#the feeling of loss and mourning is unreal

[aviiarie]

˚ ₊ ‧ ♡ THAT'S THE SPIRIT! — feat. tengen + wives event masterlist.

synopsis. they might be gone from this world, but they'll never leave your heart. or your side. or you alone. they loved you in life, and now they have a whole afterlife to spend haunting you. warnings. death. ghosts. themes of grief & mourning. notes. requested by anon! kinda angsty ngl. gn!reader. 1.8k words. i love hinatsuru, makio, and suma so much. their husband's okay i guess.

When you woke, it was to a dull throbbing in the back of your head, and swollen eyes from a night spent crying yourself to sleep. The time was well past midday if the sun peeking through the crack in their curtain told you anything, but your body still stung with exhaustion. These days, no matter how long you slept, the heavy ache in your arms and legs never seemed to ease.

A groan slipped through your lips, as you pushed your body into a sitting position against the pillows. Under your palms, the bed felt cold. You never quite got used to the sensation, even after a whole month.

Day by day, you were told. Take it one day at a time. And you had tried to take the advice to heart, truly. Even as your late mornings lazing in bed turned into afternoons, and your efforts towards making food whittled away until you resorted to takeout only, you were surviving.

You would keep your head above the water, gulping in sweet lungfuls of air, even as the current pulled you down. You needed to keep afloat, no matter how much your chest burned with every breath.

Day by day, breath by breath.

It had been over a week since you had seen another living soul. Everyone had been quick to offer their comforts and shoulders to cry on, but you had only returned the sentiment with polite refusal. You couldn't bring yourself to face anyone; the funeral and the wake were draining enough.

The memorial service itself was a quiet affair, which you were grateful for. Only a select group were invited, limited only to immediate family and select friends who were close enough to feel the sting of their loss the most. And you, of course. It passed by in a blur of solemn words and well wishes for the next life, punctuated by sobs every few seconds.

There was a part of you that was thankful that you didn’t have to plan the event; a small, selfish part. It might have customary for the closest of the bereaved to organize the funeral proceedings, but the fog in your head meant you could hardly focus on the sound of your own voice, let alone putting together an entire ceremony.

It was Mitsuri who ended up taking your place and organizing everything you couldn't bring yourself to.

“Don’t worry about a thing, [Name].” Mitsuri had squeezed your hands, forcing a smile even as her eyes were glossy with tears. “We can handle everything. I know it’s hard for you right now, so just focus on yourself, okay?”

“Okay...” You mumbled, slightly dazed.

The daze didn't fade, even after days passed and your grief began to settle in like a parting gift. Sometimes it felt distant and unreal, as if you could still stretch your arm out and find a warm body on the opposite side of your bed; others, it felt like it was the only thing left in your mind, filling up the cracks that the loves of your life had left behind.

Still, you had to keep surviving, if not for your own sake, for your beloved spouses who could no longer survive with you.

Day by day. You could make it through one more day.

Slowly, you pulled yourself out of bed. Your vision was filled with stars as you stood, head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. You gritted your teeth and ignored it, sliding the bedroom door shut behind you.

The cold, weightless feeling of arms sliding around your waist should have been a surprise. It wasn't.

“What's got you so gloomy today, huh?” The voice was whispered right into your ear, a low hum that brushed up against your skin.

You leaned your head back, resting it on the chest of the person hugging you from behind. The sensation was strange, both solid and slightly incorporeal at the same time. Even so, there was something familiar about the chuckle that sounded afterwards.

“Tengen...” You sighed, closing your eyes. Perhaps you could ignore the distinct lack of a heartbeat near your ear; his voice sounded alive enough to compensate. “You weren't there when I woke.”

“Aw... missed me, did you?” You heard the smile in his voice, the light note of teasing that used to always get on your nerves. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering there for a moment.

“I always miss you...” You said shakily, gripping the arms still circled around your waist. There was a hollow desperation in the way your nails dug into his skin, a feverish need to touch him, bring him closer, prove that he's really there.

“Don't worry.” Another kiss, this time to your cheek. “You can't get rid of us that easily.”

The faint pressure against your skin was cold enough to make you shiver, but you didn't mind. His touches could feel like ice for all you cared, as long as he was still touching you.

You still couldn't understand why it was that he was able to touch you when as far as you were aware, he was completely intangible and imperceptible to the rest of the living world, but you had shoved the question to the furthest corner of your mind.

Instead you embraced the opportunity, savouring his touch as long as you were allowed it.

Even so, it wasn't easy to adapt to your new way of living.

The first few days after the news was delivered were the hardest, when you spent hours alone in your house, until a friend or acquaintance stopped by to offer their condolences. They never seemed to mind that you didn't speak much, but eventually the visits stopped coming.

When the burial came, that was when you spoke the most. You were given a chance to give a speech, and took it graciously, as much as the words clawed at your throat.

The group was quiet afterwards, save for the odd sniffle. Mitsuri looked like she was seconds away from bawling, but she was holding herself together remarkably well. “A-Ahem. Thank for those… touching words. I-I know they meant a lot to you.”

“They did.” Your eyes drifted to the headstones, arranged right next to each other just like they would have wanted.

Tengen Uzui. Beloved husband.

Makio Uzui. Beloved wife.

Suma Uzui. Beloved wife.

Hinatsuru Uzui. Beloved wife.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or sob at the simple words etched across the stone. There wasn’t enough room on the headstones to truly tell how important they were. Not even your words—as close as they brought the group to tears—were enough.

You didn’t mention the way Tengen would instinctively reach for you in the mornings before he was fully awake, never settled until he made sure all of his spouses were safely at his side; nor did you mention that Hinatsuru’s sharp eyes could spot a gloomy mood from a mile away, always ready for comfort. And you didn't certainly mention Makio's worry for your wellbeing hidden behind her occasionally brash words, or how Suma's constant tears were only the result of the sheer amount of love she held for her spouses.

You didn't mention how much you adored them with every heartbeat and every breath, how waking up in the morning in an ice-cold bed was another stark and cruel reminder that you were alone.

“We're going to leave now.” Mitsuri squeezed your shoulder gently. “Take as long as you need.”

You didn't say another word, only numbly staring at the gravestones and imagining what yours would look like, propped up next to the four. Who would speak at your funeral? You didn't have anyone left to offer touching words, apart from Mitsuri perhaps.

In between your musings, you heard it. A loud, pained cry, like the sound of a wounded deer.

“Waaah! [Name]’s speech was so sweet!”

“Shut up, Suma! Let them be!”

You could have sobbed at the sound. Your head swung back, to see your four spouses crowded some distance away, awkwardly huddled by a cluster of gravestones.

They looked exactly like they did the last time you saw them, faces etched with wide smiles, soft eyes, and falling tears—the latter being courtesy of Suma.

“Are you done here, love?” Tengen asked with a soft smile. You stared at him as if in a daze, afraid to blink in case his image disappeared before your closed eyes.

Cautiously, you stepped forward once, then twice. Step by step, you closed the gap between, reaching out a shaky hand to brush your palm along his face. Under your thumb, his skin was cold, staticky, but real.

And all of a sudden it became all too much, and you were letting out a low cry and falling into his ready arms. The wives all surrounded you, offering soft touches, gentle words, and comforts. For that moment, you could almost believe that they'd never left at all.

It was hard to tell if they were even fully aware of their ghostly state. They had all heard your speech at the burial, but the moment you brought up the subject you were met with... odd reactions.

“Dead? Do you want us to be dead?” Makio scoffed. She had your head in her lap, absently patting your hair like you were a cat.

“I don't wanna be dead.” Suma's eyes turned glossy, and Hinatsuru was quick to pull her into an embrace.

“I don't think that's something we need to worry about.” Tengen said gently, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “We're here, we're happy to be here with you... that's all we need to focus on, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered back, letting your eyes flutter shut. You took his words to heart; since then you didn't dwell on why, only fixing your attention on the four people you loved the most. Not even death could pull them from your side.

“[Name]! We've been waiting for you!”

“Give them a moment, Makio!”

“Are you alright, [Name]...?”

And yet, even with Tengen's arms around your waist, and the sound of your wives calling you from the kitchen, there was a hollowness that you tried desperately to ignore.

