#cw:death mention

[ryebread-x]

Some dead Vanir moms(kinda)

First, a full body design for Gullveig nothing has really changed from her first design

She becomes a mother figure/mentor to Freyja and Freyr(mostly Freyja) after Nerthus's death(then she too died)

She also, in a weird sort of messed up way, had a kid with Loki (but mostly everyone knows this if you’ve read the myths before)

I finally got around to designing both Nerthus and Sigyn’s mom too

This is going off the headcanon that Sigyn is possibly half Vanir-half dwarf. However, when it came to designing her mom, I based her after no specific goddess. Since I wanted to design off of what Sigyn’s pov of her mom would be like. So, in my little fill in the blank retelling, Sigyn was abandoned by her mother at 3 years old. From there, Sigyn lived with her father ,Ivaldi, till she joined the Aesir.

This means that the only things Sigyn's mom left for her were her coat and a tone of mommy issues🥲. Sigyn now only sees her mother as mostly a silhouette/ non-existent in her memories.

Nerthus, on the other hand, was a better mom to both Freyja and Freyr. She was a causality of the Aesir, but the twins don’t know she died. Njord lied, saying she had just disappeared and refused to tell them the real truth.

[feybeasts]

Please don’t take from this any conclusions that I’m not trying to make here but.

I don’t fear dying anymore. Or at least- it doesn’t scare me like it used to. When I was younger, it terrified me, the notion that all this would come to an end someday. I dug deep into so very many… systems of belief, so many words of people wiser than I, and nothing seemed to sate the fear, nothing would bring me peace- it was like I couldn’t live anymore, and when my dad grew ill, it became a fever pitch. Eventually it wasn’t so much that I got over it, but I just got so… worn down, so bombarded with fear and anxiety and hurt that I just couldn’t dredge up the sensations anymore.

And when he died, I… cried, sure, I wanted him back, but there was a funeral to speak at, people to care for, I couldn’t grieve overmuch because like it or not, I had to keep living. And somehow, some way, I did.

I spent almost a decade like that. Just… carrying on. I wasn’t more than 25 years old when he passed away, still a kid in so many ways, especially with the struggles I was already facing, being autistic, anxious, facing traumatic stress I didn’t have a name for. I lived, despite the fear, despite the hanging, painful inevitability of it all.

And then, my childhood best friend lost her life to cancer. And my cat I had raised from a kitten. And my grandparents. Death after death after death.

And I stopped feeling anything- because each time, I was just… expected to be there. To be the strong one, the person that showed up. That was the mask I wore, there was no room to be anything else. I became hardened to it all. Loved ones just… slipped through my fingers, and all I could do was show up, little more than a black dog hanging at the edges of a half dozen cemeteries.

I’m not alone in this, I know people have been through worse, far worse. We often say death is one of the inevitable things in this world- “death and taxes” is the joke. And that inevitably haunted me, even if the fear didn’t. Any time I got sick, any time I felt off, any time I went to the doctor, all I could think was “well, is it my turn? Will this be the time they tell me it’s curtains?”

I mean, it felt inevitable, right? I had lost so much, so many people, so… thoughtlessly. Lung cancer, ovarian cancer, MRSA, kidney failure, a fucking… genetic defect. All just bad rolls of the dice, and my luck had never been all that good to begin with.

But the thing is, we can’t really… determine that for ourselves. I mean sure, you can do things that bring you closer, make that irreversible call- I am no stranger to attempts to check out early, I have the scars to prove it- but if you just… go on living, you don’t know when your time is up. And no matter how much you might assume you’re next on the chopping block after so many losses, sometimes you just keep… carrying on anyways.

For all the arrogance we have, for all our damnable pride, we ain’t craftier than the reaper. Maybe that’s for the best.

I’ve “kept carrying on” for the last eight years, regardless of what I thought. Sometimes I still feel like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like all this, all the good I’ve known, the people I love, like it’s all just… a sweet song on the air, that I just get to listen to it for a little while before someday there’s silence.

When I was young, I was so afraid of when the song ended that I didn’t listen while it played.

Nowadays, I just try to sit back and enjoy the tune.

Nobody knows what’s on the other side of that door. It’s scary to think about. But when my time comes to walk on through, I like to think I’ve at least enjoyed my time here.

And who knows? Maybe death’ll just greet me like an old friend. We’re familiar, them and I- I’ll at least shake their hand and nod that little bit of understanding between us.

It’s the least I can do.

[underchaosstrings]

Jester got out.

Chamel can't get him back and apparently he is in danger. We can't even get to him. This has never happened before.

He's going to get himself killed or worse at this rate.

[alittle-toosilly]

Hi writers and hopefully not serial killers! I have some great questionable information for you!

CW:Death, Murder, mentions of replicated s*icide, cannibalism, drugs, drug od, dropping a baby, and general dark topics under cut (Don't say I didn't warn u)

Spinal fluid tastes like a mixture of banana and 9 volt batteries

Rigor mortis starts 2 hours after death (starting in the face and working down to the limbs), fully sets in at 12, and lasts 36 hours in total

In high humidity, the skin of corpses turn black after a week or so

Corpses release a lot of nitrogen when decomposing and other stuff that plants LOVE so please bury bodies in places with vegetation, or you'll have a grassy patch in a bare area, which will look weird

Arteries feel like cooked tubular pasta

If you drop a uterus, it will bounce

The typical human skull weighs about 11lbs/4.99kg on average

Brains are not as squishy as you think! Still squishy tho

Do not cut your palms for blood sacrifices, that's where a lot of nerve endings are and it will HURT!

Steaming alive is more painful than burning alive since it destroys nerves slower and steam burns hurt really bad too

(In America, at least) Vehicular manslaughter is a good way to kill someone because getting hit by a car will leave you severely, permanently injured if not in a vegetative state (AT BEST) and if you have a good enough lawyer it can be written off as a road rage incident and you can get less time in jail

Wear different perfumes, shoes, clothes, wigs, makeup, anything and everything that significantly alters your appearance when disposing of crime scenes as to not be easily identified (AND GLOVES TOO! GLOVESS!!)

