#tw: character death

[nell0-0]

"Sorry you have to see this, sailor..."

1 || 2 || 3 || Next (soon)

[gojosoups]

cw: angst, slight fluff, canon compliant?, character death and injuries, hurt no comfort, grief, mourning, non-binary reader/reader insert, poorly proofread lol

a/n: cried a little while I wrote this.. I miss him sm :(

When Gojo Satoru died that day, a piece of you died with him.

As you stood above his grave, you couldn’t help but reminisce about happier times—your old high school days, when everything was so much simpler.

You missed those goofy glasses he used to wear, his god-awful fashion sense, the way he used to walk—lanky limbs all carefree.

You missed his toothy smile, and how he always made time to help you with your training, even when he was exhausted from his own missions. And yet, he never once complained.

You remember how the four of you—Shoko, Suguru, Satoru, and you—used to sneak out of the dorms, slipping past Yaga as you all made your way to the convenience store, all because of Satoru’s sweet tooth.

You remember how he used to barge into your room, sprawling across your bed, his lanky frame taking up too much space as you fussed over his cuts and bruises.

Gojo and Geto were unforgivable when training together, leaving you to mend Satoru’s wounded ego. Gentle hands working carefully to patch him up and soft lips pressing against Hello Kitty bandaids to ease the pain.

You missed waking up in the mornings to find him in the kitchen, attempting to cook your favorite meal—Shoko and Suguru watching from the sidelines, amused as he made a mess of the common room.

You missed getting detention with him, staying behind after class to clean up—all because Gojo kept passing you silly little notes during Yaga’s very important lectures on the misuse of cursed objects in modern times.

You missed how carefree he was. Back then, he wasn’t the strongest. He didn’t have to carry the weight of the world. Back then, he was just Gojo Satoru—a loser and a lovesick teenager.

And now, all you could do was stand before his grave, reminiscing over someone he once was—over the life you once had.

He left you behind so easily, with nothing but memories of the past in his absence.

Suddenly, the ring on your finger felt a bit tighter, but nothing could compare to the painful clenching of your heart.

“You liar,” you think to yourself.

So much for his promises of being the strongest.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[dailyflicks]

The Amazing Spider-Man 2 2014, dir. Marc Webb

[tarrynightss]

Thinking about poor Ghost losing his love…

Tw: major character death, blood

The apartment was completely quiet as Simon stepped in, relocking the door behind himself as he always did, pushing down the hood covering his face.

“Love? I’m home.”

He arched an eyebrow as he got no response. Usually you would run up to him, or at the very least call out to him from wherever you were. He called out your name as he stomped through the hallway, not bothering to take off his shoes as his heart started racing. Had you gone out without telling him? Had you fallen asleep? He opened the door to the living room, and all those thoughts turned into mere optimistic dreams.

You sat slumped on the couch, your hands laying flat beside you and your head hanging back at an uncomfortable angle. He didn’t even need to glance downwards at the blood spray or the dark puddle leaking out from under the couch. You were dead.

Simon stood frozen, staring at you, the reality not sinking in. It wasn’t you. It was just another corpse, like many he had seen before. It wasn’t you. Yet even as he repeated that mantra over and over again, his eyes watered up, light catching on the ring around your finger. The one he had used to propose to you to two months ago.

Your name left his throat in a strangled sob as he stumbled forward, crashing to his knee on the couch next to you. He gently cradled the back of your head, feeling his stomach churn at the sickening feeling of the blood and small yet noticeable hole under his fingers. He held you in his arms, taking in the almost peaceful look on your face as you blankly stared forward.

The sob that had been building up finally came out, and despite knowing he shouldn’t move you, he couldn’t find it in himself to care, crushing your motionless form against himself.

“No! No! God!”

He screamed as he pressed your bloodied head against his hoodie, stroking your hair from your face like it might bother you. This was because of him. There was no note, but he was certain of it. Someone had sniped you, clean and from afar, right through the large apartment window. It could’ve been Simon’s job, expertly done.