Hinatsuru's face peeked out from the corner, a look of concern washing over it at your shaking form still held in Tengen's arms. Your husband and wife exchanged a look, before Tengen let go of you and stepped back, allowing Hinatsuru to step forward.

Her hand moved to your cheek, lightly brushing your jaw with the pad of her thumb. “What’s with that look… Aren’t you happy to spend the day with us?”

You leaned into her hand, your skin burning for the touch. Against your cheek, her fingers were as chilling as Tengen's.

“No...” You murmured. “I'm happy. I love you.”

Her concern softened into a smile, and she kissed your jaw, lips lingering long enough to whisper a promise into your skin. “We love you too. In this life, and in every one afterwards.”

🏷️ taglist: @mollzaj, @mitsvriii, @an-angstyteen

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai

[jeguluses]

The worst part for Sirius was, of course, the loss.

Loss. That’s what they say. “We’re sorry for your loss.” It’s what you’re supposed to say. Sirius has said it before, to those in mourning.

But you never know what it means to lose something until you can never get it back.

The first day is a whirlwind. He hears the words. His brother is dead. He spends the day thinking of the words. Regulus is dead. His brother is dead.

They don’t sink in. They float superficially on the surface of Sirius’ psyche. Regulus is dead but everything is the same. The sun is shining, for fuck’s sake, through the slits in the curtain of his family room. It’s tense and his mother won’t stop crying, but it doesn’t feel like Regulus is dead.

He asks to be excused to his room, away from all the sympathetic extended family, their lukewarm comfort casseroles and even warmer vegetable trays.

On the way to his room, he sees the door to Regulus'. “Do not enter without the express permission of R.A.B.”

Well, that didn't matter much more now, did it?

Sirius enters. He is not prepared for the ache that hits him immediately. It’s like it’s crashing down over him and he suddenly is hunched over and heaving. He manages to close the door behind him and he can breathe better but his chest is still weighed.

Sirius wonders if it’s even a fraction of what he felt, in those last few moments.

He looks around. It’s unreal. It’s like Regulus is still there, but he isn’t. All his personality tucked into the crevices of this space, but he doesn’t have a personality anymore. He doesn’t have likes and interests.

Regulus is dead.

Sirius doesn’t know how he ended up there, wailing in his brother’s bed, wrapped in his sheets. A bed that no one else will lay on ever again. He clutches Regulus’ pillow as a fresh wave of sobs consumes him.

No one to write in Regulus’ notebooks anymore, his delicate notetaking unfailingly perfect. There is no one to read his novels, feet propped up on the arm of the couch as he looks at Sirius with annoyance when he’s bothered him.

No one for Sirius to bother. No one for him to love in the way that you can only love someone who was raised like you were, who shared your blood.

He decided, then, that this would be his last day at Grimmauld, as well. He sleeps atop Regulus’ mattress and in the morning, calls James to pick him up.

On his way out of Regulus’ room, he catches sight of something. Regulus box of jewelry, a dozen or so rings and a few other ornate, yet masculine pieces. He snatches it up.

He walks out of his childhood home, box under his arm, and into the next phase of his life. The one where he is not a son and he is not a brother.

He is only Sirius, a piece of him missing. Sirius with a loss.

[avatar-anna]

i feel like inconceivable is the only word that describes everything i've been feeling today. from the media storm he'd been caught up in to the disgusting way the news of his passing broke on TMZ (fuck whoever took pictures of him and SOLD THEM to a news outlet). all of it seems unreal and tragic, and in a way disrespectful to someone who was so clearly vulnerable and hurting.

but instead of lingering on the tragedy, i've been thinking about the person 12 year old me saw for the first time and fangirled over and had endless pictures of.

i remember watching the one thing music video for the first time and thinking liam was so cute and so talented (louis was always my favorite but honestly in the tmh era liam was a close second). i remember video diaries on the stairs and twitter livestreams and interviews and water fights onstage and feeling part of something so big and so special.

say what you want about liam (i am not excusing or justifying any questionable behavior in the last few years or what has been alleged recently), but he was part of something that made me so...happy. for a lot of fans, one direction was their whole world; for me it meant friendship and concerts and staying up to watch midnight releases of music videos. and no one would be able to convince me that the band would be the same or better if liam wasn't there or hadn't been a part of it, and the girl who loved that band and got butterflies in her stomach with each song leak and album drop will mourn the loss of someone so monumental to her childhood.

this is truly a tragedy from every angle, but as someone who is unfortunately familiar with loss, i like to reminisce about better times, so let's talk about them! DM me, reblog with stories or favorite pictures or memories and let's remember better times.

as i said, i saw these five idiots and i was hooked:

[sunlighthroughthe-ashes]

what do you think about soljae and "what is grief if not love persevering"? i feel like there is so much to unpack here, especially if you take into consideration how the different-timelines sol and sunjae would have equally different takes as well

hi, nonie! i see you have come across the (in)famous quote from 'wandavision.'

regardless of its source; a beautiful line is a beautiful line; — and i have a special relationship to the act of mourning: i believe that grief is just love with no place else to go. there's a line from fleabag that i truly adore: "i don't know what to do with it — with all the love i have for her. i don't know where to put it now." which can be perfectly applied to the sunjae of the OG timeline, & the sol that erased all of his memories.

where to put a love that no longer knows its own name? to be in love with a memory is one thing; to love a ghost — the faded silhouette of a person that no longer exists: entirely another. to be in love with a past that has lost color, shape, form — leaving only a whisper of proof that it was once here. leaving nothing but a faint glow, an after-image of the most sacred devotion. to long for a body that no longer recognizes your touch.

sol knows this well — this is her grief.

where to put a love that doesn't believe it even deserves to exist?

to love someone in secret — with no hope, no chance of it ever being requited. the guilt of not being able to save the one girl you could never forget — to bear the brand of her name, her memory; in silence. to always wish for another chance, another conversation, another look at her. one last opportunity to get it right.

(OG timeline) sunjae knows this well: this is his grief.

above all, sol and sunjae (across all possible timelines) share this grief: the grief of unfulfilled promise; unrealized possibility. of loving beyond all limits yet never being able to keep that love. to make it last.

grief is just love with no place else to go — when there are no arms to hold against your loneliness. grief is just love that endures — across space, across time, across the loss of memory.

grief says (which is also what sol and sunjae say to each other): "i refuse to give this up. i refuse to give you up. i welcome this ache. i welcome you, no matter the cost."when you see this in the context of the ending of ep 15, it's heartbreakingly beautiful: sunjae regains all his memories, and despite knowing how every timeline turned out for him, chooses to love sol anyway.

to run to her.

every single time, he chooses love: no matter what grief may come of it.

[sensitivehandsomeactionman]

Rewatched 1x03 Dead in the Water (this is a really long one, so I added a "read more" break)

This episode 100% gobsmacked me in the face with Jensen's beauty all the way through. It's unreal, shocking. There's a simple mystery story, but the real mystery is how anyone can have a normal conversation with that face in the room? Thank you, Kim Manners.

Thank you also for the bleak mood of the story. Several unsolved deaths and a failing dam; the townsfolk seem puzzled and depressed in their dreary surroundings. It has the aura of a deteriorating Rust Belt town already mourning its impending doom.

Sam is impatient to follow the (nonexistent?) trail to Dad. Dean has to persuade Sam to do the monster of the week as this town is vaguely "along the way." Silly excuses for a MOTW aside, I do like that character-wise, pretty consistently throughout the series, Dean is a "trust the process" guy. When he's at a loss, he'll revert to the familiar steps of the hunt till there's another lead or inspiration hits. Very workman-like. (By season 7 it morphs into a more existential "fake it till you make it" survival strategy.)

We move on to them hitting the road in the gleaming Impala. Flirty Dean at the diner becomes flirty Dean at the sheriff's office. Andrea isn't buying what he's selling, and we get a little light comedy. Sam's "Name three children that you even know" is a nice bit of misdirection to imply Dean has no connection to kids. We and Sam are about to learn differently.

Sam's research uncovers that Lucas witnessed his Dad's death, setting up a parallel to Dean's loss of Mary. Dean's attention gravitates to Lucas, and his empathy opens a window for us into Dean's own childhood trauma. When Lucas gives Dean a drawing, I feel like Andrea's look of surprise towards Dean mirrors our own. Maybe there's more to him than that brash beauty.