Human meat tastes like sweet, bitter, slightly more tough pork or veal. The human placenta is safe to eat if cooked right and is a form of postpartum recovery. Depends on person and cut of meat.

The palms are the tastiest part of the human body, the legs having good nutrition too, AND you can eat the ribs like BBQ ribs

Even consensual cannibalism can cause severe psychological stress and you are at risk of getting various diseases if not prepared and eaten properly

Choking by ice cube is a good way to kill someone since the ice cube will melt by the time they find the body

A lot of medicine at home (Tylenol, Advil, cough and cold medicine, etc.) is lethal in the right doses, most likely when combined as well. Feeding people home drug cocktail infused meals and drinks repeatedly is a good way to murder someone, as long as they can't taste anything weird. You can also write it off as a s*icide by drug cocktail. Know the lethal dose of said drugs for the victim as well

Injecting insulin under the tongue is also good murder method since they can't usually find it with regular autopsy stuff and if they do check for it, they will write it off as undiagnosed diabetes (bonus points if you drive far away and make the victim look like they died while out walking)

If you drop a baby and the blood that comes out of their ear has yellow in it, they have brain damage

Typical stabs have a VERY low mortality rate. A pocket knife to the gut won't do anything. Go for the throat since it damages their vocal cords and stops them from screaming, and the neck is a hotspot for major blood vessels

Soak bloodstained fabric in cold water overnight, apply hydrogen peroxide the next day, then wash. May take a few tries.

Always dismember bodies and puncture their organs and put them in bags with VERY HEAVY weights (heavier than them, ideally) to prevent them from floating up

Eyes sink into the skulls of dead bodies.

Bodies muscles tense up during cremation, causing them to thrash around and sit up

It takes 520lbs or 235kg of force to crush a human skull (sorry guys)

Dissolving bodies in a strong base is better than an acid bc it's less suspicious when bought in large quantities (some strong bases are used in soap making) and will turn bone into brittle calcium stuff that is great for fertilizer

Pigs will eat corpses as long as you get the teeth out. Collect em in a jar or smthn

An air shot between the toes will replicate a heart attack almost perfectly. Bonus points if the victim has a family history of heart attacks or as it risk of one

I may rb with more if I collect more. Correct me if I'm wrong on any of these, and feel free to add any!

If this made anybody uncomfy I'm terribly sorry and will delete this.

I am not responsible for what people do with this info!!

[spymeister]

@ofvaporex from [X]

[J]→[R]: Frag. [J]→[R]: Hold on, Ratch. [J]→[R]: I’m comin. [J]→[R]: Gimme a breem.

He keeps his promise, sprinting out of the officer’s habsuites that he shares with the other contingent of the Autobot High Command. A brief message is sent to OP and then to Prowl to let them know what’s going on, and where he’s going. A secondary message is sent to Red Alert to let him know to lock down the security in the area to give Ratchet some privacy as other non-emergency patients are shunted to other medics.

He makes his way in with not only a couple of bottles of high-grade, but also a micro-repair kit for the small mechanisms in the other’s hands. They’re stowed away safely in his subspace as he makes his way into the other’s office. His spark squeezes painfully as he spots Ratchet’s hunched form, those proud faceplates hidden by the other’s aforementioned hands. He hesitates only a half-second before he’s already pushing his way between those hands and pushing his forehelm against Ratchet’s in obvious affection. 

His visor is already retracting for the medic, letting him connect optic-to-optic instead of being reflected by the opaque transparent metal. His own servos cup that lean face, thumbs brushing over the high arches of his zygomatic plains.

“Ah’m here, Ratch. Ah’m here. Ah’m so fraggin’ sorry, mech.”

[pelle-lavellan-a]

Stepping Stones

@valorcorrupt from X

Perhaps what he’d said had come off a bit misleading. “Well, we do of course. We mourn our dead the same as anyone else does. I don’t know exactly what happens when we die--because I haven’t had the pleasure yet. But I was always taught that while death is seen as something so stark and...final, death is only the beginning of living another life you haven’t lived yet. “

Even today he was not sure if he believed that to be true, suppose he would find out when his time came. As a doctor it was difficult to look at death in such a romantic light, he did after all spend so much time trying to prevent death in others. Reprogramming his mind to be okay with it was not a place he’d reached yet.

That was not to say that Pelle had been sheltered from death before joining the Inquisition. To be frank, he’d seen a lot more of it than he felt others would be comfortable hearing about. Being raised Dalish was hard. Sometimes, the winters took people, sometimes beasts from outside the clan, other times humans might enslave or murder them as well.

When affairs in Kirkwall became strained, you’d be a fool to think some of that didn’t leak out. In the last seven years of his life, Pelle had had dealings with templars, slavers, refugees, and even Tal Vashoth once in a while. His later wife Aela did not make that any easier by drawing attention to herself in a desperate attempt to protect both Pelle and the clan.

She was the one person he could say he’d had been dear to him whom he’d not seen pass with his own eyes, but he knew he would be an imbecile to believe she survived much longer after she fled from home.

So yes--death was something he was used to. No, he did not think it would ever be something he was okay with or that he would readily accept as a stepping stone personally. It may have seemed selfish, but that person whether they were reborn or not--the person they were before, the person he loved, that person was gone. Did that not make things final?

“You know--thousands of years ago...my people did not know the suffering that comes with death. In fact, they were so out of tune with the concept that when they got sick of living they simply put themselves into a deep sleep and wandered in dreams with Falon’Din. Some never woke up again, others would wake up centuries later. I still can’t wrap my head around it, they were just--tired of life. I suppose after living for a few hundred years one might get bored but--I don’t know. My people always spoke of it with such a glimmer in their eye. Me, I find that so daunting, I can remember but one time that I felt that life was not worth living but under much different circumstances. But to have it so good and just become bored? It almost makes me sick.”