The sobs he let out wrecked his whole body, hugging you tighter and tighter against himself. The hard reality was right in front of him, yet he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it. Just seven hours ago he had seen you, smiling brightly and kissing his cheek as he left. He should’ve stayed, should’ve been the one to take the bullet, but instead he had left as he always did. ‘I’m worried this job will one day cost you your life, Simon.’ He remembered your words, how you had frowned in sorrow at the thought. You were right. He had lost his life, his light, his everything.

Your skin was already cold as he pressed a weeping kiss to your forehead, fingers swiping gently over your eyelids to close them forever.

“I’m sorry, god, I’m so sorry.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, whispering apologies over and over again like it would change anything. As god knows how long passed, his grief started to get laced with anger, which grew and grew until he was gritting his teeth. Whoever did this would pay. They would suffer, over and over again till it was no longer possible to keep them alive. It would be a small comfort to the pain he felt, but he owed you this much. He owed you revenge.

Slowly, he put your body down on the couch, laying you flat like you were sleeping. It pained him greatly to leave you here, but he had to act fast. He would make sure someone picked up your body and had it taken care of. Before he left, he took your ring from your finger, stuffing it in the pocket over his heart.

“I’m sorry, love, don’t be sad, I won’t be long.”

With that promise, he left, rage and a burning need for revenge making his rattled body move. One step at a time, and then one stab at the time.

[quackity-rp-blog]

Everything had been set in place.

Today, the casino was closed, long enough for the guests to be gone, but for Quackity to still be in his office making up paperwork, so the Dogs stepped outside.

Rotty and Bull had begrudgingly gone along with the plan as Shepherd led them through it. Each stood just outside the property line, their shadows casting long black forms of themselves onto the tall casino walls. Today it would crumble. The boys pushed and shoved each other, playfully. The weight of the situation not creeping in until a text came through. With a breath, the boys looked around. Shepherd stepped forward.

Basset stood outside Quackity's house. He'd ran Cone to Rev's so he would be safe. Alaska was supposed to be here, he was supposed to be the one to blow the lid. But Basset didn't see him. He stood outside Quackity's yard, looking down at the control to his hand. As his phone buzzed, he pushed the button with a small click.

The sand shifted as thousands of pounds of materials were sent sky high. The boys at the casino running from the aftermath towards Shepherd's truck as chunks crashed into neighboring buildings, hooting and hollering at a job well done. Gunpowder and smoke clouded the sky like it had suddenly become night.

Quackity's house crumbled. Glass shot in every direction and a fire screamed out of the rubble. Chunks of foundation and beaten ground, covered the area as Basset tried. To run. He tried. He wasn't ready. The remnants of a family home, shattered into the ground. Basset took cover in a neighboring storm shelter, crying as he heard crashes of the fire spreading.

Under thousands if not millions of pounds of rubble, a heartbeat fell still.

@clinging-to-a-dream

[eluriart]

Promise

Dust/Muder sans & Papyrus by ask-dustale

Dream & Nightmare by joku

Inspired by skumhuu’s Leviathantale

[shanalikeanna]

"....What have you done?" Fic (Bad Ending) Author: @pluck-heartstrings Read the full fic here I'm BEGGING YOU it's really good I promise TW:Blood under the cut

[tamdoesart]

Coming back to a world where your loved one is no more.. it’s cruel.

I joined a wonderful lil discord server recently & took part in an event to create something inspired by the season 2 teasers we got. Since I missed the hayday, I had to squeeze in some Vanco somehow.

Anyway, enjoy the angst! I’m sorry :’D

[nell0-0]

I've been thinking...

I've seen the premise of Wind/Tune dying in the War of Eras and then Warriors and Time seeing him again during LU before all of that even happened (Wind has no clue) a couple of times before in fics. But not the other option of either Wars or Time being the ones to die during LU and then future Wind (aka Tune) seeing them again during the War of Eras after.

Just... Thinking about it.

[atinymekanie]

A Soul’s Burden

|| A Hunter mission goes horribly awry in a remote location, leaving Sylus to track down his love's whereabouts before it's too late... ||

|| TW & CW: Blood | Character Death | Hurt/No Comfort | Angst | Suicidal Thoughts | Suicide Attempt ||

AO3 Link

The leader of Onychinus stood at his desk, staring down at a sheet of paper with a bunch of figures, coordinates, and other information printed across it. His mind was not focused on the paper, however. A cell phone lay on the desk near the paper, silent and dark. The way it had been for hours. Sylus glanced over at the phone, the dim light from the fire in the large fireplace off to his right flickering over the dark screen. Normally it would be lighting up every so often with a message or a post or a picture, something, from her.

