing she could feel the flowers’ ridges as her prosthetic fingers brushed over their surface.

“aya –” 

“mm... i love when you say my name.” aya sat beside her, leaned against their shoulder. 

persephone raised her eyebrows with a dry smirk. “feathers.” the rollback earned the pout she wanted to see, before she leaned down to press a chaste kiss to aya’s lips. “i love it, aya. thank you.” it wasn’t often she caught the little bird off-guard. those rare moments were all the more precious; persephone burned aya’s blush into her mind, took in every detail of her face. the two moles dotting the left side and the dark pools of her eyes. the way her short hair hung in sheafs around her ears like bundles of black grain, thick and shiny.

“don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like you want to eat me.”

persephone bared her teeth, sunk them ever-gently into the soft skin of aya's shoulder. both of them collapsed into giggles, then kisses; eventually, deep and tangled slumber. 

––––––––––––––––––

“you’re meeting them at the opera?” orion asked, head craned over the sink as he worked dye through his hair. he had been dumped again. her twin went through boyfriends like a gambler went through cash; he was noncommittal and unlucky to boot. persephone was sliding into a tailored black suit with cufflinks provided by fletch themself: wolf heads, snarling, open-jawed. looking back, it was a message she hadn't seen. barreling toward the goddamn iceberg but too busy staring up at the stars to notice it. fletch's important meetings with persephone often took place often at the city’s most luxurious venues. this time, they sat in balcony seats at the opera, discussing the progress of the job in between numbers.  “you are doing so well, persephone.” they spoke without looking at her. their left arm was folded primly in their lap. the right brought a pair of binoculars down from their face to rest on their knee.  “thank you,” she replied, a little flutter of pride erupting in her chest. a job well done. a lover waiting at home. home –– the word felt alien. exciting. it was the kind of word most people took for granted, until they were ejected from every place they attempted to settle into. eventually, there was no such thing. but now... perhaps there could be. “... the job has changed.”  persephone tilted her head up to meet fletch's gaze, their molten-silver eyes boring into hers with a perfectly unreadable expression. changed? after everything, after her pain of their punishment and the loyalty built up during recovery, persephone dare not question them. if they told her to fling herself off of a balcony, she would be confident that they would take care of her until she was healed. they would not let her die after spending so much time and money reconstructing her into a better fighter. at the same time, if she did rebel, orion was within their reach. they could hurt him, kill him, or worse at any time. “what's the new job?” whatever it was, persephone could still visit aya as frequently as time allowed. even if fletch sent her to skovlan or severos across the sea. she would come back; they had nothing but time. 

“oh – it is the same target. the job has changed from protection to assassination.” 

“i’m sorry?”

the world dropped beneath her feet.

“do not make me repeat myself, persephone. you have twenty-four hours to take care of her.” the opera was over. fletch was already standing, rosy yellow lights gleaming off of the armored pauldron sitting atop their right arm. persephone did not stand. assassination. that was not misheard. take care of her. the same target. assassination. the job. take care of her. they knew what that meant: kill her.   a cold hand on her shoulder broke persephone out of her reverie with a flinch, but the spasm did not make the touch any gentler. fletch's fingertips pressed into the area where flesh and metal came together, pressed against the scars and the nerves that had been too badly damaged to heal. they did not stop until she gasped. take care of her.   “ah, and be sure to deal with the family afterwards. frame it to keep eyes off of the unseen. make it quiet. mr. shimura will pick you up in a carriage at exactly this time tomorrow, persephone.” their words, flippant and light, rolled off of their tongue as they exited their row.

–––––––––––––––––– aya could tell something was wrong the moment persephone walked through her door. their mind was a million miles away, eyes locked in a thousand-yard stare. eyebrows knitting together, aya worried at her lip.  “how was your meeting?” she asked, soft hands moving to pull persephone’s coat off of her shoulders. the cold had fluffed her wings up to twice their size. even now she was beautiful. even in her idle moments, when she had not yet started her hygienic routine, everything – everything was beautiful. it was a special kind of fate that befell people like them. people who were born, kicked in the teeth repeatedly, and then died. some were born hopeful; that was when it hurt to watch them be torn apart. persephone did not respond. she was too busy going through every possible scenario in her mind: betray her loyalty to fletch for aya, and they would undoubtedly be angrier than they were when the twins tried to leave. all three of them would end up dead or worse. fletch would make sure aya died slowly. they would make sure persephone watched. then, they would turn to orion.  even beyond the consequences, something in persephone had broken when fletch took their inhuman strength to her shoulders and tore her limbs from their sockets. something had broken and healed wrong; their hands were still buried deep in her chest, wrapped around her heart from the inside. she didn’t know what she wanted. she didn’t know how to rebel anymore. it had to be done. it had to be done or the world would come crashing around her feet. “aya,” they whispered, voice breaking halfway through the word. their arms found their lover’s shoulders, pulled her closer. aya. blackbird. 