[sky-captain-jack]

   Artwork commsioned by @the-king-of-science

___________________________________________________________

By now it had long became hopeless to even make whimper anymore; even  the poor man’s vocal cords were non existent by now. How could have still even be alive,it was just biologically impossible at this point. But there he laid,trapped in his thoughts only,living in perpetual eldritch level of paint and torture.

  It was long ago that he felt that maybe there was no god even listening into his please for a merciful death, a release from this suffering. If there was then he only last thought that he must be an uncaring monster to have let this happened to him….it was true though he was never really a religious man despite being raised catholic. Perhaps it was why despite his conflicting thoughts; he found himself internally repeating the ‘hail Mary’ prayer in repeat as if..an angel would come to free him..

Then something happened, the plants had began to act…off..he could feel the sensation of their reaction to–a threat. Being synced with them as a host allowed him to almost feel,hear and see what they were experiencing.

  There it was a dancing barrage of orange and red illuminated the encampment,he could feel the way the plants writhed and shriveled by the blazes. Before long,what little eye sight and hearing of his original body retained bared witness to the figure that came upon him.

    “Oh my God…Your….your still alive..it keeps host alive just lik-” The soldier fell quiet softly shaking his head,only reaching to his his hip holster to draw his .45 pistol.

  Was this real…did his prayer really get answered…After all this pain and waiting..would he be free of this torment. God,he wanted to scream to plead the possible savior to end it,to free him of his ‘prison’…grant him peace.

  Darkar could see the ‘figure like mass before him,barely move.but just under that brush he could see eyes still moving, soon fell still upon him,rarely blinking. Saints alive..he remembered seeing people in such states back in Siberia…encased by the organic biomass,trapped and misshapen…unable to escape,in constant pain,but fully aware of their surroundings.

   The victim this host..this poor man was aware and only awaited for his merciful passing,”I’m so sorry…if…we had only found you sooner. We could have saved you.” He could see it then,the eyes–had filled with tears.

  “I promise it will be over soon.” Darkar said with an unsteady sigh,raising the pistol over the host’s presumed head. Promptly firing the a single round into the host frontal lobe causing his head to rupture,green infected fluid and roots came out from the rupture point.

  In those few moments after the bullet was fired he swore he heard…a sigh of relief to ones suffering ending.It was difficult for the soldier the soldier to do such a thing,it never truly got easier no matter what people they they know or seen in movies. No training can really help..just as medic once told him,’they can’t save everyone and ensure every soldier will make it home To ensure more mourning mothers of the loss of their children,yet despite that..they will fight through hell if it requires just to save them all.’

  A noble thought,but in the end,reality will still barge through in the end,always. With the host dead the plants grew angry and erratic,but thier attempts to lunged at Darkar like snakes attacking their prey–Were only met by a baptism of fire. The entire encampment and the surrounding area was set to a might bonfire illuminating the night,even reflecting partially off the optics of his night vision goggles. How many..how many met this same fate…? God..being there in that moment brought back to many painful memories of the failed operation in Siberia..a operation that led to the loss of 49 soldiers except him,who barely returned alive.

  Even in the end..they didn’t stop ‘The Flesh That Hates’…they merely just drove it back…maybe this time it could be different…but maybe not..

[anarchistbitch]

[bluegarners]

Dick comforts a dying civilian. He wishes he didn’t have to lie to do so. 

~oOo~

“You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

That’s what he says. What he swears. The dying man, hardly a man, couldn’t be a man, he’s barely an adult, he’s so young, so young, only nods his head at the lie. It’s a sure movement, confident and trusting, and Dick has to force his mouth shut in order not to take it all back.

The asphalt is cold, it’s barely eleven thirty, but there are no stars or street lamps to help soothe the roughness of it all. The ink that oozes out and stains the black is staining his suit as well. It coats his hands and fingers, breaks through his knees, slides under his feet. Despite the pebbles that press into his shins, Dick can only focus on how soft and slick blood is.

Blood is soft.

“My name’s John,” the young man offers. Red stains his teeth in a grin that reminds Dick of his own. “Nice to meet you, sir, uh, Nightwing.”

He knows he’s not really supposed to listen to the scanners. Old habits die hard, and even though Batman’s disapproval is almost enough to keep him away, Dick’s fingers still twitches to his retired radio. It’s how he got here. It’s why he’s here now.

“Hi, John,” is all he can really offer, too focused on keeping his hands in position. Too focused on trying to slow the stream, the bubble of life that keeps pouring out. Upper left side of the sternum. Exit wound out from the third left rib. Estimated time of sixty, maybe ninety seconds, since the shot. Too late. Too late.

“My sister’s name is Rita,” John says, and his eyes are wandering across Dick’s masked face. “She’s thirteen.”

Dick nods. Digs his fingers into the small hole further. The ambulance is maybe two minutes out. Maybe more. The call only just came in.

“What’re you doing?”

Finally, Dick shifts. John has brown, unremarkable eyes. “I’m stemming the blood flow. You were shot.”

“Really?” John is genuinely surprised. “When?”

Dick presses his hands down a little harder. “A few minutes ago. Tell me more about your sister, John.”

“Why was I shot? Who did it?”

“I don’t know,” Dick responds. “You said Rita was thirteen?”

John smiles, eyes scrunching up. “Yeah,” he sighs. “She’s going to turn fourteen next month. An actual teenager.” He adds, softer, “She’s growing up too fast.”

“I know the feeling,” Dick agrees, thinking of his own teenager. Damian, indeed, was growing up too fast. He was almost up to his shoulder now. “Any plans for a birthday party?”

The blood isn’t stopping despite the pressure. It keeps seeping through his fingers, a warm envelope compared to the dry cold.

“She wants-” John coughs, chest caving. “She wants to go to Disney World. Go see Mickey Mouse.”