Sylus drew in a measured breath, turning away from the desk and pacing back over towards the fireplace, like a tiger in a cage. That was what it felt like, waiting for Mephisto to return with news of her whereabouts. All the power he had and nothing to do with it. Money could not buy an answer here, nor could physical force nor his Evol. She had said she was being sent on a mission and that she wouldn’t be able to answer the phone for a few hours. That it shouldn’t be a difficult mission, just in a remote area without much service. Even her Hunter’s watch might not work there, according to the Association’s intel.

Flames leapt and danced in the massive stone fireplace, their image reflected in his ruby eyes, turning them molten, his pupils swallowing some of the irises as they dilated in the ruddy light. Sylus clenched his fist, fingers curling and uncurling, nails pressing against his palm in a steady rhythm, the only visible betrayal of his internal turmoil. He knew that she would never tolerate him attempting to stop her from doing her job. And he didn’t want to stop her. Sylus loved how free-spirited she was, how daring and carefree she always seemed, despite the danger swirling around her. But damn, was she reckless sometimes.

Leaning forward, Sylus rested his left forearm on the mantel, then let his forehead press against the back of his arm as he closed his eyes. The warmth from the fire flared against the fabric of his silver dress shirt, the sensation almost like dragon’s breath, hot and suffocating. It did nothing to warm the cold feeling of dread in his stomach, nor did it untie the knot that was growing in his chest. She should have called by now.

Sylus was alone in the base; the twins having been sent out to gather intel on any Metaflux fluctuations in remote areas. Once the four-hour mark had passed, he had decided he couldn’t wait any longer. She had said the mission should take about two hours, three tops. Perhaps he was overreacting. Perhaps she was fine. But his instincts told him otherwise. They were connected, their souls bound in a way that only Sylus knew about, at least for now. Maybe one day, she would remember.

Emotions, too many to name, slid across the tall man’s visage, tightening the muscles in his sharp jaw and creating small lines between his dark grey eyebrows. Emotions he didn’t want to name, didn’t want to even think about, flickered in the depths of his heart. Sylus was not normally an expressive man, his words and tone always efficient. It was his eyes that betrayed his emotions, and even then, only to her. Always to her. But now those emotions were bubbling just beneath the surface – frustration, concern, helplessness, rage… fear. Not normal emotions for someone in his position as leader of Onychinus. But there they were, all the same.

A soft sound broke through the crackling of flames and the fog of emotions swirling inside the silver-haired man. Wings. Sylus turned immediately, his head lifting like a predator who sensed prey, his crimson eyes fixing on their target, his mechanical crow. The bird had flown in through the open window and settled on the desk, preening its feathers unnecessarily. An odd habit the creature had picked up from witnessing other crows do it, despite his feathers being inorganic. Seemingly in an instant, Sylus was by the desk, the crow hopping up onto his finger as the man spoke, his voice clipped and short, harsher than he normally spoke to his pet.

“Show me.” Immediately, a screen was projected from Mephisto’s eyes, a crackling image hanging in the air in front of Sylus’ face. Static flickered across the image, rendering it hard to make out. Sanguine eyes narrowed, trying to decipher what was being shown. A winding road, with dense trees on either side and the bay further off to the right. A motorcycle, the type issued by the Hunter’s Association, was parked in a small gravel area. There were no road signs, no identifying markers of any kind in the image. Dammit. A low sound of frustration, almost a growl, reverberated from his chest.

Wait. Sylus sucked in a breath; the inhalation sharp in the silence. There. In the upper left corner of the image was a tower of some kind, something mechanical, something important. Something recognizable. Anger coursed through him as he realized where she was, where she had been sent. It was a remote area of Starfall Forest, out along the coast, where just the one highway ambled along the curve of the bay. Almost no one lived out there, hence why there was almost no service. Even Mephisto hadn’t been able to transmit anything to him due to the interference from that blasted tower.