“darling –” her voice was muffled in persephone’s chest, wings and shoulders wiggling in her grip to try and break it. "what are—"

“please. please, just—stay with me like this.”

aya looked up at her, wide eyes searching her face and finding nothing to latch onto. “... alright.”  something seemed to click in aya’s head then. she stopped asking. there was a look on her face that shifted between acceptance and a haunting sort of emptiness; she knew, persephone had no idea how she knew but she did. aya had always been smart, perceptive. she could read people like no one’s business. every passing hour felt like sand slipping through their fingers on that last day. persephone hovered around her lover relentlessly, grooming her wings, pulling her into her lap, pressing kisses to every part of her face and body. soaking in the smell of jasmine and letting her lips feel the softness of aya’s skin where her hands couldn’t. they carefully avoided the subject of what was wrong and instead made the most of every second, every breath. it felt like a dream. so many nights, now, are spent reliving that last day. hellhound listens to the heartbeat of a ghost and tries to recall what it felt like to kiss her. all that’s left is a single black feather adhered into a page of her notebook, cast over in resin so that the edges will never begin to disintegrate. the very same tattooed up the back of her neck, out of place among the rest. all that’s left is a phantom in hellhound’s subconscious, who appears to draw her out of dark places and keep her from being swallowed whole. all that’s left is memory.

–––––––––––––––––– they stood in front of aya’s favorite false window. persephone was behind her, gaze fixed on the scene in front of them. its artificial sunlight swathed them in peachy gold, a forest melting into a beach with trees stretching high into the sky. the light source was structured in such a way that it looked like it was filtering through the treetops, dappling the girls’ skin and catching on their clothes and hair like spun stars. aya would die without knowing the world was dark. that, if anything, was a mercy. sluggishly, persephone slid the knife she’d had since she was a child out of its holster on her thigh, gripped it with a hand that, were it made of flesh, would be trembling too violently to function. void knew the rest of her body was. “i can hear your heartbeat.” aya’s voice came soft, head turning the smallest bit so that persephone could see the hint of her eyelashes haloed by light. they were slick with tears. “it’s okay, love,” aya whispered. “it’s okay.” persephone didn’t even need to apologize, and aya had already forgiven her. there was nothing crueler than this. nothing crueler than the steady way the girl drew her last breath before the blade cut across her throat. nothing crueler than the way she gripped persephone’s other hand in hers, the quivering of her fingers the only betrayal to the fear she was trying so hard not to show. they were both pretending to be stronger than they were, it turned out. persephone gripped aya’s bleeding, twitching body as she collapsed to the floor, their throat choking on quiet, wracking sobs. they held her through it, kissed her forehead, rocked back and forth. sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. it wasn’t supposed to end this way. it wasn’t supposed to end this way. it wasn’t supposed to end this way. it wasn’t supposed to end this way. it wasn’t supposed to

[bunnymajo]

So I may have read all of the Magical Boy Basil comic pages that were up in one sitting and then bought a keychain from their shop because I mean look at him, he's so cute

Anyway, a pretty interesting story and I like the unique magic system of "the tangles" and having each article of clothing be a possible mg outfit. The characters are nice, I wish we spent a little more time on some of the other side characters, like the girls and Basil's family - I'm sure that's all coming in the future but just wanted to mention it. Basil's a good boy, I like him. Also I think Basil & Aaron should smooch, as a treat.

[kingprinceleo]

Until Shadow nearly dies and summons his ghost accidently? Or is that not canon

sonic (and co) actively chooses to pass through to the living realm, shadow doesnt summon him on accident but it doesnt take long for shadow to relatively estimate sonic is dead. probably within a year of the incident (~40 years old) (about to derail) but yall don even understand ,,, the way i think the way the way knuckles wouldnt accept the fact he may be gone. until his own death he holds out hope that sonic is going to come back any day now and sonic is the first face to greet him once he dies and i am not fucking normal amy and knuckles being in the same boat of waiting until the end of time for that man (thinking HYSTERICALLY about the sonic X season 2 episode) except amy is able to finally accept it, knuckles never does,,,,

[atherix]

Chapters: 16/? Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: mumscarian, Scott/Jimmy Characters: Grian, Mumbo Jumbo, Scar (hermitcraft), Jimmy Solidarity - Character, scott smajor Additional Tags: Vampire Mumbo, Elf Scar, Watcher Grian, watcher jimmy, switch between perspectives fic, Flashback fic, at least half of it is flashback anyway Series: Part 24 of Midnight Summary:

Scar and Mumbo are off to the Twilight Wood to get enchanted oak for Scar's new staff. Meanwhile, Grian goes looking for answers.