There's a hint that Lucas has premonitions -- I love that they're laying the groundwork for premonitions, soon to be significant for Sam -- and can give them clues through his drawings. Dean's confession about being scared and thinking his Mom would want him to be brave is delivered with honesty, almost matter-of-fact. It's all the more poignant. I think it easily taps into how we all remember the loneliness of childhood sadness as well as the instinctive desire at that age to make our parents proud. This time instead of Andrea we get to see Sam register surprise at this reveal from Dean.

Giant Sam is able to pull nude Andrea from the haunted bath. I'm a bit distracted by the technical need to not reveal too much of her body, and I can't help but worry about actresses being put into those circumstances during filming. More memorable is Dean saving Lucas because of that emotional connection between them. I love the physicality that J2 imbue into the action, especially when they're clearly doing their own stunts. 

The first two episodes seemed to be pulling Sam into a reckoning with his past, and while he's not the emotional center of this episode, he's our proxy. Sam is seeing his brother in a new light. It's the same when you're a young adult, re-examining your childhood memories and finding a new perspective on and context for things you long took for granted to be true.

The two brothers together pulling a dead child's buried bicycle from its grave is a chilling visual on loss of innocence, and a fitting metaphor for how their work is unburying their own past along their way to rediscover Dad, their family. And the message here is that the violence didn't stay dead and buried; it needed to be acknowledged and reckoned with to stop the cycle. Psychologically satisfying.

Some echoes from the previous episodes: bathtub danger, creepy ghost kids, bereft and fatally flawed parents, a grateful pretty woman giving Dean a farewell kiss, a rock song sendoff. Toy green army men are connected to Dean's childhood. It was fun to see Amy Acker, as I really enjoyed her in Angel.

I love the melancholy of this episode. The filming is intimate and assured, full of dark rooms, quiet conversations, and grief. Noir shadows highlight Dean's stunning face, which I continue to gif in attempts to hold onto that wonder a few seconds longer. I love all the groundwork this episode lays for the mytharc while being a satisfying standalone ep. Jensen's acting with Lucas, and Jared and Amy's reactions to Dean bring an unexpected, deeper dimension to Dean. The story has begun to roll on the Getting-to-Know-Dean track, and I'm always ready to hop on this ride.

[systemofmycelium]

@z0mbiew00d @scottsmajorshipbracket

You asked for Zombiewood for two requests, and I'm lazy, so I just combined them into one longer minific. Hope that's alright!

the ending always stays the same.

"Oh —  Martyn—!"

Cleo had always had a feeling it was going to be Pearl to kill her. Really, it was less of a theory, and more of an educated hunch... of course Pearl was going to kill her. Pearl had wanted her dead since session one. It'd just taken her five sessions to finally do the deed. To force Cleo to atone for cutting her and Scott's soulbound thread, she was cutting Cleo's thread of life short.

Cleo ran, even knowing there was nowhere to run, even knowing there was no point in running. She was a dead girl walking, in the most literal sense... a corpse trying to outrun Death herself, trying to escape a Grim Reaper doned in a red cloak, swinging her cresent-shaped scythe to harvest Cleo's head from her neck.

"Get 'er —! Get her, babies!" Pearl shrieked, giggling as she howled, the high-pitched sound interlacing with Cleo's screams as she felt Pearl's wolves ripping off her skin. The dog's maws dug into her teguments, jerking out mouthfuls of rotten flesh. She was already dead, and yet, she felt herself dying.

Cleo cried, she screamed her soulbound's name, though when she looked for him, looked for help, he was gone. Of course Martyn was gone. That's what he did, didn't he? When the going got tough, he got going. He'd left her, again, just like he'd left for the Deep Dark, just like he'd left for the Nether. Why would she have ever expected otherwise?

Pearl raised her axe above Cleo's head. The corpse's executioner, come to send her to the grave, a death sentence for her unforgivable crime: taking in Scott when she had abandoned him.

"Goodbyeeee, Cleeee... o... oh."

Suddenly, Pearl's axe dropped on the ground, the guillotine missing Cleo's head by a hair as The Wicked Witch staggered backwards in shock, clutching her chest as her breaths became more ragged, sparse, panicked.

Cleo opened her eyes, surprised to find that she could open them at all, that everything hadn't faded to black. Why wasn't she dead? Why wasn't she dying? Even Pearl's wolves had stopped their assault, whimpering and surrounding their master as the Witch fell to her knees like a limp marionette with her strings' cut. Because, in a way, her strings had been cut - her string had been cut.

"Scott..." Pearl's voice was little more then a whisper, a hoarse, horrified rasp as she realized she had abandoned her soulbound for the second time... and then she was gone.

The Witch was dead.

They'd won.

At what cost?

Cleo's body almost moved on it's own, as she pushed past Pearl's dogs — a pack without a leader, mourning the loss of of their mother — and stumbled around the snowy mountainside. It felt surreal, unreal, she didn't know what had happened, how it had happened... but she knew one thing. She had to find Martyn.

He wasn't hard to find - he never had been. Just follow the string.

"Cleo!"

He'd never abandoned her, no, he'd just realised they were fighting a losing battle — with all her dogs? The Red Witch wasn't a foe they could best. They hadn't stood a chance... certainly not whilst they had had one healthbar and she had had two. If they fought Pearl, they were going to lose.

So, while Cleo distracted her, he had gone for Pearl's Achilles' Heel - he had gone for Scott. He had gone for Scott, because he was tied to Scott's Achilles' Heel... he was tied to Cleo. Even when Martyn had been trying to murder him, earlier, Scott hadn't attacked back —  why? Because if he hurt Martyn, he would hurt Cleo. And Scott would never hurt Cleo.

His own downfall, really.

"Woo, Cleo —  we won! We actually —  we won, Cleo! I didn't think we'd actually — oh, my gosh, we won!" Martyn's voice was giddy, both with lingering bloodlust and excitement. God, he sounded more unhinged then Pearl had.

Cleo's voice held less excitement. No, hers' held closer to a semblance of horror, and she didn't chant Martyn's name back... no, instead, she said a different name, one that made Martyn's heart sink, a name he hated to hear on her lips:

"Scott..."

Her gaze was glued to the body at Martyn's feet. The charred remnants of a corpse, of Scott's corpse, killed by Martyn's firework crossbow. A star —  her Star —  had exploded. And all that was left was the vacuum of a black hole in her heart where it had once been. Any joy she might have felt about the pyrrhic victory was sucked into the vortex.

"Oooh... yeah," Martyn sucked his teeth in, like he'd accidentally forgotten to feed her goldfish instead of having murdered her soulmate in cold blood. "Sorry 'bout that! But, at least you didn't hafta do it, yourself! You were loyal 'till the end — filled your obligations to the T, your contract to the letter! You never laid a hand on him! Conscience? Clean!" He gave her an encouraging pat on the back, though it was less an attempt to be soothing and more of an attempt to convince her to get over it. He'd done what he needed to survive... what both of them needed to survive. There was no point in mourning the man who would have killed them if they hadn't killed him him first. "So... what now? I mean! We've got the server to ourselves! Besides — well, besides the two wardens, obviously, they're still here, we should probably deal with them, but..." Every other game had one winner. But this one had two. After spending the entire server apart, finally, they'd get to be together! They could build a cute little house, they could finally get a chance to be friends — maybe... maybe even more. Maybe, finally, they could be soulmates.

"I... I didn't think it would end this way," Cleo admitted, unresponsive to his touch, the corpse catatonic to his attempts at comfort despite his noble attempts to provide solace. "I didn't think it would come down to the two of us."

"Well — yeah, neither did I, to be honest. Scott tried to turn on me, after, uh, Pearl went after you—" Perhaps it was rude, to lie about man's death, but! Whatever helped with Cleo's grief. Tainting his image to a less positive light might make it easier for her to get over him.

"And then, you... managed to turn it around." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. Cleo could see the proof before her own eyes.

"Haha — yeah, I did! You know ittt...!" Martyn grinned, beaming underneath what he assumed was praise. Scott was the winner of the last season, somebody he'd died trying to kill last time 'round, but this time, he'd succeeded! He'd won! For them. He had won for them.

"There was many ways... I thought this was gonna go," Cleo confessed underneath her breath. She felt more like a ghost than a zombie, as she sunk to her knees next to Scott's corpse, feeling like a lost phantom. Like she'd already died — or, rather, had nothing left to live for.