“That sounds like fun,” Dick cheers, trying to calculate how much time is left. John’s green coat is soaked, drenched, and Dick knows if he were to squeeze the front, it would dribble. 

John jerks his head and his eyes are roaming. There is little color in his face, lips parted in desperate gasps. The shock from before is steadily going away. The adrenaline is leaving, but everything else is fixed in place.

“Am I,” his voice cracks, “Am I dying?”

“No,” Dick reassures. “You’re going to be fine.” He presses down harder.

John whimpers. “Stop, stop. That hurts.”

“I know,” Dick soothes. “Everything is going to be okay, John. Look at me. You’re going to be okay.”

A lie.

The younger man doesn’t look at him though and he bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t feel my hands,” he admits. “I-I don’t feel very good.”

“Help is almost here, John.”

Another lie. He can hear the orders going back and forth in his ear. There’s traffic. It’ll be another three minutes until an ambulance is free.

 “Just stay calm. Deep breaths. Breathe with me, okay? In and out.”

John is trying his best to copy the exaggerated movements, lungs stuttering and shaking. The panic is setting in though. The panic and the desperation.

“What am I gonna tell Rita?” he asks like he’s expecting an answer. “What am I gonna tell mom?”

Dick doesn’t know. 

“We were-- We were all gonna go together, you know? She’s turning fourteen but she still wants me around and I don’t understand why but-”

John coughs again. It’s weak. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Dick opens his mouth again to spew some half-hearted reassurance or answer that’s just lies with a pretty bow atop. He stops though. John is staring at him with dirty brown eyes. There’s nothing special about them. Nothing notable. There are no flecks of gold or amber in them that catch the light. There’s no stony wall of indifference built behind them. The whites of his eyes are splattered with burst vessels and strain, and they hide nothing.

But John has brown eyes that stare at him, stare into his soul, and beg for honesty. Truth.

Dick can’t bring himself to use harsh words though. Can’t bring himself to form the sentence ‘You’re going to die,’ because that’s cruel and too blunt and death is so personal. Dying is too intricate to be put like that. You can’t explain death.

Dick’s died before. Only a minute or two of complete nothingness, but death nonetheless. He remembers the moments leading up to it more vividly than he does the moments after. His body hurt, ached in a way that he was sure he’d never feel the same again. His throat was sore, deep gouges and scratches still oozing blood. He could barely see out of his left eye, nearly swollen shut, and his wrist were throbbing. 

Most of all, though, Dick remembered suffocating. Remembered Luthor’s clean, clean face. There wasn’t a speck of dirt or blemish on that man. His teeth were a perfect white and his eyes were filled with apathy. Luthor’s metal gauntlet smelled like oil, and he could sometimes taste it on his tongue during the worst nights. The pill was small, shoved down his throat so efficiently, but the very idea of medicating like that again leaves him shivering.

He struggled. He did. Dick struggled as much as he could, muscles screaming and heart crying out. At some point, he recalls looking for Bruce. Looking for a small comfort in his despair. A familiar face to ease the panic.

There was only Luthor though. Luthor and his pearly white teeth and apathetic eyes. 

His lungs had burned and it had spread to the rest of his body like he was on fire. Dick’s last moments, his death, his murder, was filled with nothing but horror and pain.

Dick hadn’t wanted to die. Dick hadn’t wanted to know he was going to die. There was no hope with that. No sense of faith for another outcome. Fruitless as it may have been, Dick had wanted to dare for a savior.

No, Dick would not be cruel. He could not be.

“Nightwing?”

His name is hardly a breath out in the open air. The wheezes have stopped. Blood still pours and pours and pours. His suit is stained. The ground is soaked.

“It’s not scary,” Dick says, leaning closer. It’s truthful, this time. Dying wasn’t scary. Everything up until death was. “It’s like falling asleep.”

“I’m not ready,” John rushes to say. “I--I don’t wanna be alone.”

His eyes keep flickering closed, slowly fluttering open every few seconds. Carefully, cautiously, Dick removes his hands. Alleviates the pressure. There is an awful suctioning noise as he releases his fingers from the wound. John doesn’t notice.

“You won’t be,” Dick whispers, taking the other man’s trembling hand into his. “I’m here. You won’t be alone.”

“You said it’s like falling asleep?” His voice is hardly a rasp. “I go to sleep and it’ll all be just a dream?”

Death was a dream for Dick. A nap in oblivion. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and then opened them and gasped. That was it.

“Yeah, just a dream. That’s all it is.”

“And after...” John trails off, pausing for such a long time that Dick doesn’t know what to do except to continue to hold his hand. He speaks up again though, eyes flickering to find opaque lens staring back at him. “What happens after?”

There’s a wailing in the distance, close enough where the high pitched whines sound like hope and the flashing blue and red lights look like safety. There’s too much life around him though. Too much of it leaking into the asphalt and draining out of that green winter coat. John stopped shaking awhile ago. His grip lessened, and even though his eyes were meeting Dick’s own, Dick knows that he was no longer seeing.

On some level, Dick knows it’s too late. It was already too late when he arrived. John, this man that barely looked over twenty one, with a chipped tooth and boring brown eyes and a thirteen year old sister named Rita, had the misfortune of Nightwing arriving too late.

“After?” Dick repeats, squeezing the man’s hand. “Well, that’s the easy part. After, you wake up.”

He doesn’t see the exact moment brown eyes become dull, doesn’t look at his watch to confirm the precise second of when John takes his last breath, but he does know that sirens flood the dim street thirty seconds later and that it is much too late to do a thing about it.

He lets go of John’s limp hand, briefly considers wiping his gloves onto his already smeared suit, and allows two paramedics to swarm the quickly cooling body. He waits for police to arrive, watches as they drape a black tarp over Rita’s older brother’s body, and declare it a homicide. Even throughout the questioning, of which they let him off relatively easy considering the sheer volume of-- of life splattered all over him, Dick lets them do their jobs.

