#tw described death

[insane-control-room]

rinse and repeat

His job was a grisly one- find the works of the avatars, document them, and then undo them. Then prevent them. Most of the avatars did not like him constantly 'destroying' their work. Most. Not all of them.

rated: T warnings: described death. AU: TMA Length: 1,500 words (short-medium) notes: i don't know much about TMA, but im having a fun time with friends talking about aus so :3

gift fic for @halfusek ft. magenda (as i unaffectionately call this one)

ao3 link here

The pervasive smell in the room clued him off before anything else. It was the sense of dread worsening that immediately followed, an apprehension that made his stomach knot. A flashlight was beaming towards his feet, red slick appearing at the edges of the fallen beam.

Johan did not want to turn on the light, though he could see the words superimposed on the wall above the small switch, a demand rather than a thought. Steeling himself, he flicked it on, filling the room with an unsteady, buzzing light. 

Immediately, regret- no, not regret, some other sad emotion- filled him. 

The filing room had a desk with three chairs in the center- or usually situated in the center, as they had been moved aside for a ladder that now took stage center left. A few papers were scattered about, ruffling Johan mildly. However, his job was not a pleasant one, and sometimes included observing mis-managed paperwork, and… other, worse things. Such as the corpse - his true purpose for entering the room. He noted the body, at true stage center, was perhaps two or three hours old. 

It was a gruesome death. 

Suffocation, electrocution, and decapitation all played their roles. 

It was hard to tell which had killed him, though Johan snapped on a pair of gloves, and set himself to documenting the gritty scene. 

A ladder. 

A box of tools. 

Electrician’s gear taken out. 

It seemed like Bert- the man had taken upon himself to fix a faulty wire. Johan followed the trail to the circuit board and fuse box, and broke past the paneling to see the back of the fuses. 

A group of four were miswired. The dead man had turned off the wrong one, without even knowing it. 

It made Johan frown and sigh. How pointless. 

He returned to the ladder, climbing upwards. Several wires were already dangling loosely, and Johan narrowed his eyes as he attempted to determine the sequence of events.

One of the wires hummed quietly.

Johan traced its path, noting the bloodied loop at one ridge. That would be the decapitation, potentially if the man had fallen forward. Pulling out a tape measure, he checked the likely trajectory. Unfortunately, it lined up. Which meant that indeed, the decapitation had happened last. 

A pity. 

It would have been the fastest death. 

Johan nudged the ladder. It was sturdy. He looked along the wire, along the corpse. 

The bruising by the neck was no longer severe, as it all had been, well, cut, but from what he could see, there had been significant pressure upon it. If Johan were to piece together the order of events (which was exactly what he was doing at the moment), he would have said as follows.

Bertrum turned off the fuse box, unaware that what he was turning off had nothing to do with the task he had taken upon himself. As the light switch was off, and the flashlight lay dimming, Johan decided that the man had not bothered to check the lights when he entered the room, setting down supplies. Had he paused to ensure that the fuse was off, he may have survived. 

Doubtful.

Some other unfortunate happenstance would have occurred, perhaps more grisly than this. 

Regardless. Continuing reconstruction. 

Bertrum had then climbed up the ladder, and began working on rewiring the faulty electrical system. A significant burn on his hand, searing through to his flesh, explained the rest. While he was removing the old wire, he had gotten entangled, and as he had tried to pull it off, his hand brushed an unexposed part of the live wire. Then, with his body stiffening to the current, he must have lost his balance.

Severing his throat on the wire. 

Johan was meticulous in his documentation. If he was not, he may miss something in the next run that would result in another failure. Or he might get himself… quite hurt. Usually the latter always left him snapping awake in his threadbare bed, gasping for breath and with a dull painful sensation in his chest, ready to try again. However, that was an outcome he tried to avoid. 

Speaking of things that one tried to avoid….

Johan heard him before he saw him, the slightly off rhythm gait giving him away. Glancing around the room with a sigh, he acknowledged that:

Magenta had some connection to the death;

OR

Magenta was drawn towards it, like a fly to rotting flesh.

It may have been both. 

He said nothing as the other lanky man entered the room, smiling. 

Magenta surveyed the scene calmly, suppressing a shiver of delight. He said nothing to Johan, who was marking which of the wires were live. Johan rolled his eyes, and went back to examining the bad wire to determine where its true source really was to make sure that when he corrected this misconstrued blip, he did it properly - once. Magenta watched him work with a smile blandly painted over his face.

Eventually, Johan pulled out a chair, on the opposite side of the table from the corpse, and sat in it heavily, another sigh fighting to escape him. Magenta watched keenly, though his eyes were half open. Johan moved back a second chair, silently expectant, and Magenta sat in it. 

“This one is fun, isn't it?” Magenta commented lightly, a smile still on his face. Johan shrugged glumly, staring at the paperwork before him instead of the body just beyond the desk. Unique, certainly; saddening, yes. Not quite so ‘fun’ for him, especially when one considered what his job entailed.  “Don’t look so down, Jo!”