"I don't know if I thought a finale with me and you... I mean, I didn't even think we'd survive to this session," Martyn prattled in admittance, wiping Scott's blood off of him onto his shirt.

"I... honestly, I didn't have a lot of faith in us," Cleo professed, gently brushing Scott's hair out of his face, one last time, as she shut his eyes for him, "but I had faith in myself, and in Scott, and... Scott's now passed away, so..."

Cleo reached into Scott's pocket. She felt her hand clasp around his TNT.

"I think... Martyn, you deserve this more."

Her real soulmate was dead. And, so should she be, too. That was how this works, wasn't it, weren't those the rules? She chose Scott in life — so she'd choose him in death. If the soulmate mechanic wouldn't do her in, well, she'd just do it herself.

"Wh — huh, excuse me? What do you mean?"

"In the same way... I don't think there's any clean way of doing this. There's no clean, quick, or painless way..."

"Wait — Cleo, what are you doing? Cleo, what are you doin — Cleo—!"

"We held on until we couldn't hold on anymore." 💥

"I guess you never forgave me after all."

[petite-cherry-blossom]

I really admire Pavel. In every episode of Pitbabe you think "wow this is the peak of his acting abilities" but in the end Pavel surpasses himself and I just don't have words... the way he was able to convey real mourning, literally all I did was just feel his loss throughout the entire episode. The fact that Babe realized that the last words Charlie heard from him were insults and not an expression of love just broke my heart into pieces, because there was no way to fix it, Charlie was gone. I cried literally halfway through the episode, feeling all of his pain, like I was the one who lost someone???? He's just unreal.

[basicbigbrother]

As someone who used one direction as a comfort at 13 and still will listen to their music at 23 whenever I have a bad day I can’t even put into words the feelings I have right now. That band truly meant and means so much to me and I feel like I’m mourning my teenage years with the loss of Liam. I feel crazy crying over someone I’ve never met but this loss has shaken me too my core as I’ve love this band for over half of my life. Seeing what fame and addiction can turn someone into has been something I’ve been processing with Liam for years and while in his last years of life I didn’t support him, it feels unreal that this is it? This is how someone who made me feel better when I was an insecure lonely teenager goes? It’s tragic and sad and I had to redownload this app to know that I’m not alone in how I feel. It’s the weirdest emotion I’ve ever felt. I love one direction and want to thank them for all they’ve done and just have a few more things that need to be said:

- NO ONE should blame maya or any victim for what happened and I wish nothing but peace for her going forward as I can’t imagine how she’s feeling

- the boys owe us NOTHING moving forward. I’m already seeing comments about how Harry’s post wasn’t “personnel” enough???? This isn’t a movie where you can give reviews, this is a real human who lost their life and Harry is allowed to speak pubically how ever he feels best, I thought his message was lovely and I’m sure he is processing this in his own way. There’s no right way to grieve.

- please give Niall time to speak. He was the last one to see Liam in Argentina and I can’t imagine how he’s processing this. If he never says anything that’s ok as long as he is.

Thank you for everything one direction, walking in the wind and infinity has been on repeat.

[ruiniel]

Another Way - XI

Summary: what if someone in the 21st century stumbled upon this stranger during a turbulent storm, narrowly avoiding running them over, and what’s more they can’t understand a word coming out of their mouth.

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Rating: Mature / 18+ only

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, References to Depression, First Meetings, character-meets-world, Near Death Experiences, References to loss, Grief/Mourning, Fantasy, POV Second Person, Language Barrier, Violence, Portal Fantasy, Isekai, Slow burn, References to canon, Rewriting show canon, Because why not, POV Alucard, POV original character, More tags to be added

Also on ao3

Part I

AN: The full part. Had to kick myself to finish this and repost, but here it is. No huge developments for now but the next update won't take as long.

XI.

You’re both silent exiting the car, walking to your building, stepping inside the elevator. Your mind’s running in circles, but there’s nothing you can think of saying to him now; and Adrian staring at his feet with an expression similar to the one you first saw during that damn storm isn’t helping much. 

Once he follows you inside the apartment, you throw the car keys onto the table, then clear your throat. It’s late. “So, anyway … I seem to keep saying this. Welcome back… again.”

He turns to you, silent, staring, his agitation having diminished somewhat during the car ride, and you’re still wondering what the heck you’re doing.

Possibly the worst time to go with a gut feeling your mind begins anew, but looking at this person, at the stiff and dignified way he holds himself despite the washed-up, bedraggled appearance… no, something is … there’s something different to him, and it’s not the unreal perfection to his features or the fact that he knows no language you can decipher.

Adrian looks briefly to the floor, then back at you, watching as you near him against your better sense, handing him the agenda. 

“Look, like I said …” you sigh. “I might’ve… acted…too rashly.” Then, remembering he doesn’t get it, you take out your phone and type it in, translate.

He discards his coat and then glances at the translation. His weary eyes stare into yours for a long while, and a knot forms in your throat, and you don’t even realize when he’s begun scribbling a swift reply.

“… why did you come seeking for me?” 

“Oh man, I’m too tired for this.” You look away, sigh again, shoulders slumping; but you can’t avoid it, not when the question persists in his eyes. 

Scratching your head, you tap onto the screen: “I don’t know.”

You’re gifted with an arch look of bemusement, then a shake of the head as he writes.

 “I do not want pity.”

Ugh. “Stubborn much? Of course you are…” you mutter, tapping furiously: “You’re not getting any. But what you are getting is some time off the streets to learn the language. Unless you insist on leaving, in which case…” you show him the door, a gesture anyone would understand, you think. “Okay?” you ask, annoyance fueled by exhaustion creeping up.

Adrian stares, then points at your phone; you decline to go on. “Okay?” you repeat, finger tapping against your previous words.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his other hand balling into a fist at his side; finally, he gives a slight nod.

“Good, now that’s settled… huh, I see you’ve lost your bag,” you point out. His rucksack is gone. 

Adrian looks regretful, and a crease forms between his brows, followed by a slight shudder.

“You know what, it’s late, we should probably turn in.” The use of “we” in some semblance of unity after having withdrawn from social life for so long surprises you.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you show him the translation.

“Yes,” he says, in English. “Tomorrow.”

You trudge towards your room, too drained after the evening’s running around session to even marvel at the new word he’s used that you comprehend. “… just don’t kill me in my sleep,” you mumble, then point at the couch, hoping he’ll understand because you are not turning to explain. Best you can do is slouch over to the bedroom, shut the door, and face plant onto the bed with a groan.

Quiet… it was all so… quiet, before he showed up.

…and lonely, that voice inside keens, as your eyes close on the framed photograph of your family.

~~

You awaken, as often happens, in the middle of the night, a restless heartbeat in your chest and half-formed memories fading from your mind, leaving behind painful residue. Rubbing at your face, you stare at the silvery beam of light patterning your bed with a ghostly window frame, then rise and groggily make your way out of the room through the dark.

Carefully you tread as to not rouse your guest-become-flatmate, Mrs. Hawke’s eyerolls coming to mind when you’ll eventually have to reveal someone new is staying here. 

Once you’ve reached the balcony, the cold tiles beneath your soles serve as an awakening and you stare at the skies, a rising wind lashing at your face, imbued with filth and freshness alike. Sitting down on one of two cushions placed here for the occasional stargazing hopes from before, you notice you’d mechanically grabbed and are now holding the framed photograph of your parents.

“I wish you were here… you’d know what to do. But now,” you close your eyes, throat constricting in that familiar way as you cradle the photograph in your arms, forehead pressing to your risen knees. “I feel so… lost… I don’t know how to get out of this… how to… look at the things I’ve done lately…” the words come choked, rising like moths fraying in the stillness. It’s in these moments you always liked the city best, with its roar subsided, and slowly you raise your head, staring ahead. 

No direction, no aim. Will it always be this way? You’d gone to a specialist, you’d gotten medication allowing you to function through the worst of it, but…

“But…” your finger touches beloved faces, trapped in lifeless glass. 

The fluttering of a curtain in the corner of your eye has you gazing up, at the dark figure standing there and staring ahead, at the vastness of stone and sky, before looking down at you.

In the half-hidden moonlight… he does look… like a painting, you think, sleepily. 