He leaves with little fanfare, grappling away from the scene and flipping through rooftops.

The radio in his belt feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The static in his comm is loud and screeching, and for a moment, Dick entertains the notion of flinging it out into the night. Throwing the cheap device into darkness, watch it plummet and shatter. 

The sirens are soft, muffled with distance, but the taste in his mouth takes him back as if he never left. Copper. Oil. Dirt. His own sweat. A dry pill.

See, the thing is, Dick isn’t very good about being honest. He’s tongue and cheek most of the time, quipping and tossing around puns as distractions and ice-breakers. When people go to him for guidance, they aren’t looking for his honest thoughts. They’re looking for leadership. They’re looking for advice that’ll help them through their trials. Most of the time, they just want hope.

John was looking for hope.

Call him an optimist. Call him a pessimist. At the end of the day, there’s still water in the cup, and that’s all that matters, right?

Dying was not like falling asleep. It wasn’t taking a little nap and floating in forever. You don’t wake up from death. It wasn’t a dream that you don’t remember after opening your eyes. It wasn’t a nightmare that leaves your heart beating out of your still chest.

Death was nothing. Nothing.You aren’t supposed to come back from nothing.

You aren’t supposed to wake up either, and yet here he was. 

Dick isn’t very good about telling the truth. He’s a very good liar. A good actor. Manipulative, some would say. He prefers to see the other half of the coin. He doesn’t like the darkness or the grim. He tolerates it all, yes, but he’s a good liar. Good enough to fool himself.

Sometimes, Dick wonders if he ever actually woke up.

Thoughts like these are dangerous. They lead down a rabbit hole that’s difficult to claw out of. He’ll do it again, shovel through his own thoughts until his nails are broken off and the tips of his fingers are raw, but he can’t let himself ever succumb to it all again. 

Death wasn’t like a dream, but it took all the same. It took memories from him. Those short, precious, important minutes he spent dead took away a lot of things. And he gets so angry when he can’t remember the good things.

He gets so furious when he has trouble recalling his first birthday at the Manor. He feels an unbridled rage when he doesn’t know off the top of his head when Jason got adopted. These dangerous and purging flickers of loathing for himself shove everything else aside when Tim talks to him about certain missions that he knows he should know like they happened yesterday, and yet even the thoughts of it are fuzzy and woven with cob webs.

He’ll never forgive himself for forgetting what it was like to hug Damian for the first time.

Death, trauma, it all stole from him, but he was also lucky enough to wake up. 

Blink. Gasp. Breathe. Taste ash and inhale smoke.

John had brown eyes. Rita is turning fourteen next month. 

The radio call requested emergency services for a neighborhood disturbance at eleven twenty five. Nightwing arrived on scene at eleven twenty eight.

The blood under his fingernails will take three showers to get out.

John bled out and his life now stained every part of Dick Grayson.

These are things Dick will remember. 

Death is not a dream, so this is the price for making it one.

[dailyau]

Listeeeen I’m 5’4 and I dated a guy who was 6’3 it was chaotic but a tall girl????? I’d die

I’m 5′0 and my first bf was 6′2 it was A Time but I feel ya 

every time I see a tall girl I’m like :o and I get the starry eyes like?? amazing?? incredible?? congratulations @ tall girls u deserve more positivity yes yes ~Nicole

[nonstop-smashing-expectations]

Hercules x Reader: Loss

College AU

Warnings: mentions of death (someone passing away), descriptions of crying, hug description, grief descriptions. The word snot is used once or twice

You had woke up in the best mood you’ve been in for awhile. Recently, you hadn’t been happy but you haven’t been sad either. Still, it was a refreshing change to wake up in a good mood.

Smiling, you walked out of your home, waving cheerfully at a neighbor who smiled in return.

You had to go to the class you normally hated today but even that couldn’t bring down your mood.

With a smile on your face, you walked to your last class of the day. Although you weren’t particularly excited for this class, you were happy that your school day would finally be over.

You took your normal seat, smiling at the person who sat next to you.

You pulled out a pencil to take notes on the sheet the teacher was handing out.

Scanning the title, you saw that today’s lesson was going to be over death and coping.

You swallowed, your mood darkening slightly. You really didn’t want to start crying during this but you could already feel the tiniest burn of tears.

As the teacher talked about the stages of grief, you couldn’t help but wonder which stage you were in. You didn’t feel as if you had grieved enough yet but then again, everyone shows grief in a different way.

When you pondered over that, the teacher walked over to her computer to show you a YouTube. You knew that this video was going to be sad, you just weren’t sure exactly what would happen.

Halfway through the video, tears were on the verge of falling and you tilted your head up, hoping that you could win the fight against gravity.

It was an easy fight, for gravity that is, and the tears spilled down your face. You wiped the tears away with the back of your hand, trying to avoid looking at the video.

Still, more tears fell and soon it became hard to conceal your sniffles.

The video ended and the teacher turned the lights back up.

The person who sat in front of you, turned around and asked you if you were ok, seeing the tear tracks on your face.

You smiled slightly, and nodded, saying “I’m fine” although you knew it was a lie.

You continued wiping at the tears, your frustration at the tears just making more tears fill your eyes.

The other person paused for a second, perhaps seeing your lower lip tremble and they asked again if you were alright.

This time you shook your head no, tears falling faster as you lost all control over your grief.

You stood up, and brushed past the teacher, interrupting her, as you made your way to the door. You had a hand clasped over your mouth, as if that would stop you from sobbing.

You barely started pushing the door open when the sobs broke free, your shoulders shaking.

You got the door open, a miracle considering that your vision as blurred by tears.

You made your way out the door and onto the Quad, finding the nearest bench. You sat on the bench, letting your sobs and tears free.

Groups of students walked past you, some looking disgusted while others looked at you with pity.

You didn’t blame this, this wasn’t the “one tear falls from your eye” movie type crying. This was full on ugly crying complete with snot, tears, hiccups and gasps for breath.