“Kinda hard not to when there’s a dead body in f-front of me,” Johan retorted, brow furrowing and mouth twitching downwards. Magenta shrugged, smiling still. “And when it’s so….”

“Purposeful?” Magenta questioned, teeth glinting in his smile. Johan stared at him, not enjoying the shudder of upset that he tried to hide. Magenta noticed it anyway. “Well, maybe that’s not the right word. Artistic might be a better one.” 

“Right,” Johan mumbled. It surely was an artistic death. “Maybe the creator might have done well to warn me. Content warnings or w-whatever.” 

Here Magenta frowned. 

Johan looked away, abashed. 

“S-sorry. That was unkind of me. I’m on edge.” 

“Sure,” Magenta rolled his eyes, leaning back. Johan stood, picking up the clipboard, making some final measurements and documentations. “Don’t forget the dead fuse.”

Johan tilted his head as he looked at him. Magenta raised an eyebrow, a silent dare to check him. Johan saw no need to do so- as he would be able to check when he would do his… ‘cleanup’. Not to mention, despite the man’s goals, Johan trusted Magenta. Which may have been the fault of memories not his own.

The older man matched the tilt of his head, humorous.

“What?” he asked, a slight grin at the edges of his mouth. Johan’s lips parted to say something, and then closed. Magenta’s smile broadened cheekily, eyes flashing. “Oh, dear. Be more careful, Jo! We wouldn’t want…” Magenta glanced at Bertrum’s mutilated, burned corpse, fighting his smile from growing wider. “An accident.” 

“Why d-did you tell me about it?” Johan asked, faced with a troubled emotion that he locked up and decided that he would not think about or confront. Magenta’s smile remained unchanging. “Mag….”

The other man stood up, still evenly looking at Johan.

“You’re smart, Jo,” the avatar of The End chided, tapping the end of Johan’s nose. “Think about it.”

“The resetting, I kn-know,” Johan replied, pursing his lips. He knew why Magenta was much more tranquil and compliant around him than the other essences of fears, who generally disliked watching Johan undo their work time after time. Not Magenta, though. Magenta was quite happy with the fact that he was able to expand on his medium repeatedly thanks to Johan’s role. “But why warn me a-about the fuse not working? You know what h-happens to me if… an ‘accident’ does occur.” 

Magenta shrugged, smile still on his face. 

“Thought it might make your day a bit better,” Magenta brightly replied. Johan looked away, face warming. “I’m sure that whatever weird process renews you is no party.” 

“It’s… it’s definitely not, no,” Johan agreed, feeling pain creeping along his spine. He exhaled, softening, managing a small smile on his stressed visage. “So… I thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jo,” Magenta’s own relaxed smile was dazzling, toothy and bright; yet sharklike. It made a trickle of fluster bloom in Johan’s chest, worsened by his next words. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a nicer way to thank me, don’t you think?” 

Johan did not reply, looking away, face heating considerably. Magenta laughed a little, a chuckle, and Johan’s blushing intensified. A hand brushed his cheek as Magenta sauntered out of the room. 

Johan watched him leave, words he could not describe resting on his tongue, unsure if he should go after the man, properly ‘thank’ him.

Instead, Johan checked his paperwork, inhaled, and reset.

[novva]

Artist’s rendition of two girls I saw poking a squirrel last week

[u3pxx]

my comic for @aabadendingzine which is out for free over here.

extra stuff/commentary under the cut | like what i do? support me on ko-fi 💙

helloooo how's it going? i really hope you enjoyed the comic <3 it's rare for me to draw such wholesome things, i know [bats eyelashes]

DFGHDJKF ok i know, it's evil, the entire zine is evil you should go read it!!!!!!! but also, i remember coming up with this prompt and the image of mikeko trying to wake a dead apollo up evoked such a visceral reaction in me that i audibly went "NOOOOOO" when i thought it up LOL

the fourth page is the first page i ever thumbnailed bc i knew EXACTLY how i wanted this thing to end!

i think my favorite page of this comic is the 2nd page (the 4th page being my second favorite bc what can i say, i'm evil wheezes) i just really enjoyed drawing the montage of apollo going about his life and kristoph just. being there. always watching him.

i keep thinking about how spark brushel mentioned feeling like he was being watched those past 7 years. i imagined apollo would get a taste of that once he starts trying to find out the truth behind what happened in his first case.

and as for my favorite panel, I REALLY LIKE THIS ONE!! it's just fun shoving every important element alluding to the case 7 years ago to the moment when zak died!

and it's not very obvious but an element i really like about this one is zak still on the chair he died on. it's just his torso visible and i would've loved to make it more obvious that he's there but oh well.

i can't think of anything else to add about drawing this so i'll end it by saying: PLEASE GO READ THE ZINE, IT'S SO SOS SOSOSOS FULL OF LOVE FOR HURT AND TRAGEDY AND THE WAY MY FELLOW ZINEMATES EXPLORED THAT IS SUCH!!! GOOD AND HEARTWRENCHING STUFF!!!!!!!!!

i had to take a break from reading the zine when i went out to finish it bc my chest started to physically hurt bc ohhhhh lordy, it just hurt. it just hurt a lot! (please do read the trigger warnings before reading the thing bc this zine deals with a lot of heavy stuff!)

i like to joke about how i'm evil and enjoy evil things such as angst no comfort which. well, it's kind of true LMAO so i'm thrilled that i was able to be a part of this zine and cook up something completely terrible <3

here's the link for it again, go read it!