“Can’t rest, huh?” you ask when Adrian turns to you, meeting not your eyes, but settling his attention on the object in your lap. “Can’t say I’m surprised, considering what you’ve been through,” you say as he slowly descends by your side. 

He’s gaping at the framed photo, appearing utterly rapt, a sliver of that familiar confusion on his face. 

“Oh, this?” you say, handing it to him. “That’s me, when I was a kid, and those are my parents. I mean, used to be my…” you can’t continue. Have you ever spoken to anyone about this before? You can’t remember. It was such a blur; people, condolences, friends you barely reach out to nowadays. People again, carrying on with their lives. The crippling inner-cold, the half-daze of the immediate after, the realization that nothing will ever be the same.

Why now, of all times? You shouldn’t be doing this before a stranger, let alone him, and …

You watch as Adrian runs his fingers over the image, appearing in awe and saying something. 

“Wh— it’s too late for the whole translation gig, so we’ll just have to make do…” you say, at which point he looks at you again. He frowns, and before you know it, a strip of cloth is pressed to your tear-stained cheek.

“No,” he says—again, in English.

Meeting his eyes, you see an understanding transcending words. Are his irises… aglow? No, a trick of moonlight. You catch the cloth just as his hand falls away. “Thanks…” But, oddly enough, that single tear, or something else, has caused a shudder within, a behemoth of anger and futility and despair that has more tears falling before you can stop them. You crumble in your place again, pressing the material to your face. “I’m… sorry, this is pitiful.” You look away, savagely rubbing at the evidence on your skin, then stare at your knees. “I’m going to get a grip, I just need a… a moment.”

It’s then you notice the piece of cloth is a torn strip of clothing, and when you gaze at Adrian again, staring at you, you notice the dirt clinging to those borrowed jeans, the torn sleeve of the one shirt you’d given him. Despite your state, you shake your head. “Got to get you some more clothes, looks like.”

He raises an eyebrow, stares back at the photo, then at you. Adrian looks at his own hands; no, rather, at the rings adorning one.

His eyes widen, long lashes fluttering rapidly, and he seems to suddenly be someplace else: like in the beginning, when nothing made sense. 

You take the photo from his lax grip, placing a slow hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

As startled out of a trance, Adrian meets your eyes, his loose hair shielding half his face.

A painting, and a masterful one.

You stare at the photo again. Might as well talk. You need to; even if it’s lost on him. “It was a car crash. On one night, one stormy night not unlike the one we ‘met’, I lost them both. Funny how life can change in an eye-blink, huh?” you press the cloth to your cheek, though the gesture itself has caused this overflowing tide, and you don’t know why.

Adrian sighs, glancing briefly at you before rising slowly, staring out into the world, expressionless and still. He says something in his own language, then looks down at you.

The regret on his face is new to you, revealing a wordless pain you’ll never forget; nor can you hold his stare for long, not now. Hugging your knees tighter to your chest, you rest your forehead against them with a sigh. “Go rest,” a mumble leaves your lips. “I’m fine, these states come and go… come and… go…”

It’s not until a persistent sun ray warms your cheek that you open your eyes again, rising to sit in your own bed, alone in your room, the framed photograph set by your side.

~~

“Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?” Arvan asks, throwing the report aside before leaning forward with his palms flat on his desk, staring at the two harried officers before him.

“S-sir, I know what I saw—Hikaru here can corroborate. Once he was there, and then… and then a flash of red, like neon lighting, and he was… he was gone.”

Arvan grits his teeth. Of all the outrageous excuses he’s received over the years, this one tops the pyramid. “Judging by this,” he holds up the report again, “a tall man in a long coat was assaulting some local lowlife. But the same grown man vanished in a blur of color when you intervened.”

“Yes sir,” the officer concludes, looking Trent in the eye with a conviction that might have been scary, had he not been in this business for so long. Maybe I’ve been working them all too hard. Shit. 

Hari leans back against a cabinet on the side, arms crossed, listening and pondering. “Grant, tell him about the bag.”

Arvan glances between the two as the officer who’d been speaking starts, recalling something. “Right,” he says, looking to his partner, officer Hikaru, now presenting an old, well-used rucksack. “The contents were really nothing but a shirt with a curious cut, freshly cleaned. Still, it had stains on it. Took it for testing.”

“Good,” says Arvan, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Sir,” officer Grant continues, “We know what we saw.”

“Right. Right. Did you track down the lowlife? The only witness? The one who got assaulted by this so-called ghost?”

���Not yet,” officer Hikaru grimaces. 

“Look,” Arvan sighs, “Why don’t the two of you take a leave of absence? Have some time off, relax. Everyone’s up their necks in work with this potential serial killer case, but you two seem to need it. Hari, you take over. Keep the case open for now.”

“Sir!” Both officers cry at the same time, but one look from Arvan and they mellow down, nodding in acceptance.

“If anything shows up, we’ll call on you.”

“But—”

“Dismissed.”

The two glance at each other, clearly unhappy about it, but Arvan’s not taking chances. He needs everyone on the force at their best now more than ever, not wilding about some mystical vision in an alley. 

Hari looks after them as the door to the office closes, then back at the commissioner.

“Did the results come in on that button of yours?” asks Arvan, taking a sip of his precinct coffee. Awful stuff. 

“They’re on your desk.”

“Talk to me.” The commissioner picks up a printed report. 

“It is rather strange. They did detect blood on the object.”

“That’s… expected. Good.”

“... but it couldn’t be matched to anything we have in the database.”

Arvan makes an exasperated sound.

“... however,” Hari hesitates, ponderously as he’s prone to do. “I had the find taken to forensics for radiocarbon dating.”

“And you did that because…”

“A suspicion,” the detective murmurs, running a hand through his dark curls.

“Ah. Great.” Damn Hari, but he’s gotta hear this one. Hari’s conjectures lead to cracks in a case, more often than not.

“Do you know how old that coat button is, commissioner?” Hari crosses his arms.

Arvan sighs. It feels like the only thing he’s been able to do lately. “Assuming you’re about to enlighten me, Hari.”

“The gold gilded object was dated from around… the 1400s.”

Arvan raises his eyebrows so high they disappear beneath his hairline. Hari smiles. “So then. An art thief, and a murderer?”

“... it would seem so, but I can’t figure out the link yet. The people we’ve called in for questioning so far haven’t heard or seen anything unusual to help, either. The only highlight was hearing the howling of a wolf during the time span the crimes were committed.”

“Hari, please get to the point. My coffee is out, and it’s 3AM.” 

“There are no wolves recorded in the area. Or shouldn’t be.”

Arvan looks Hari in the eye. “You and I both know that level of gore does not result from a wild animal attack.”

“Indeed.” Hari rubs at his chin. “We’ll carry on.”

Arvan rises and turns to stare out the window, cursing his luck. “I want to be there when you bring the rest in for questioning.”

“Yes, sir.”

~~

Come morning, padding your way into the kitchen, you see Adrian, already up, again scribbling at the kitchen table with a slight frown on his face. He looks as though he hasn’t slept at all, really, but then he always looks that way, ever since you’ve dragged him off that road.

“Hey.”

He raises his head, a small nod and a smile in acknowledgement. 

 “I… sorry about last night, um, thanks for…”

Adrian suddenly rises, apparently too preoccupied to notice your discomfort—good. Instead, he shows you something written in that stylish cursive of his.

Your tongue curls, your sleepy eyes narrowing at the words. “The Recuyell… of the Historyes of Troye…? What’s… this?” It sounds familiar, somewhere buried in years of study, forgotten papers and sleepless nights.

He points at your laptop. “To… learn.”

Again, English from him sounds like the strangest thing, but also… comforting, in a way.  

“... all right, I’ll search it up for you, just…” you yawn, “give me a minute to make myself some coffee.” You pause, showing him the container you’re opening. “Coffee?”

Confusion. How are you used to this by now? “... Okay, I’ll make one for you too. By the way, today you’re coming with me.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow at that, looking down as you near, reach and tug at his torn apparel. 

“Clothes, Adrian. You need something that doesn’t make you look like you’ve just gotten out of a bar fight.”

He seems less… lost… maybe it’s just me. You recall the other night, the way he stared at that photograph, the flicker in his gaze of something you’re acquainted with: a sense, a piece of knowledge just out of reach. Half-memories, dispersing in a fog; gone like the black spots in the corner of one’s eye.