You sat on this bench, shaking, and it didn’t help that you couldn’t stop crying. It also didn’t help that at least 50 people had seen you crying like this and now you felt like you were in some crappy movie.

Suddenly a person blocked the sunlight from reaching you and you glanced up to see the blurry outline of a man.

His hand was extended toward you and he had at least a dozen tissues in his hand.

You shot him a watery smile and took the tissues, wiping at your eyes.

He asked if he could sit next to you and you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

The man sat next to you and then stuck out a hand to you in greeting. “Hi, I’m Hercules Mulligan. What’s your name?”

You smiled slightly, holding out your hand to meet his and nodded to him. “I’m Y/N L/N”.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Hercules asked, looking concerned.

You nodded, even though you knew you’d struggle to get the words out.

“Today in class *gasp of air* we were *hiccup* doing the death *gasp of air again* and *another hiccup* coping unit.” You sobbed again, pressing your face into your faces.

Hercules dropped another tissue into your lap and then asked, “Can I hug you?”

When you nodded, he gently wrapped his arms around you. “Did you lose someone recently?” You nodded at that and that was all he needed to know.

He was very glad that he didn’t have a class he needed to get to. Obviously you needed someone to be there for you and it didn’t look like anyone else would have done this for you.

Suddenly out of the blue, Hercules said, “I like your shirt.”

You blinked, taking a second to look down to see what shirt you were wearing before you smiled up at him shakily. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

He smiled at you and replied, “normally I don’t like to compliment people’s shirts because that just feels a bit odd to me but that’s a really cool shirt! I’m going to major in fashion and design so I sort of can’t help but notice the designs I really like. I wanna open up my own shop one day and sell my own designs. I have some experience at being a tailor so hopefully that’ll help me plan designs.” You smiled at his rambling, your breathing much more under control. Noticing this, Hercules asked, “what are you majoring in?”

The next five minutes was spent with you explaining what you wanted to major in and him asking questions about it.

Soon enough, you felt ready enough to go back to class.

You both stood up and you gave Hercules one last hug.

“Maybe we could exchange numbers so that when you open your shop, I can be the first to know about it?”

Hercules laughed at that and you both exchanged numbers.

“If you ever need to talk, about anything, just give me a call. I really liked talking to you!” He smiled toward you, causing you to smile back at him.

“Sure! I’m just sorry we had to met under these circumstances.”

With that, you made your way back to class, a small smile on your face. You knew that as soon as class ended, you were going to send him a thank you text.

[tweektweeking]

Baking is really relaxing.

[yanban-san]

Pokemon Fic Masterpost

I’m putting all my fic content in a nice big list here; it’ll be linked from my intro post but it will contain all content from my Tumblr to my AO3.

I’ve marked NSFW with 🔞.

If a fic is on AO3, it’s also marked with [AO3].

Also please read the CW tags next to each fic/HCs/drabble!

- The CW tags are kept consistent so you can CTRL+F them if you want- if the reader has a specific role in the story it is marked with <role>!Reader as well in the CW.

Submas HCs/Drabbles:

Ingo and Emmet as Butlers [Short] HCs (SFW)

Fluffy Romantic Butler [Emmet] HCs (SFW)

Fluffy Romantic Butler [Ingo] HCs  (SFW)

Ingo and Emmet as Yandere Butlers HCs (SFW. CW: Yandere, Polyamory)

Fluffy Date Drabbles and Headcanons with the Twins (SFW: CW: Polyamory, Extreme Fluff)

[AO3] Two Date Drabbles [Ingo and Emmet] (SFW. CW: Polyamory)

🔞 [AO3] Yandere Ingo and Emmet HCs (NSFW. CW: Yandere, Polyamory)

🔞 [AO3] Railing Ingo HCs (NSFW. CW: Pegging, Sub/Dom Dynamic, Dom!Reader)

🔞 Submas Hydreigon Hybrid Headcanons (Very mild NSFW. CW: Blood, Hunting, Lotta Biting, Poly mentions)

Eldritch/Demon AU Specific:

Thoughts on their Appearances (SFW: Demon AU)

Headcanons and Drabbles about the Demon Bros (SFW: Demon AU, Mostly hilarious antics of nervous eldritch abominations)

Recordatio - Elesa takes a photo she shouldn’t have (SFW: Demon AU, Mind Manipulation, General- Non-Romantic, but mentions of X Reader, mostly spook)

Random Antics if Demon Ingo gets Eeby Deebied to Hisui (SFW: Just random ideas and slightly funny)

Emmet and Ingo Trap Darling in the Subway Tunnels (SFW: Demon AU, Yandere, Poly, Mind Manipulation)

Submas Fics:

🔞 [AO3] Overdrive [Emmet] [Fic] (NSFW. CW: Sub!Emmet, Reader is the domme, Pegging, Overstimulation)

🔞 [AO3] Overousal [Ingo] [Fic] (NSFW. CW: Sub!Ingo, Reader is the domme, Pegging, Overstimulation)

🔞 [AO3] Double Heading [Ingo and Emmet] [Fic] (NSFW. CW: Semi-Public Sex, Polyamory)

🔞 [AO3] Somnophilia [Ingo & Emmet] [Fic] (NSFW. CW: Yandere, Non-con, Somnophilia, Polyamory)

🔞 [AO3] Railing Emmet [Fic] (NSFW: Pegging, Sub/Dom Dynamic, Dom!Reader)

[AO3] A Day at the Train Museum [Fic] (SFW: Polyamory, Train facts)

General HCs/Drabbles:

Chandelurian Ghost Hybrids HCs (SFW; CW:death mentions, burning mentions)

[spymeister]

Because I’m a glutton for p u n i s h m e n t.

Thinking about the G1 crew and anyone that had actual bonds during this time. Like, I know it’s fanon and I’m not going to deny this fact- but the idea of actual sparkbonds is kind of nice? Like you’re so attuned to the person or people that you’re with - that your spark frequencies harmonize and they literally have the same pulse as you. It’s kind of creepy, but also romantic.