[transmascissues]

i absolutely cannot believe people are trying to start discourse about whether nex benedict was actually nonbinary / whether it was okay for him to describe himself as nonbinary to some people if he didn’t actually identify that way as if he isn’t literally DEAD because he was KILLED. this is a MURDERED CHILD and these monsters are so busy getting mad at the possibility that he might have been a trans boy who described himself as nonbinary to his family because that was easier for them to take that they’re turning a CHILD who was MURDERED into fucking discourse. even when we die at the hands of cis people’s violence, our own community finds a way to make us the villains of the story.

and all of this bullshit on top of the ways that cis people are already trying to say our grief over his death is unjustified. all of this on top of people claiming he wasn’t murdered and speculating on other causes of death (i literally saw someone say he “clearly went home and took the coward’s way out” and i have never been more disgusted) or claiming that he started the fight as if any action on his part could’ve been enough to justify his death. i am haunted by the sound of his father screaming that his child was not filth because that is what people have been saying about this poor kid, that’s how cruelly his memory is being treated, and even the trans community can’t get it’s shit together enough to look past the stupid discourse and see the tragedy in front of us. did you all forget that it was supposed to be up to us to grieve him in the way he deserves when the rest of the world fails to care if people like him live or die? did you all forget that this child was our sibling, the future of our community, a life that we should have had the chance to know and treasure while he was still here but that we now have a responsibility to hold close to our hearts in his absence? nex’s life was precious and it was ended far too soon and if you truly believe that anything is more important than mourning his life and fighting for a world where no more trans people have to meet such an awful fate, you’re a traitor to this community and you do not deserve the place you occupy within it.

i’m so tired. i can’t even imagine how tired his family must be, to see the public treat the child they’re grieving so horribly, to see the world fail their baby again. leave him alone. he was already robbed of peace in life; the least you can do is let him finally have it in death.

[uncanny-tranny]

You know, I don't necessarily buy into the idea of "you die twice; once when your heart stops beating, and the second when you are forgotten" because I don't think we're truly forgotten.

Throughout history, we've found proof of people existing, well after their death, well after they've been forgotten by their community and time. Even if we do not have names for these people, we know they were alive. We touch their bones, and we internalize their lives. We learn how they lived through the stories we interpret from their bones, and then we tell others about them. They haven't been forgotten, and it's not unlikely that you won't be forgotten.

Why is it that we only "count" if we are immortalized in the history books, if we scar time to the point nothing would be the same if we were forgotten?

And, anyway, look at this cat, who died so long ago, but whose memory is still remembered:

[beansprean]

I did not want to draw a weeks-or-months-old decomposing corpse so let's all just continue to hand wave any sort of concrete timeline for this comic.

My Familiar’s Ghost part 42

Masterpost

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Close up on past Guillermo, in sepia tones, as he looks up at Nandor with a nervous grin, cheeks flushed. He asks, 'Are...are you going to eat me?' 1b. Zoom out, close up on past Nandor in the foreground in profile as he turns his gaze away from Guillermo with an uncomfortable grimace. He grumbles, 'I was going to, but you're kind of taking all the fun out of it...' Guillermo pipes up with an 'I'm sorry!' in the background, still smiling and wringing his hands together. 1c. Back in the present, close up on Nandor walking through the hall behind the Panera counter, looking down in surprise as he steps in something wet. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'Do you want me to...run or something?' 1d. Shot of the floor in front of present Nandor from his POV, showing a dead human in a Panera hat and apron laying there in a pool of blood, throat ripped out. Nandor rolls her over with his foot and says, 'Yeesh, already slacking on body disposal, Guillermo?' 1e. Close up on present Nandor in profile as he looks back up, brow furrowed and eyes shining with regret. He says, 'I proper sire would have... Would have seen you through this.' 1f. Back to the past, sepia tones. Medium shot of past Nandor squinting down at Guillermo and leaning away with a look of suspicion, as if he were contagious with something. He asks, 'Why are you so eager? Are you some kind of...death pervert?' Offscreen, past Guillermo responds, 'No, no! I just...'