“... clothes,” he mouths the word, frowning and rubbing the material between his fingers, a dawning of understanding when he looks at you again.

Half a smile twitches on your face as you turn, heading over to the counter. “This’ll be interesting.”

Taglist: @hornyf0ckers @the-keep-under-gresit @pencildrawer12

Want to be added to the taglist for updates? Let me know.

MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

[queerghostboy]

my thoughts go out to those mourning the loss of Liam Payne. His family and all his fans. especially his son, Bear. they are holding memorials all over the place and people are bringing letters, pictures, flowers, stuffed animals, merch, cds.. etc. here’s a reminder that in the moment it may feel right to place the merch you have down at the site but remember that if you have merch of his to keep it with you. it’s a reminder of him and if you got it from a concert it’s super special. giving letters and pictures and flowers are good because you can leave a part of you and still have the physical memories with his merch. it’s also okay to mourn this loss for how ever long you need. there is no timeline for grief and even if it is a parasocial bond that does not invalidate the way he touched our lives. we grew up with him and now seeing him gone feels unreal. your feelings are valid and even if you do decide to leave merch that is how you are healing. do what you are comfortable with and don’t feel pressured to feel a certain way. He is gone way too early and i’m sure we will never forget him and the way he impacted our lives. Rest in Peace, You are loved by many.

[alder-saan]

I'll keep you safe (part 3)

Brienne & reader

This is the third part (here a link for the first part, and here for the second part)

Warnings : loss, death.

Full angst

Word count : ~2200

Don't kill me plz...

The man fell. Dead. You had gutted him. You cleaned your sword, catching your breath. Travelling with Brienne, you had learnt what it felt like to kill a human being. That wasn’t the best feeling in the world. But sometimes, it was necessary. When four men attacked you in the middle of the night, it was necessary. You sat on a tree stump. You had no armour, and he almost killed you many times. But you only had small wounds on your legs and arms. You would need some bandages, but that was okay, you loved thinking about the scars you would have, and the stories you could tell... But you also would need training lessons…  And before, you had to find Brienne.

Where was she? The darkness of the woods at night made it difficult to see properly. While you were fighting, you strayed a bit from the camp. You whistled, calling your owl. Banshee emerged from the night, as silent as Death. She landed on your arm. You caressed her white belly, and she made this sort of purring sound she always made when you pet her.

“Help me find Brienne, will you?”

She opened her big black eyes and flew away, disappearing again between the shadows. You double checked that the man was dead and walked towards what you thought was the way to the camp. You couldn't have gone far anyway.

The night was quiet. It was almost strange. Usually it was full of noises, from animals, from the wind in the leaves. Tonight there was no sound at all. No night-time crickets, no nightjar, no woodlark. It was as if everyone had fallen silent. The wind was soft, but still cold. You shivered. A wolf lamented in the distance. 

It was the heavy sound of mourning.

Was it because you had killed some men? 

A long screech tore through the silence. You recognized the barn owl screech. Banshee had found Brienne. You walked towards the cry. You imagined her, being worried because the man was tall and strong, and you had no armour. You were so proud because you had managed not to get killed. You almost ran through some bushes. She was there, lying on the floor, Banshee on her shoulder. Near her, three men were dead, bathing in their own blood. Banshee rubbed her head against her cheek. On a branch, a raven was looking at her. You smiled and approached. She was there, alright, you had found her.

You froze.

Was it… blood? Was it blood, dripping from her neck? You immediately sat next to her.

“Brienne! Are you okay?”

She turned her head to you.

“Y/N, is that you?”

“Yes, yes, that’s me, I… I’m gonna help you stand up, okay? Just gimme your hand.”

“Help me lift my sword…”

You helped her lift her sword, following the movement of her arm. You didn't quite understand what she was getting at, but you had learnt not to argue with her orders. Carefully, she moved her swords towards you. You didn’t realise what was happening until the blade was on your shoulder. Was she knighting you? But you weren’t ready! Why would she do that now? That was so strange, all the atmosphere, the lack of sounds, Brienne lying on the floor, wounded, and now she wanted to knight you? That seemed unreal. You suddenly couldn’t move, couldn’t ask her what was going on. Fear had paralysed you.

“Y/N June, do you promise to fight against wrong-doers and to protect widows, orphans and the poor”

You tried to tell something, but no sound came out your throat.

“Y/N?”

“I-I promise.”

“I, Ser Brienne of Tarth, do hereby dub thee Ser Y/N June, may your courage and devotion become a shining example to the people of the Seven Kingdoms.”

That was it. You were a knight. She just knighted you. But you couldn’t be happy. Brienne was dying, she was getting weaker and weaker. You ripped a piece of cloth from your cape  and applied it to the wound. It wasn't that deep, you were hopeful she would pull through. That wasn’t the first time you would heal injuries. But the haemorrhage was too severe and the piece of fabric soon went blood red. Now the thick liquid was flowing through your fingers, which you held against her skin in a desperate attempt to block it.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N…”

“Shhh, don’t talk. You’ll be alright, I prom-.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, now you’re a knight.”

“I will keep it!”

“Y/N.”

You shook your head fiercely. You didn't want to hear her say that.

“I WILL KEEP IT!”

She simply couldn’t die. She was your hero. She saved your life. She was the strongest knight you ever knew. She was like your mother. You always saw her as an immortal goddess. She couldn’t die now, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. You tried to take off her armour, without moving her body so that she wouldn’t lose any more blood. She had to live. You would do anything.

“Y/N, please. Listen to me.”

You looked at her face. Her cheeks were drenched in tears. And so were yours.

“I love you so much. I’m so sorry for leaving you now…”

“You won’t, you will live. You can’t die!”

“Oathkee-” she coughed, blood trickled down her chin “Oathpeeper’s yours now. Make good use of it.”

“No, no, no, shut up, don’t talk like you are about to die.”

“I am, Y/N. I’m sorry.” She gave you a bittersweet smile “I want to live… That’s so stupid how a single mistake can lead me to that.” She chuckled but a new cough stopped her. “I just took one step too close to him, he was able to throw me out of balance. Can you believe it? One fucking step. I’m dying because of one fucking step…”

You took her hand, she squeezed yours.

“I’m pathetic, Y/N… A proper knight doesn't die in front of their squire.”

“You’re not, you’re-” A sob covered the end of your sentence.

“Please, I want to be buried on the Island of Tarth…”

You nodded. You took Oathkeeper, her sword, your sword now. You didn’t know why, it comforted you. It was… a part of her. She had never separated from it. 

“I don’t know where I’m going to, but remember, I’ll always be proud of you..”

“Please don’t leave me… Please. I beg you. I need you. You can’t abandon me like that. I can’t live without you by my side. I can’t…”

She gasped, you looked at her again. Her eyes were wide open, as if she just understood everything in the world. But she couldn’t see anything.

“Please, Brienne. Please, wake up.”

She didn’t.

“Please…”

She was dead. You were alone, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night. You shouted, screamed her name. You cried, snuggled up to her still warm body. You knew, even if she had had no armour, you couldn’t have heard her heartbeat anymore. She was dead. She was… 

That couldn’t be true. She couldn’t be gone, just like that. She couldn’t. That was not possible. That was a nightmare. Just a damn nightmare. Maybe if you tried to sleep, she would be here again… You laid down against her and closed your eyes. You just had to sleep…

 

But when you woke up, she was still dead, next to you. After crying all morning long, you knew it was time to bring her back to her home. She had asked you one last thing. You had to do it. You slowly removed his armour, trying not to cry too much. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to show her, wherever she was, that you could handle it. You were a knight, now. Her body was heavy, she was so tall, and the more you failed to mount her dead body on her horse, the harder it became mentally. But you managed to do it. You put a blanket over her, to protect her a little from the eyes and the animals.

Gladly, you were not far from the Sapphire Isle. You made your way to Storm’s End, and found a boat going to her home. The captain of the ship was not very happy about carrying a corpse on board, but when he learnt that it was the heiress of Tarth, he asked no more questions and let you pass. While the boat crossed the sea, you stayed locked up with her. You didn't want to leave her. It was stupid, but you hoped she would wake up. You couldn't look at her, it was too difficult, but you stayed next to her, letting the cloth cover her completely, and clutching the handle of Oathkeeper.