//lays down.

But I’m also thinking of what happens when you ARE that in tune with someone, like...  You’re on the frequency that matches their’s, and that means small things are going to be dependent on their presence. High on this list would be mental wellbeing, physical wellbeing- which has actual proof in scientific studies that shows if we’re not alone, we do better because of emotional reactions that help keep our body balances in check.

So why wouldn’t it work for Cybertronians, if convergent evolution is a thing? 

So, imagine you’ve found that person. THE person or people that are part of your spark/heart/whatever organ you use to denote love. And then, because Life is a fucking asshole that loves to screw you over without the use of lube- that person is suddenly GONE. Or maybe you’re that person for someone else.

When your coding has literally become dependent on the presence of a person for so long? And that person is gone? I bet it wouldn’t only fuck you up mentally, but also mechanically. Like, entire strings of code just corrupted because the data that it usually parses isn’t there because that stimuli is absent.

Like, we talk about in fanon and theorycrafting that Sparkbonds are a highly personal thing, but think about what the medic has to deal with? I read about things like spark-burn out, but no one ever talks about the emotional and coding subroutines that are gonna ABSOLUTELY fuck you up because you don’t have that tertiary influence from an outside source.

//lays down more.

Why do I hurt myself like this?

[pelle-lavellan-a]

Codex: Faolan Sibil

Born on the 8th of Guardian, 9:04 Dragon

Race: Dalish Elf 

Gender: Male

Height: 5′9″ 

Marital Status : Single

Religious Views: Elvhen Pantheon, Dalish religon

General Appearance: Long dark hair, brown eyes, fair skin, lanky stature, vallaslin of Falon’Din

Alignment: True Neutral

Known Relatives: Pelledir Sibil Lavellan, Darcy Sibil, Demietre Sibil, Helka Sibil, Emmand Sibil. 

Faolan is the only son of Clan Zathon’s Keeper, Emmand Sibil, and the oldest cousin in his generation. 

Early Life

Growing up, Faolan was expected to be a prime example of how a Dalish elf should be. Per his father’s demand he had to know every story, every prayer, every last detail about his people. He was practically living and breathing the elvhen history before he was even ten years old. 

Learning would not have been so bad if it were not for the crutches that came with it. While he father wanted him to know the lore, he did not want him to ask questions or think for himself. He wanted a son who would read, accept, and apply to his everyday life. He expected Faolan to pray to Mythal every morning and thank her for protecting the clan from harm, he was to pray to Falon’Din when someone passed and ask for him to guide their soul peacefully to the beyond, he must pray to both Ghilan’nain and Andruil to bless the hunt and ask permission to take life, and lastly he must certainly pray to Elgar’Nan in gratitude and reverence solely for his entire existence. 

While Faolan did not despise the religion he was raised under and could say with confidence he believed and worshiped the Evanuris, he often felt that his father was trying to force faith upon him without reason. 

Despite these feelings, he carried on doing as his father pleased regardless of if it made him happy or not. There was nothing that motivated him to disobey or stray from his studies and his rituals, even if he could not become the Keeper someday there wasn’t anything Faolan could think of that he would rather be doing than follow his father blindly. 

And then there was a girl. 

City elf girl, run away from home. She was orphaned, nowhere to go but everywhere to see. She and Faolan had met when he was fourteen years old. He’d been exploring the area his clan had just moved to when he stumbled upon her struggling to tie a knot for a rabbit trap. 

Faolan decided he might help her. From this he learned her name was Toth, that she had not eaten in many days. and that her parents had not chosen her name but their master. He learned that her parents were slaves to a Magister from Tevinter and that she had only managed to find herself in the Marches because their master had a vacation home in Kirkwall. She told him of how the magister had her parents murdered for such a trifle of a mistake, an accident really, and how she ran away barely escaping with her life when she stowed her way out of the city. 

Faolan took pity on her, but he knew his father would raise hell should he bring her back to the clan. Instead he would visit her daily, teach her the means to take care of herself, help her capture food and prepare it, and occasionally bring her tools or other items like blankets to help her. He did not ask for anything in return, to him, having a friend outside of home was gift enough. 

But their friendship did not last. 

As the days passed by, the two became more and more fond of each other. They shared many things: stories, lessons, food, and even a first kiss. 

However, the longer Faolan disappeared, the more his father Emmand started to become suspicious. One day he followed his son into the woods to see where he was going, and there he found Toth waiting. 

When Emmand realized that the cause of his son’s long journeys into the woods was to visit a girl from the outside, he was furious. He took no precautions to hide himself and instead came out of hiding with little regard to hide his anger. 

Faolan tried to keep his father away from Toth, but he was only struck down in the process. He screamed and chased Toth away and threatened to murder her should she come traipsing around their part of the wood ever again. 

And with that Toth was gone, Faolan never saw her again. 

Faolan was bitter with his father for what he’d done, the two did not speak to one another for weeks. Faolan thought he might never forgive Emmand for what he had destroyed. After that day, Faolan stopped praying to Mythal every waking day, he refused to read his studies, and he outright defied his father’s whims. For if he could not have something as simple as a friend, then his father would have nothing of him. 

His cousins Fen and Pelle tried to cheer him up, but it was useless. In Faolan’s mind, Fen who was just a child could not understand how he felt, and Pelle was but two years old. Pelle did not understand a thing, he simply sensed despair in his adolescent cousin and wanted to make him happy. 

If he were being honest, Faolan was amazed that his insane father had done little to notice the fact that they had another mage in the clan. It was rather obvious from the way that Pelle could sense emotions from such a young age, the way that he could ease the suffering of animals, and had even managed to ease the aggression of a wolf and even pet it.

He wondered was his father ignoring Pelledir on purpose because his magic was obviously nothing that the Dalish would have encountered or better yet approved of. The traits his cousin bore were those of a Spirit Healer. His traits were harmless, but unmistakable. Perhaps his father thought if they ignored his talents they would go away.