“They sent you there? Alone?” Sylus’ voice practically seethed with barely controlled ire and incredulity. He knew she was an impressive Hunter, one of the top Hunters in the city, but to send any Hunter to such a remote location alone seemed like an idiotic thing to do. Perhaps they had their reasons, but that didn’t make it an intelligent decision. Sylus was beginning to tire of how the Hunter’s Association seemed to treat the Hunters as if they were expendable. Especially when that Hunter was her.

Turning on his heel, the tall man left the room, Mephisto fluttering after him as he descended through the lower floors of the base. His stride was purposeful, just short of a jog, taking him as quickly as possible to the garage. After grabbing a set of keys, Sylus slid behind the wheel of a dark, sleek vehicle, bringing the engine roaring to life a moment later. Questions he didn’t have the answers to swirled in his mind, turning his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he maneuvered the car out of the garage.

Sylus drove with effortless precision, weaving through the streets of the N109 Zone and narrowly avoiding other vehicles. Calculating quickly, he decided on a route towards the location Mephisto had shown him and set his course. Once he had left the city behind, Sylus drove like a bat out of Hell. The phone on the seat next to him buzzed, but he ignored it, his only focus on narrowing the distance between himself and the woman he was trying to reach.

__________________________________________

The engine noise purred to a halt, the sound of gravel crunching beneath skidding tires replacing it. Still night air stirred with a faint breeze, blowing in off the bay to his right as Sylus stepped out of the car. There in front of him sat her motorcycle, resting on its kickstand, pallid moonlight dappling the seat from behind scudding clouds. He closed the car door, the soft thud’s echo lost in the dense trees to his left as he moved over to the motorcycle. Gently he dropped his palm to the seat, almost as if looking for some sense of the woman who had ridden it last.

Gazing out at the forest, Sylus tried to discern which way she might have gone, his eyes tracing over the foliage, looking for disturbances. His nostrils flared, similar to the way a wolf’s would when tracking a wounded mate, trying to suss out the familiar scent of their blood. But it wasn’t blood he was looking (or hoping) for, instead, it was the scent of cherry wine, the way she always smelled to him. Aha. Faint but unmistakable, it drifted on the wind, coming from the northwest, in the direction of that damnable tower.

Sylus set off, striding through the trees, thankful that the underbrush was scarce in this part of the forest. Less to impede the path. Following the scent, he moved as quickly as he dared in the darkness beneath the pine branches, trying to make sure he didn’t lose the trail. Eyesight wasn’t the problem, Sylus could see well in the dark - the issue was the faintness of her scent. Like it wasn’t connected to her anymore. Dread flowed through him at the thought, like a viscous liquid that stole the breath from his lungs and constricted his heart. It battled against his fervent desire to find her, the war raging inside him completely invisible on the outside, except for the tension in his shoulders and the length of his stride.

Desire was a constant in his life, not just Sylus’ own, but the desires of everyone around him. He could sense them, could see them in others’ eyes, in their movements, in the way they carried themselves. Desire lurked in every heart; skulked in every place he stepped foot. But not here. There was nothing here. No people, no desires… no nothing. The emptiness of it caused a shiver to run through his broad, muscular frame.

The scent trail wound on and on, and Sylus began to move faster the longer it continued, his stride lengthening into a jog, then to a run, his tall shape flickering through the forest like a shadow. At some point, he had realized he was also following a faint trail of disturbed forest floor detritus, presumably created by her path through the trees. Without warning, the trail became much more disturbed, earth torn and roots exposed. The trees ahead opened up onto a clearing and Sylus slowed to a halt, his eyes widening in alarm at the sight before him.

This was not a natural clearing. Trees were torn out of the ground, the tall pines tossed about like matchsticks, their trunks snapped. The sharp scent of pine resin filled the air, overpowering the faint scent Sylus had been tracking. An emotion that he wasn’t often familiar with pierced through him as his eyes roamed over the destruction before him. The only sound in the darkness was his breathing, no longer even or measured; it had become sharper, quicker, and more ragged after his run through the forest. The sight in front of him did nothing to calm his breathing, either.