When you entered Evenfall Hall, Lord Selwyn of Tarth was confused. He never saw you. He didn’t know who you were. All he knew was that you arrived with two horses and one of them looked like Brienne’s. You simply couldn’t look at him, you couldn’t face him. You bowed down, eyes fixed on the paving stones.

“Who are you, traveller?”

“I am Ser Y/N June, my Lord.”

He seemed surprised. Brienne already told him about you. But why wasn’t she there? Were you THE Y/N June?

“What brought you to the Sapphire Isle?”

“Brienne of Tarth.”

So you really did know her… You were THE Y/N June.

“How is she? I haven't seen her for a while.”

“She’s… she’s gone, my Lord.” You had been preparing these words the whole way. And you managed to say them. 

He took a few seconds. His grey brows furrowed.

“What do you mean by “she’s gone”?”

“I mean she’s… She’s…” You couldn’t say this word. You didn’t want to. Lord Selwyn saw the tears on your cheeks. His eyes turned sad.

“How?”

“Four men attacked us.”

“Where is she? Where did you bury her?”

“She wanted to be buried here. I brought her.”

“Thank you. You can stay here as long as you want to. We’ll have to talk about something. But later. I need to… go somewhere. I'll have a funeral prepared for her. You will be invited, of course.”

And he left the room.

On the following days, it was her funeral. It was the end. She would never wake up. She was in her coffin, with her armour. With some of her belongings. With a bolt of your shackles you always kept. She looked so peaceful, she had a kind of smile. You wondered if she was happy, wherever she was now. You wondered if she could look at you right now, putting flowers in her coffin. You wanted to jump in it, to shake her until she would open her eyes. Or just to lay there with her, and to die in her arms. Without her, all was so cold even the sunshines couldn’t warm you. She had saved you. She had given her life for you. If you had been stronger, she wouldn’t have to fight these three men. This was all your fault. It should have been you, the person lying at the bottom of the grave. This was unfair… 

Lord Selwyn put his hand on your shoulder, this made you come back to reality.

“We need to talk about something, Ser June.”

You nodded and followed him to a big room with a desk, some books that looked like records and writing material.

“Ser June, Brienne told me about you. She said when she died she wanted you to have all she had. Including the land she would have inherited from me.”

“Is… Is that even possible?”

“Yes. She officially adopted you two months ago.I couldn’t send her a letter to let her know all was done. She didn’t tell you she wanted to do that?”

“Y/N?”

“Yes?” You turned your head towards her.

She had this look in her eyes, the one when she wanted to ask something but was unsure of the answer.

“If it was possible, would you want me to adopt you?”

“Of course! What made you think I could possibly say no?”

“I don’t know…”

“I… She didn’t.” 

How did she manage to do that?

“I’m really happy she finally had a family. And now you're also my family. You can take our name and become Y/N of Tarth, if you want to.”

“Yes, yes, I want to be Y/N of Tarth.” Like that, she was kind of living in your name, wasn’t she?

You put a white rose on her grave, on which was written “Here lies Brienne of Tarth, fearless knight of the Seven Kingdom, beloved daughter and friend.”

“Thank you… Mom. Thank you. I love you.”

The wind blew.

_____________________________________________

A/N : The way I cried writing it...

You can continue to ask me some more chapter, they will be before this one, that's all. (unless you want the next part of the story)

[11x13kyle]

okay i have to ask what ur basic thoughts r on dog meets god. i read it after seeing ur post and im just. ive been pacing in my house for an hour

my basic thoughts: AAAAHHHHH JESUS CHRIST AHHHHH OH MY GOD!

my deeper thoughts: dog sees god is my favorite play that i would never recommend to another person without telling them at least 3 times not to touch it with a 10 foot pole. the thing with dog meets god is that a good portion of it reads like be more chill, or also as an attempt to do what riverdale did far more successfully a decade later. the pacing is weird and much of the dialogue and relationships are stilted. HOWEVER! however. the parts of dog meets god that are done well? by GOD are they done well. the relationship between cb and the version of beethoven that he built up in his head, and (SPOILERS!) eventually the dead boy that he mourns the loss of not only as a person but as an idea and an unrealized possibility??? AGH! makes me feel insane crazy. also the scene with van’s sister in the psych ward makes me feel like throwing up bile. incredibly good.

is dog sees god good? no, i wouldn’t say that. but is dog sees god good? yes, very. don’t read it.

[faecaptainofdreams]

Life is not going badly, really. I find i am surrounded by color and sunlight, revelations and opportunity for growth, but inside i feel…wilted.

There are tiny losses close to my heart that i have not been forthcoming about — to anyone. I am frustrated with my art, my writing, with my low visibility. It doubly hurts when you make fanart for a character very few like, only to meet one fanatic and even they hardly pay your works mind. To be regarded so lowly in my current fandom feels like a bitter fall from the grace of my previous affair. No one owes me attention; i simply feel starved without it.

It’s hard to get up in the morning again. I find myself struggling to wake before 8:30, and leave my bed any sooner than 9. I can feel my mornings, several hours of daybreak, wasting away from my shortening existence.

Plants i have cared for ferociously, through weather, rain, scorching heat and unusual chill have lost the battle. I am sad, and angry. Every time i see those dead things, i get a hair more irritated. At them, at nature, at change, at my failures.

For some time I’ve been feeling very hollow inside. Like some part of me is missing. Maybe the part that used to have fun. The part of me that was innocent, or able to enjoy my works when they were more sub-par. What used to flow like an efficient machine now drags like an old horse who can’t feel its legs. I feel like i am mourning something that i have the choice to change, but haven’t summoned the strength to change it yet.

I don’t feel like “The Captain of Dreams”; i feel like Captain of Bullshit. Everywhere i go, for everything everyone brings to me, everything just feels like bullshit. Politics, personal struggles, my internal battles even feel stupid. But they’re all real and important and i know better.

Things just don’t feel right, i don’t feel like myself. Another storm that will pass but i feel like a ghost, even unreal at times. I feel like I’m missing out on life as it moves all around me, imbedded in a prison of my own design. I have the key… hopefully soon i can be motivated to use it.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

hi random question here idk if you'll see it but I recently went through a breakup in early September and nothing has felt right since then and sometimes I feel like I'm living a different life/started over a new life and everything is so foreign

Like I genuinely feel like I'm learning to talk to people again and take care of myself and watch TV again and listen to music again and just...ugh

The whole thing sent me for a loop and I just felt so unlovable and sad...and I lowkey feel like I went over the deep end because everything feels so weird to me and I probably didn't but I swear to god!! I got in a new relationship and I swear I can't love right like it just feels so weird!! Like I'm happy in my new relationship and the new person is making me very content sometimes I just feel like it's just me and everything feels so trippy and dream-like

Point is I feel like nothing will ever feel "okay" or "good" again and I go through spouts of believing it but sometimes I feel so insane...so yeah

i call it a “soul glitch” haha. it’s when you lose someone (platonic, romantic, familial whatever) who meant a lot to you and then you sort of just feel like your whole life is a house of cards that even the slightest breeze could knock over. i feel that. i feel that so much. i just wanted to start off this ask by telling you your feelings are valid, that they’re normal, that september was such a short time ago and you’re allowed to mourn a person whom you loved but who’s no longer in your life. i don’t want to start this off w any therapy speak or the typical “work on ur confidence” “you need to be okay w being by yourself” blah blah bc i think human connection is so beautiful. like from the bottom of my heart. i think it’s beautiful that you loved someone so much that the loss of them has made you the most human you possibly are, w all this sadness and longing and everything in between. it’s normal that you’re sad. it’s normal that you’re hurting. i’m sorry that this happened.

i’m not one to tell anyone what their capacity is, when to move on to a new relationship, how to best bounce back from a breakup… but it kind of reads to me like you’ve moved on too fast. you broke up in september but you’re already in a new relationship? i would’ve never done that after my breakup. i did talk briefly to a couple guys from uni, but it was all so empty and no one really hooked me for long. you could have totally different coping mechanisms from me, but idk i’ve never met anyone who jumped into a new thing so early after their old thing and it ended well. literally not a single person. it always turned sour eventually.

not saying to break up w this new person, but i don’t think it’s fair to you or to them to stay in a relationship where you’re actively thinking of someone else. you need to give yourself time to mourn. i’m the kind of person who wants to immediately be okay and to bounce back after a heartbreak and to ignore the “soul glitch phase,” but that has never done me any good. let your soul glitch. genuinely. lie in bed in the dark and think of all the things you want to talk about w them but can’t. think about the sweet memories. feel a little like you’re living in unreality bc they’re not in it. you need to get it out of your system. i’m not sure your current relationship fits into that equation. i hope you get well soon friend

[best-wishes]

Don’t Look Back Part 8 - Epilogue

Beware, it’s the final part, to find the beginning of the story, it’s here

CW: Major Character Death, Child Death, Mourning ---

Hob watched as the paper burnt into the fire, a black wave invading the white page. The smell of burnt ink and paper sent him back to another life, long ago, in France, where his life had taken a fateful turn. Had he been wrong, to go back in time? Or was he only changing now? Did it matter? Hob never wanted to live the perfect life. He relished making his own mistakes. They weren't a loss, as long as he learnt from them.