And then Pelledir started talking to spirits and demons alike...

He was too young to really know the difference. Even still not one creature approached him with aggression, he could see them, touch them even, it was terrifying to behold. 

It was at this point that Emmand had decided that it was best Pelle leave. He would give him away to a different clan and neglect to mention his odd talents. 

Faolan and Fen were both furious when they found out about this. Whereas Fen felt obligated to stay behind and care for his father after the death of his mother Helka, Faolan felt that there was nothing tying him to home. He hated his father, hated the way his clan treated outsiders like wild animals. he hated everything. Everything but his cousins Darcy, Fen, and Pelledir. 

He fought his father for hours, but in the end insisted that wherever Pelle went...that was where he went as well. Someone needed to take care of Pelledir given his real father so readily gave him up as if he were nothing but merchandise to be bought and sold. 

That was final. When Pelle was given to Deshanna Lavellan at the next Arlath’Ven...Faolan went too. 

Clan Lavellan

Faolan spent the second half of his adolescence with Clan Lavellan. Given his extensive knowledge of the lore, he was assigned to be a teacher to the children, telling them stories and warning them of the dangerous things that lingered outside of home. 

He could not say he missed home, because he certainly did not. Not to mention he was more than glad to see his baby cousin grow up somewhere more positive for him. It did not take long for Keeper Deshanna to discover Pelle’s strange abilities, and when she did she did not cower with fear as Emmand did. Instead--she took Pelle under her wing as an apprentice and taught him the difference between spirits and demons, and she showed him how to protect himself from harm. 

For the most part, his time in Clan Lavellan was not nearly as dreadful as it was in Clan Zathon. For once in his life he felt like a normal boy living in a normal clan with normal friends and a normal Keeper to watch over them. 

When he was eighteen years old, he received his vallaslin. A test in which he passed with ease. He’d known he was ready to undergo the ritual for quite some time, it was Emmand who thought him too much of a boy to take upon the right to bear a vallaslin. 

Life would carry on smoothly for Faolan for anothet seventeen years, until Pelle’s wife Aela would attempt to murder Pelledir in the woods and nearly succeed. 

Things changed after that... 

Faolan would not find his cousin for another three weeks after the murder attempt. When he did--Pelledir was wounded both in body and in heart. He was no longer the gentle innocent boy Faolan had known all his life. He carried a sadness within him that caused even Faolan’s heart to ache when he looked upon his cousin--the feeling only worsened when Pelledir told him the tale of him and Aela. How she had been a maleficar for years in secret, killing threats that skulked too close to the clan for his sake, how he’d taken away her dreaming to protect her and how it nearly tore them apart. He told Faolan of how Aela struggled to protect herself from the dangers of demons as she had not been taught the same way he had, how in the end her demon possessed her body and soul and attackd him out in the woods, torturing him with blood magic until he could not find it in him to scream any longer. Lastly he told Faolan how he had begged his wife to leave, and that she did, that he was ready to die but was found by humans who for reasons not even he understood saved his life.

It amazed Faolan that his cousin could hide so much, but he did not reprimand him for keeping such serious things to himself seeing as his near death was punishment enough for his actions. That and Pelledir was young--had he been Pelle’s age and in his situation he couldn’t say he would have done differently for someone like Toth. 

A few months would pass before Keeper Deshanna would be stricken blind by a strange illness that none could identify. Her sight causing her to be unfit to become Keeper left Pelledir to become the Keeper in her stead. Pelledir worked himself day in and out to protect the clan from all the threats from the outside world, shedding compassion where he found it necessary. On top of this he studied frivolously to find a key to curing Deshanna, and in time found a temporary solution to postpone her imminent death so long as the treatment was consistent. It was awe inspiring just how hard Pelledir worked for the better of the clan. 

My how his cousin had grown...

Another two and half years and Faolan would find himself traveling across the sea with his cousin to Fereldan to attend a Conclave. However, Pelledir would ask him to stay behind and wait for him at their last camp instead of following him inside. Pelledir insisted that he sensed something was very wrong with the Conclave and would rather Faolan stay somewhere safe in case he was right. 

Faolan was not about the question his cousin’s senses, he’d only had them since near birth. He agreed to stay behind and wait for Pelle in a safe place.

And that was where he saw the sky tear open....

Inquisition

Pelledir never returned to that camp, Faolan would wait weeks for him before giving up and presuming his young cousin to be dead. He did not return home, having seen the damage the mage and templar war had done to the people of Fereldan, he instead resolved to stay and offer his help to the people he felt needed it.  He wandered the countryside for a while helping the refugees supply for and defend themselves. 

It would be in small villages like the crossroads that he would hear whisperings of an Inquisition fighting to stop the chaos, he did not suspect that his cousin had anything to do with this. 

He would however, begin to suspect his cousin might have survived once he started to hear tales of a Dalish elf with a mark that could close the Rifts. It certainly sounded like something impossible that his young cousin might do, the question was how. 

By the time Faolan saw his cousin again, Pelledir was the Inquisitor. They had crossed paths in the Exalted Plains, where his cousin had proceeded to scream with glee and tackle him from behind. Once the two of them had exchanged stories and caught up with one another, there was no question that Faolan would join this Inquisition and stand beside his cousin just as he always had. 

For a time he thought he’d lost the most important person in his life, now that he’d found him...he would make sure to never lose sight of him again. 

[sky-captain-jack]

      Darkar’s present situation: Right now: Helping his expecting great aunt weo with farm work & harvest,no stress,actually pretty relaxing! And she made him something to eat for him not to long ago!

....’6 hours ago’ before arrival to ‘The island’ realm, right after drop off at insertion point in the ‘New zone' 30 mikes(miles)... from Fort Sanktum.     Contact was made with enemy forces sending their own scout teams to  find a short cut to reach the local civilian populations near the cordon.