2a. Back to the present. Shot behind Nandor as he walks through the hall behind the Panera counter, coming to an wall straight ahead with a few miscellaneous cardboard boxes, a metal freezer door to the left, and a wooden door to the right that says 'employees only'. The door is cracked open slightly, letting a dim light into the dark hallway. Nandor walks toward it. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'I've always wanted to be a vampire.' 2b. Close up on Nandor's hand closing around the doorknob to the room. Past Guillermo's dialogue continues, 'And I figure...' 2c. Wide shot from within the room as Nandor opens the door fully, his silhouette visible in the doorway on the far wall. It appears to be a break room, or was, with a unisex bathroom on the left wall, a collection of round tables and wooden chairs, and a short counter with upper and lower cabinets, sink, and coffee maker on the far wall next to a top-freezer refrigerator. The fridge is cracked open, which is what let light into the room. In the righthand corner closest to the viewer is a nonfunctional soda machine that says 'bepis' on the front. There is blood smeared around the fridge handles, the light switches, the soda machine buttons, in shuffling footprints on the floor, congealed in styrofoam cups scattered around the counter next to an abandoned cardigan, and dripping down the cabinets. One of the tables is overturned against a wall along with a chair with several broken legs. More importantly, perhaps, the room is littered with corpses. There is a dark-skinned bald man laying in the center of the room who appears to be wearing a Panera apron and is, presumably, human. The bald corpse laying next to him with pointed ears and a long black cape is decidedly not. Another body lays tangled in the fallen table and chair, bloodied cape tossed over their head. A woman in leather and a long skirt lays on her back on an upright table, coated in blood and throat ripped apart, staring emptily past the viewer with her mouth hanging open to show her fangs. Another corpse is slumped upright against the wall next to Nandor, wearing bellbottoms and a paisley shirt. His head is tipped back, mouth open and full of sharp teeth, the broken wooden leg of a chair sticking out of his chest. As Nandor stands and stares at the carnage, past Guillermo's dialogue continues: 'It's now or never, right?' /end ID

[byghostface]

"If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man."

Poem → Kinder Than Man by Althea Davis

Comic panels → Robin(2021) #7 by Writer- Joshua Williamson, Artist- Gleb Melnikov

.

(Just thinking that Damian stays by Nika's side, holding onto her wrist waiting for her pulse to come back… and she doesn't know how much he cares for her at this very moment…)

(But Nika still recognizes that Damian is kind to her, and it's all that matters to her.)

"Then I found a guy who truly had my back. He's complicated and came preloaded with family baggage, but we laugh a lot and he treats me nice."

"And I really was happy you agreed to help me… and you did help me."

Comic panels → Lazarus Planet: Next Evolution by Writer- Brandon T. Snider, Artist- Laura Braga/ Batman and Robin(2023) #8 by Writer- Joshua Williamson, Artist- Nikola Čižmešij

.

(​I need Damian and Nika to be cosmically intertwined in every lifetime/possible universe through their connections and experiences with death, and be buried together side by side at the end of time with this poem engraved onto their graves.)

[prime-adeptus]

NOTHING IS LOST (YOU GIVE ME STRENGTH) – FUSHIGURO MEGUMI & READER

As minimal as this may seem, you wonder if he knows how much it means to you that he came. Your days have been lonely with you feeling increasingly out of touch with everything, but everything feels fine with Megumi by your side. Or, the one where you find your way back home.

TAGS.⠀gender-neutral reader; ambiguous relationship; childhood friends; aged-up au/canon divergence; brief smoking; angst & hurt/comfort; mental health issues, talks of death/suicide ideation, implied past suicide attempts; mild gore; near-death experiences; drifting apart and coming back together. hopeful/happy ending. SFW. 3,9k words

A/N.⠀my first work after so long and it's just a ventfic LOL sorry i have been looping phoebe bridgers and lorde for ages.

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always felt things fervently.

One moment you’d feel euphoric, like you’re walking on air and nothing can get you down, but then everything crumbles and you’re left as nothing but an empty husk. It’s ironic how emptiness can feel so heavy, a constant weight on your shoulders, constant tugs at your heartstrings. 

Despite all the things you hate about yourself, there’s still one part of you that you’ll always remember with pride: there is no limit to the unconditional love you can give to people. It’s taken some time for you to decide you want to live and love as much as you can. 

But for some reasons you couldn’t fathom, these days, you feel as though your love is forced. Unnatural. Ingenuine. Like it’s just something you’ve gotten used to doing passively. Like you no longer believe, like you are living a lie. 

In a way, maybe you are. The longer you are surrounded by your fellow Jujutsu sorcerers, the more aware you become of how rotten this world can get. Plagued with death, unhappiness and turmoil on every corner, and with humans repeating the same mistakes, you’ve begun to believe that this is all hopeless. You’re well aware that it’s quite a pessimistic view to hold, but in the world that you are in, you find that it keeps you grounded. A realist. 

Or, as your beloved teacher Gojo Satoru would call you, a downer.

The sound of his voice referring to you as such makes you click your tongue in irritation. There’s not much you know about him, but the bitter part of you believes that  he  of all people should at least understand how you feel. You hold your position as a jujutsu sorcerer in high regard and with honour, but as time passes by, you’ve started to contemplate if it’s even worth it at all.

You wonder if people know that you weren’t always this way — as a child, you were bright-eyed and innocent, full of love for people and the world. Growing and going through life shattered it all, making you a husk of what you once were, and even now, you still don’t know who you’re supposed to be.

You lie and you cheat, tricking people into believing that you’re independent and fine on your own, but you are lonelier than words can describe.