And one of the lessons he had learnt was that eternity could not be faced alone.

"Hob Gadling," a deep voice rang behind Hob.

Hob turned away from his contemplation of the fire, and walked toward his guest.

"Morpheus, my friend."

They both sat in their usual seats. The Lord of Dream visited often enough that Hob had set up a permanent chair for his friend in his office. Every time Hob looked at that chair, something warm settled inside his chest. He was not in this on his own.

"Is it today?" Morpheus asked.

"It is." Hob confirmed.

It was the day of Robyn's death. Hob had not remembered the exact date from the previous lives. The first time, he had not been sober enough to remember which day it was, when they brought his son back from the pub. The second one, he had been in prison for too long, not keeping track of the time.

"Robyn had gone to the local pub with his friends. There will likely be a fight, and he will be stabbed and bleed out."

Hob looked at his hands. He felt unreal, like a character that would know that they are in a play.

"I did nothing to stop him. I tried, at first, you know. After Eleanor's second death, I attempted everything I could think of. I tried saving people that I knew would die. Diverted their fate, warned them of the danger. It never worked out. I even tried killing one, and got caught."

"Messing with Destiny's book does nothing to stop my sister from collecting her due." Dream explains.

"I inferred that myself after the first life, yes. But I had to do it, because I had to do everything I could to save my son."

Dream acquiesced.

"You are a better father than I am," he said.

"I am not sure."

"You did everything you could to save your son. I did not try saving mine."

"I tried everything, and I failed. You see, one of the most difficult lessons to learn as a parent, at least for me, was that I had to let him make his own mistakes. It is tempting to warn them of danger, to outright forbid what is not good for them. Often, they won't listen, and you pester them. They need to make their own mistakes, and learn from them. Sometimes, they will draw a widely different lesson that the one you drew from the same mistake. Sometimes, what was your mistake is their joy. But most of all, the right to be wrong is what allows us to grow. And that is a lesson that you most certainly mastered way better than I do, my friend."

"That does not stop me from regretting doing nothing." Dream muttered. "I failed him."

"Morpheus, don't. It is tempting, when we see our children's failures, to consider them our own. And for decades I wondered what I failed, as a parent, that my son should die at twenty. But doing this is a way to negate their agency. How would you feel, if your father berated himself for the mistakes you made. Would it not feel infantilising? Would it not deny that you are your own person, making your own choices. I know I would have my father thinking so about me."

Hob had postulated that, for Dream to have siblings, he should also have parents. Seeing the doubtful expression of Morpheus, his father, if he had one, was not likely to take responsibility for any of his offspring's errors.

Hob closed the space between them, letting a hand land on Morpheus' shoulder.

"Your son made his choice, like I am letting mine's do today. You can deplore it, but do not let it weight on you."

Morpheus looked into Hob's eyes, and a ghost of a smile graced his lips.

"Look at you, Hob Gadling. I thought I would be called to comfort you on this tragic day. Instead, you are comforting me."

"That's what friends are for."

"And what a friend you are," Morpheus answered, placing his hand over Hob's.

 ---

"I saw a production of the Love of Sisyphus, yesterday," Hob told Morpheus. "It was as weird as it always is, seeing someone playing me. The idiots had given it a happy ending."

"That will not last. The great stories always return to their original forms."

"Is there an original form to this one, though? Will Shakespeare never wrote it in this life. When I was accused of being in league with the Devil, and to be clear, you were the one they called the Devil, they confiscated all my belongings, including the copy of the play you gave to Eleanor. We almost had to start all over again that day. Good thing you are good at answering calls."

That day, Hob had been confronted by Ned and the guard about his friendship with the mysterious dark man he kept meeting and that no one else knew. Because it was Ned, Hob knew it was useless to try talking it through. Running was his only option. Good thing he had taken the habit to carry a bit of paper with Morpheus' name on it, in case of emergency.

The Lord of Nightmares had appeared in all his splendour that day, black cape swirling like a cloud of smoke, striking all the assailants down with dreadful visions.

Hob Gadling had reinvented himself, and the legend of Robert Gadlen, best friend of the Devil, had been born. Hob had seen a play about it as well. It was so inaccurate Hob had been choking with laughter for the whole thing.

"After all," Hob added, "would you not say that, in the end, Hob did get a happy ending?"

---

And this is the end. If you read until here, thank you so much, I hope you liked the story despite its flaws.

[invinciblerodent]

ffff I woke up thinking very hard about how heartbreaking it'll be when I get Halsin kidnapped by Orin on my romance playthrough with him

and as I dally on with Iona and fuck around before I'd go rescue Lae'zel, I just... keep thinking about how at this point in his playthrough, Petyr is going to be just single-mindedly focused on murdering Orin.

like I know that immediately, as soon as he realizes what had happened, what was taken from him, he'll throw himself into the investigation.

not eating. not sleeping. Shadowheart has to pretty much force-feed him a potion of angelic slumber, and it's still Jaheira threatening to knock him out manually that manages to convince him that running himself ragged isn't going to help anyone.

the whole investigation, and the murder tribunal thing, and finding the temple takes no more than, say, four days tops. in that time, he probably sleeps all of two hours, and not even consecutively.

and he of course looks awful for it. eyes sunken in and rimmed in red, cheeks sallow, hair all weird and loose and falling into his face... the tremor in his hands is the most worrying part, being a marksman, but his aim inexplicably holds true. advantage is granted on intimidation checks just by the fact that he looks like he's all of one second away from putting an arrow through anyone's throat, and won't even need to use a bow to do it.

he holds it together when Halsin finally comes to on that cold stone slab, whole, alive, and pretty much unharmed by the looks of it. even though he feels like his guts are all squirming like a bagful of snakes, he keeps his wits about him as they reach the Elfsong and get themselves cleaned up. he even keeps a stiff upper lip and a straight spine all throughout dinner- maybe he's a bit more quiet than usual, but overall he seems fine, or at least more fine than he's been until then, if a touch... colder, more distant than anyone had expected.

really, with how visibly upset and scary determined he was, all expected a more... affectionate reaction, or at least more obvious relief. even Halsin himself is probably a bit... not disappointed, that's not the right word, more like somberly resigned about it. Accepts that maybe this time apart was a time of reflection, and a different conclusion was reached than what was expected. Maybe there was some disillusionment (the Big Strong Archdruid letting himself be tricked and whisked away by a jumped-up Bhaalspawn with just... so much wrong with her, that's kind of embarrassing in retrospect), maybe he just needs some time to process. Who knows. Maybe the ardor had simply petered out, as it were.

so they all retire for the night. and in less than an hour, once breaths quiet and movement stills in the room, Halsin feels an awkward body just... wordlessly crawl into his bed and tuck itself up against him.

He feels his ranger's pointed nose smush in the middle of his chest, feels him taking long, shaking breaths of his scent (no longer that putrid stench of sewer-filth and rotting meat, but the usual pleasantly herbal, earthy scent), and feels it all too acutely as the young man just.... starts to quietly weep. With completely silent, but desperate, full-body sobs, clinging to Halsin with what feels like more limbs than he has. He's weeping tears of exhaustion, and stress, and worry, and a loss mourned before its time, and all the druid can do is run soft fingers through his hair, let him cry it out, and whisper "I'm here" over and over again in a tone that means more than either says right now.

like the hold this has on my brain this morning?? unreal

(thank u Larian for the poly option so I can have a playthrough with not just one, but two opportunities for my utter bitch of a PC to dramatically not-confess-but-confess his love to his LI)