[azeofspades]

istg why do the best fic ideas always come to me when i'm doing the dishes

This time it'd be about Xiao, Yaksha prime age, all the other yaksha are still alive n shit. The story would start with one of the younger yaksha under his command dying after being beat up by a bunch of other yaksha (at that point he'd gotten bullied for like a year and Xiao was aware of it). Xiao blames himself for his death and commits suicide.

When he wakes up, he's 6 months in the past. So now his only goal is to prevent the younger yaksha's death..

[callofdooty]

My Heroes Are Dead, They Died In My Head

Fandom: Call of Duty (Call of Duty: Ghosts)

Summary: Written for Whumpuary 2023 using Prompt 4 Betrayal & Alt Prompt 10 Grief

After the events of Struck Down, Keegan is left stuck in his own head. But what else can a man think about when his former captain has crept out of the shadows and stolen from him the most important person in his life?

It's safe to say that coping has never been his strong suit.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Keegan P. Russ & Alex V. "Ajax" Johnson

Warnings/labels: Spoilers for Call of Duty: Ghosts, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Major Character Death, Murder, Grief/Mourning

Read it on AO3 Here

The ride back was quiet. The occupants of the helo half expected the heavy weight of the atmosphere to pull the damn thing back down. No one dared speak that thought aloud, though.

It pressed on all of their shoulders. Keegan’s quite literally. He’d carried Ajax out of there, after all. Thinking about it too much made him feel sick. 

But here, that’s all he can really do. Think, think and think again. 

It was Rorke…

His hand balled into a fist, knuckles undoubtedly paling underneath the patchily stained fabric of his gloves. Rorke. Their leader. Their protector . He’s behind all of this; culprit of the unspeakable. It all feels like some kind of fucked up nightmare, something that’ll have him startling awake in a cold sweat, heart stuttering wildly behind a beaten ribcage. But it’s not. It’s not a nightmare, or some twisted, intrusive daydream dredged up from the darkest parts of his mind. It’s painfully real. The way Ajax went frightfully limp in his arms was real. That one, sweet constant in his life slipped through his fingers like ashes. Though not as gruesome as sand congealed by blood and tears, it shattered his world with the same force. 

Hope, love and willpower. All obliterated in one fell swoop. Would be impressive if it wasn’t so agonising. 

He slumped back against the wall, unable to settle his trembling. Gone. Ajax was gone. He…He was…Keegan would never hear that laugh again. Would never see that knowing smile again. Would never share the joys and sorrows of life with his best friend again. 

Oh God, Ajax was dead.  

And the most fucked up part is that the confirmation is a relief . He’s relieved that he had to behold the worst sight in his life; relieved that Ajax died right there in his hold. Because at least then he knows this Ghost - this spark so dear to his heart - wouldn’t come back to hurt him. Wouldn’t resurface after over a decade of silence just to tear apart everything he loves. 

What’s more painful? For a loved one to die so soon, but be left with memories bathed in light? Or for a loved one to return from the dead, only reduced to the darkest version of themself?

Keegan had spent a long time wishing that his hero would someday come back. Now? He’s learned that sometimes, it’s better to wish for them to stay buried.

His hands curled tighter. A wrath that he hadn't felt in a long, long time burned in the back of his throat. Grief pulled heavy on his chest, achingly familiar and unwelcome. In the dull, defeaning silence he made his own wordless vow. For Ajax. For Grim. For Torch. For all the people that had died for them to get here.

Next time, he'll make sure Rorke can't crawl his way back up from hell. No matter how much it'll hurt. Even if he has to stare his former captain in the eyes - set ablaze with hatred and disdain where pride and warmth once flickered - and watch the final shred of hope he'd held onto for a decade fizzle out in the glassy reflection. Even if he has to confront his worst fear face-to-face; be met with the the thing he dreads more than anything in the world, he'll do it. He'll take his nightmare and he'll drive it right back into the shadows where it belongs.

Next time, the dead will stay buried. Even if he has to bury his heart along with it.

[kamari2038]

DBH Soundtrack: By the River (pt.2/2) pt.1

I’m tired… I have to sleep. I love you, mom.

I love you too.

Some people describe this scene as Kara committing suicide, but I think that's not true at all. Kara, already freezing cold, grieving Luther, and pushed to her breaking point before losing Alice too, reaches a moment where she knows that if she lingers in her grief any longer, it will crush her. But she can't bring herself to leave her daughter, so she dies of a broken heart. Some assorted related quotes below.

"Chimpanzees have the same kind of emotions as we do. When the old female Flo died, the older child kept going back to the body, pulled the dead hand towards him as though trying to make her groom him. I saw him climb a tree, look down at this nest where he and his mother slept together. He climbed down, curled up on the ground, and died of grief." - Jane Goodall

"That's the thing about pain, it demands to be felt" - John Green

"What is grief, if not love persevering?" - Vision

Screenshots: The PSGorilla and AMHarbinger