And just what do you live for? You’ve survived time and time again by sheer instinct and reflex, but you still don’t know what your purpose is. You fight and you risk your life to keep other people safe at the cost of your wellbeing. Every day is a task to complete for the greater good, but what’s in store for you? You’ve grown distant from your parents — on your end, anyway; it’s difficult to read people — and your once close friends rarely contact you anymore. All you have are your peers, but you still feel so out of place among them. 

The cigarette burns between your fingers as you stare off into space by the edge of the river. At the mere age of nineteen, you feel as though you’ve lived several lives, all of which have harrowed you to no end. Nicotine flows in your system as you take yet another drag, wondering if this is what your youth was meant to be. Years of saving the city in favour of feeling like you’re wanted, needed should’ve made you feel happy. Yet here you are, alone in the streets of Tokyo, all because there’s nothing waiting for you at home.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” a voice says from beside you. It’s deep and quiet, almost monotonous, but you’d recognise the hint of concern anywhere. Megumi slightly grimaces at the sight of you exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t.” With a scoff, you put out the cigarette in the ashtray and turn to face him instead. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

He frowns. It amuses you how it seems to have been a permanent expression etched on his face since you were kids. You don’t remember if you’ve ever seen him with a different look, but that’s on you, you suppose. You haven’t spent much time with him for a while now. Time ages you and your weariness distances you from those you wish to stay close to.

When he doesn’t reply, you speak up again, “I'm trying.”

“I know.” He glances at you. As blunt as he sounds, you know he means well; that’s just the way he is. He looks like he has more to say but he doesn’t, instead opting to hand you a packet of your favourite mints. Any other time you’d take it as an insult, but you find yourself getting sentimental over the fact that he still remembers what you like. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, popping one into your mouth. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

The corner of his lips quirks downward for a split second. With a quiet sigh, he lightly flicks your forehead, not reacting at all to the indignant yelp you let out. 

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks in a chiding tone, though there isn’t any venom in it. “You’ll get sick. I don’t want you sneezing on me.”

“You always take care of me, though,” you grumble without thinking, putting on the jacket that was previously tied around your waist. Another beat passes before you realise what you’ve blurted out. Were you being too familiar with him? You’re not sure if he still wants to be friends after all that isolation you’ve been doing. You part your lips to apologise, but he interrupts with a huff and a flick to your forehead again.

“Shut up.” The pink flush on the tips of his ears betrays the irked expression he wears. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the chilly air or if it’s because he’s blushing, but it brings a smile to your face nonetheless. “Let’s go back.”

As minimal as this may seem, you wonder if he knows how much it means to you that he came. Your days have been lonely with you feeling increasingly out of touch with everything, but everything feels fine with Megumi by your side.

You were only twelve when you started seeing Curses everywhere you went.

You’d never been the type to get scared too easily, but there was something about those creatures that unsettled you to the core. They seemed horrifically disfigured and hungry, ready to pounce at any moment, and you could only be brave for so long. You tried telling your mother and your friends only to be met with suspicious and concerned looks. 

They thought you were crazy. You didn’t blame them for that. You never believed in the paranormal, so this sudden change must’ve been quite a shock. It wasn’t until two years later did you learn what they were and that you could exorcise them, somehow like they did in the horror movies. Your memory of your recruitment is hazy, but you did remember sitting with Megumi and Gojo in the car and asking the most questions you’ve ever asked in your lifetime. Your new teacher found it amusing; your classmate, however, did not.

Your mother didn’t seem to mind sending you to a boarding school. With an elaborate lie about your full scholarship told by Gojo, she’d beamed in joy and helped you pack your bags. She’d be too busy to actually notice your absence, but that didn’t stop her from sending a message to check in on you every once in a while. At some point, you stopped responding. Not because you were annoyed, but rather, you just didn’t have the energy to.

Ironically, for a school with quite a handful of staff and students, you never felt lonelier in your life. You stuck by Megumi’s side for the sole reason that he was the only one you felt comfortable enough to approach. You didn’t talk to him much, but he was good company and you came to consider him a friend. Eventually, he started approaching you as well, and you’d spend time together like regular friends would do. It felt nice to be able to be around someone and not have to explain yourself all the time. 

In hindsight, you think it’s your fault that you’re so distant from everyone now. You don’t quite know when it all began—the depressing thoughts, the near-uncontrollable impulses, the lack of care for your safety and well-being. Every time your teachers or a peer brought it up, you’d simply dismiss it as just a ‘hormone thing’ which seemed enough to make them stop asking. Megumi didn’t believe a thing. He doesn’t have to tell you for you to know that.

But what else could you do? You’re alone, and it’s not like anyone can help with whatever the fuck is happening in your head. Your mother got you in touch with professionals to help with your troubles, and even if she doesn’t say it much, you know she’s always worried sick and thinks you should just come home. You’ve been able to keep yourself in check since then, but with the sadness now mostly gone, you now have to deal with the void in your chest that plagues you constantly.

The forest surrounding the dormitories is quiet save for the leaves rustling in the wind and the cicadas chirping their evening tune. You’re not sure how long it’s been since your last official mission. You haven’t been good at keeping track of the time for a while now. But at the very least, you know that it’s been too long.

There’s no doubt Gojo had something to do with it, you think bitterly. Otherwise, you’d be as busy as your peers right now. If there’s one thing you hate about this place, it’s the fact that no one here ever really gives you a proper reason. You feel trapped, ignored, and maybe if you were more carefree you’d look past it, but you’re not. If they didn’t believe in your abilities, you’d show them; you don’t think being the underdog is that bad, after all. Maybe they’ll finally recognise your prowess and respect you.

With your heart pounding hard against your chest, you grab your ootachi and flee, letting your instincts guide you to wherever feels the most dangerous, exciting. The more rational part of you tells you that you’re going to be in trouble if you don’t turn back now, but you find that you really couldn’t care less.

You need to feel alive. You need to feel afraid, to feel something, anything. While you don’t mind resting, you also didn’t overwork yourself to the bone just to remain stagnant. You didn’t spend weeks training with every weapon the school had to offer just to let them rust. You didn’t hone your cursed techniques only to not use them at all. So punishment and criticism be damned, you’re going to do what you want whether people like it or not.

You find yourself standing in front of a dingy abandoned shrine in the woods. Unease settles in the air as you slowly creep into the light of the moon. It’s dim, incredibly so, but you can’t afford to be afraid of the dark now —you have something to prove, and you’re not going to let yourself be intimidated by something so childish. There are blood splatters on the cobblestone steps, both fresh and dried, and your grip tightens on the handle of your sword. Your instinct to fight rears its head within your body, adrenaline and the humane need to survive rushing through your veins, but you breathe and try to rein it all in.

You have to think.

(It’s quite ironic how for someone who doesn’t give a single shit about their life, you always fight your hardest so you can live.)

You take another step. A twig snaps beneath the weight of your foot. The dried leaves crunch and rustle like someone (or rather, something) is sizing you up, keeping itself unseen to take you by surprise. Incomprehensible gargled sentences echo from within and the stench of death and decay grows stronger. Even when fear starts to wrap you in its cold embrace, you walk through the gate and into the dark shrine. Your blood runs cold and your breath gets caught in your throat, but you force yourself to face the task at hand.

You’re met with a grotesque mass of green; all of its endless bloodshot eyes leer at you as its tendrils slither in your direction. Misshapen hands protrude from those tendrils and reach for you, taunting you with the blood and entrails stuck to their skin and nails, telling you that you are next. 

Not today.

An aura of black and purple coats your sword as you withdraw it from its sheath. It’s not the best space to utilise such a long sword—the shrine is somewhat cramped and is lacking in space for mobility, much less combat —but you grit your teeth and decide that you will adapt. Electricity crackles from your blade, and without any more hesitation, you charge. Its tendrils are faster than you had anticipated; they come close to wrapping themselves around your legs until your cursed energy latches on to them and forces them to disintegrate.

The curse glares at you in fury. You can practically hear your heartbeat as you slash through its tendrils, splattering the wooden floors with its steaming blood. A guttural growl leaves the curse and the air feels thicker; it’s getting hard to breathe and your vision is starting to fade. 

Am I going to die here?

There’s a sharp pain in your gut. The sword slips out of your grasp and blood sputters out of your lips. When you look down, you realise that the curse has pierced through you.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it fucking hurts.

But you can’t die here. Not like this, not without a fight.

Shakily, weakly, you put your hands together, breathe, and with the last of your strength, you fire a powerful blast that hits the curse square in the centre, making it screech in pain. Vapour rises from its form as it melts into the ground and eventually dissipates. A relieved sigh leaves you, but then the world spins, your body hurts even more, and before you know it, everything goes dark.

You fall into nothing.

(Somewhere not too far from the shrine, apprehension crawls into Fushiguro Megumi’s system.

He doesn’t hesitate. He follows the curse residue and he runs.)

You wake with a dull ache between your ribs.

The first thing you see is never-ending walls of white. There’s a generic decorative painting on the wall along with an old clock that tells you it’s a quarter past noon. Blearily, you realise that you’re in the infirmary, and judging from the soreness that spreads through your body and into your limbs, you’re still alive.

Somehow, you’re not as happy about it as you should be.

You feel like you’ve been through hell and back. In a way, you did. You’re too tired to regret your poor decisions from who knows how long ago, and you’re not a stranger to deliberately ignoring whatever makes you feel like shit. So you do just that all while staring blankly at the wall in front of you, hoping that you’ll eventually fall asleep again and forget. Maybe even not wake up until the month ends.

(You’ve come to a realisation that you don’t want to die anymore; you just want to stop existing for a while, get yourself together then come back when you’re ready. Like pausing a game or a video being played, you don’t lose the progress, but you sure as hell forget what the hell happened earlier.)

The door slides open. You contemplate pretending to be unconscious again, but your ears pick up heavy footfalls on the tiled floor and you decide maybe you shouldn’t. 

“Hey, Ieiri-sensei,” you croak out, weakly raising two of your fingers in a peace sign. “I’m alive and moving.”

She hums, amused as she makes her way over to your bedside. “Yes, you are. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit?”

“Good. You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you. Can you stand?”

She gently urges you off the bed, hoisting you up by the shoulders as you try to maintain balance after being bedridden for hours. Or days. Or even weeks. You’re not sure.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

The concerning duration of your bedridden state goes completely ignored. All you can think about is the mention of Megumi. 

You would’ve been dead if Fushiguro-kun hadn’t found you. 

“What do you mean he found me?”

She smiles wryly. “That boy’s been worried about you. Ran off from Satoru as soon as he felt a ‘weird pressure.’ What were you fighting?”

You shrug and wince at how stiff you feel. God, you hate this. Your legs are shaky as she helps you walk out of the infirmary and on the familiar path back to the dormitories. The school is quiet, making you wonder where everyone’s gone for the day.

“Some curse thing. Had tentacles and slimy skin. It was gross.”

“Well, that thing punctured you right there.” She gestures toward your chest. “Surprisingly it didn’t hit any vital organs, but you still lost a lot of blood. Did you exorcise it in the end?”

“I did.” A beat of silence passes. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yaga-sensei’s suspended you for a month. Oh, Fushiguro-kun. Just in time.” She helps you sit on a stone bench as Megumi approaches, his fingers furling and then relaxing by his sides. “They still need some support when they’re walking, but they’re healing quickly. They’ll be fine..”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m still in my thirties, silly.” She ruffles your hair affectionately. “Be careful, hm? Come see me if there’s anything else.”

As Ieiri-sensei takes her leave, Megumi sits down next to you on the bench. His brows furrow the same way they always do when he’s thinking of how to say something nicely. He opts for silence instead, eyeing you cautiously. It almost feels offensive, but it’s only then that you’re aware of the bandages that cover essentially your whole upper body, so you brush it off. If someone else were in your position, you’d be worried sick too.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this visibly upset (well, for someone like Megumi anyway) over anything, and knowing that it’s because of you strikes you with a pang of guilt. With your lips pursed, you avoid his demanding look and glance at your hands instead. The bruises have almost faded away by now. Ieiri-sensei must’ve worked herself to the bone to patch you up.

“I’m not happy, Megumi.” Your throat closes up and your nose burns as the tears start to form and fall. “I’ve been trying to force myself to feel something. It didn’t matter what it was. I just hate being like this all the time.”

It hurts to cry. It hurts trying not to. Your state of mind is in tatters and you’re desperately doing your best to hold yourself together, but the way he’s looking at you makes you drop your guard completely.

“I know I’m surrounded by people, but I still feel so alone.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything. That’s fine, you think. The last thing you’d want to do is pressure him to speak his mind. He takes every word into consideration and thinks a lot by default, and if he’s still the same boy you knew all those years ago, he’d prefer to let his actions speak for themselves. 

“You didn’t have to come for me,” you murmur. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“No.” He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to formulate what he wants to say into words that won’t feel like jabs. He huffs quietly. “I want to stay with you.”

Hearing him say those words practically has you melting on the spot, your heart fluttering as warmth rushes to your cheeks. You reach for his hand instinctively and with the slightest bit of hesitation, he responds by lacing your fingers together. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still exhausted or if it’s because you’re worried you’ll upset him somehow. Either way, it takes so much out of you just to talk anymore. “I’m trying.”

He squeezes your hand softly. “I know.”

“I say that to you a lot, don’t I?” you chuckle, leaning against his shoulder. I’m trying. You tell it to him every time you don’t have anything else to say, but it hardly feels true. Or maybe you’re just overly critical of everything you do, expecting yourself to reach certain heights before you consider yourself enough. 

“You are trying,” Megumi says. “Even now.”

You smile weakly. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” He lets go of your hand and your heart sinks, wondering if you’d done or said something wrong, but then he gently flicks your forehead the same way he always used to do when you were kids. “I found you bleeding out on the ground.”

“Pretty gnarly, wasn’t it?” you joke, laughing nervously. He shoots you a glare that shuts you up immediately.

“We were worried about you,” he continues, ignoring your interruption. “I was worried about you. I thought you were going to die.”

“Is this the part where I tell you that all jujutsu sorcerers die at some point?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly, “I didn’t know I was that important to you.”

“We grew up together.” You feel a slight weight as he rests your head on top of yours with a sigh. “You’ve always been with me. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there.”

It’s unusual for him to be this open about his feelings; he’s never been the overly sentimental type like you are, so to have him be this vulnerable with you makes you feel like you’re going to burst. The cool breeze passes by as you hesitantly take his hand again, and for the first time in so long, you find yourself genuinely smiling. He cares about you. He loves you, despite what that voice in your head tells you otherwise. It’ll take a while for you to change or get used to knowing these things, but for him, you’ll do everything you can. You’ll live — if not for yourself, then for him. And as slow and tedious as your path to recovery may be, both physically and mentally, you think that it’ll be worth the endeavour because you’re not alone. 

You are loved.

You are loved by him, and for now, that is enough to quell every anxiety in the back of your mind.

You glance at him. “Wanna watch a movie later?” 

Almost imperceptibly, he smiles back. “Sure.”

(You never end up finishing the movie.

Halfway through, exhaustion gets the better of you, and you fall into a deep sleep on the bean bag you borrowed from the recreation room. When you wake in the morning, you’re sore and aching all over, but the blanket draped over your frame and the arm around your waist makes you forget about it for a moment.

With a content smile, you curl closer.

He’s still the same Megumi you’ve always known.)

[inbetweenhours]

Based off  "this is the death of beauty" by @weareallstardustfallen on ao3 because I have been obsessed, reread it for the 4th time the other night which prompted this.

This fic is one of the best most profound descriptions of grief and loss I have ever read. I normally don’t read hurt/no comfort fics but if they’re up your ally I could not recommend this fic more. It is cathartic and  painful in its finality and I love it with all I can.  There is a way with words throughout the fic, but nothing struck me so deeply as the line I displaced in the art (paraphrasing a line previous for even a little context). It takes my breath every time (no pun intended) and legitimately wrecks me in how divine a line it is to carry the weight of Scotts feelings. How his mind is working in this moment. 

Anyways I won’t ramble on. Its a 3rd life 2 chapter fic following Scott recovering and his husbands body from Dogwarts following the first day of war, and brings him home (accompanied by Martyn). Just go read the fic <33 

[ID: A digital painting of 3rd life Smajor. He is kneeling in grass and upturned dirt, pulling at the grass with his fist. His eyes are red with tears, grief, and horror. The flowers in his hair are wilting. Its is dark night. There is text excerpts on top reading “Partway through, he makes the mistake of looking down,” and “‘He’s not going to be able to breath, Scott thought hysterically.” ]

[ghoul--doodle]

Rest in peace sweet boy, I love you SO so much

[azuremist]

ever since i was born naked, destiny written on my palm, there's not a single day in the prophecy calendar of life when i'm not alone.

"jordan river" by vivinos.

[whump-queen]

…sleep deprivation

tw sleep deprivation, self harm, general misery, death mention

give me a whumpee so sleep deprived that their entire body hurts— they feel the ache in their bones, every muscle weeping for a break.

whumpee pinching their skin to keep themselves awake, twisting until it burns, digging their fingernails in until they feel warm blood seep out, dragging and ripping until it’s caked under their fingernails.

they can’t let themselves sit down—they know they’d just collapse. but they’re swaying on their feet, staggering a little. they feel their legs shaking in protest with every excruciating step.

give me the brain fog, the confusion, the slurred words and jumbled sentences— the inability to keep more than a single thought in their head at once.

let the dull pain of thinking too hard wear them down.

let them run on empty fumes until they’re forgetting things as soon as they occur.

until all they can think is how tired they are— the exhaustion pressing in around their brain like a thick syrup, sticky and sinking in around them until theyre suffocating, breathing in poison.

so exhausted that they blink and realize they’re crying.

feeling like a dead man, for all intents and purposes, were it not for the way they’re still barely standing, muscles quivering with each labored step.

they know they’re bad for thinking it but—

at least the dead get to rest.

[cepheusgalaxy]

[ID: Traditional artpiece of Angel Dust in the black outfit he wears in Poison, pole dancing upside-down and smiling to the viewer. There is a signature close to him, at the left, saying "Bug" with the date: 10-11/03/24. The background is plain white. /end ID.]

He died from overdose when he was alive sir

[kissoflightning]

Markus plays the piano so badly that Carl literally has a heart attack and dies.

The events of Detroit: Become Human described incorrectly

[unknownarmageddon]

Who in the hell are you

Dust belongs to Ask-Dusttale Horror belongs to Sour-Apple-Studios

Death’s Doorstep (this band au) belongs to me

When he was a teenager, roughly seventeen, Horror joined an underground fighting ring to get money to feed his brother, and himself. In hindsight it definitely wasn’t the smartest of decisions, but it paid well if, and he was god at it. And he was desperate.

He went about his business for months. Maybe a year or two. He didn’t keep track.

Then one of his opponents decided to fight dirty. In the ring they pulled a pipe on him they had found god knows where. Weapons of any kind were contraband.

Before he could really even think they had bashed Horror over the head with it, effectively caving in a part of his skull and knocking him unconscious. When he came to he was surrounded by utter anarchy as his attacker was being restrained, though far from willingly. A mob of people swarmed around him in a panic. There was shouting, god there was so much shouting. Horror could barely see or think through the blood pouring out of his head.

He, somehow, managed to pull himself to his feet. He burst through the commotion and out of the building. He eventually found himself stumbling aimlessly through a sudden downpour past houses with covered windows. He wondered to himself how he wasn’t dead. Though he wouldn’t have be surprised if he dropped to the concrete right then. He stopped at the first house he saw with any sign of activity; its garage was open. There, he met eyes with another skeleton with a broken guitar in his hand.

[glow-and-vamp]

A Bad Dream (link provided to give full view)