Moonlight filtered down through the trees, faintly illuminating the broken branches and strewn pine needles. Crimson eyes glittered in the light as Sylus stepped forward into the clearing, his heart pounding, the thrum of it filling his ears and drowning out the sound of his own breathing. If he had thought the forest was still before, now it seemed positively frozen. No movement caught his eye, no scent but that of overpowering pine filled his nose, no sounds other than his heartbeat met his straining ears.

“Fuck.” He spit the curse word out like it tasted vile, the sound harsh and grating as it cut through the night. There was nothing. Nothing to follow. All of it was torn apart like the trees, the trail gone, the scent lost, all of it. It must have been a monster of a Wanderer, to cause such destruction. But if that was the case… Where was it? The clouds shifted again, another moonbeam dropping through the tree branches and causing something to glint in the light.

Sylus was on the item within seconds, kneeling to pick it up, examining it and turning it over in his lithe fingers. A Protocore. Fierce pride swelled inside him, almost blocking out all the other emotions for an instant. Almost. She had killed it. All alone, she had defeated a Wanderer that tore trees apart like firewood. She was his equal in every way. Curling his fingers around the Protocore, Sylus was about to stand when a sensation almost knocked him off his feet.

Desire. It was faint, but it was there. Desire for… him. Sylus’ breath caught in his throat, his whole body going still as he cast about for the source of it. It had to be her. The desire was weak and gentle in nature – not sexual, just the desire for a presence, for his presence. The sense of it permeated through him, a gentle knowing that made his heart swell and his stomach sink. She was here. She was here… And she was…

Sylus rose to his feet, turning in a circle, his eyes darting around the tortured glade, looking for any signs of her. That emotion from before flashed through him again – terror. It got the best of him, causing him to scream her name into the darkness, praying she could hear him, praying to any being in the universe that would listen, be it god, angel, demon, it didn’t matter to him at that point. For half a second the desire he felt surged, then faded. To the right.

Turning to the right, Sylus took a step forward, calling her name again, his voice strained by the panic rising inside him. He began operating on instinct alone, his mind zeroing in on the desire he felt. Slightly to the left now. The large, well-dressed man adjusted his course, stepping over branches, climbing over tree trunks, calling her name frantically each time the sense of desire began to fade. Fear and anxiety swirled through him, churning in his stomach as he picked his way through the smashed trees. He made his way through the destruction caused by the battle until he came across a huge tree trunk that had fallen askew on the far side of the clearing, held up by a small rock formation.

There, beneath it, lay the form of a woman, barely discernible in the shadows underneath the torn foliage. Sylus was beside her in an instant, his Evol flickering around him, his body dissolving into a dark red mist and reappearing next to her, the mist dissipating. She lay face down on the ground, her Hunter’s uniform torn and covered in blood and dirt. What little of it he could see, anyway.

Most of her was obscured by the tree trunk – it lay atop her body, crushing her against the ground. The only reason it hadn’t fully crushed her was due to the outcropping of rocks just a little way away, propping up the top of the tree and leaving the trunk at a slant. Her hair had fallen across her face and her left arm was outstretched, the Hunter’s watch on her wrist blinking dimly with the words “No Signal”.

Red mist swirled around the tree trunk, lifting it off the woman and hurling it away, the resulting crash barely registering in the man’s ears as he dropped to his knees in the dirt, an incoherent sound forcing its way out of his throat. Every emotion Sylus had kept at bay during his drive there, during his journey through the forest, all of them came crashing down on him, drowning his mind and heart. The sight of her broken body tore something inside him, something that couldn’t be repaired.

Trembling hands reached for her, hesitating for only a moment. Was it safe to move her? It had to be. No one else was there to help. Sylus slid his hands underneath her, lifting her as gently as he could and turning her over. The way her body moved in his arms wasn’t… right. Things shifted that shouldn’t shift, and he could feel warm blood on his hands, could feel it staining the pale silver of his shirt. The fear inside him swelled, engulfing him completely. He had known something was amiss when he felt how weak her desire was, but he had prayed he was wrong. Clearly, his prayers had not been answered. They never were. Sylus pulled the woman up into his arms, cradling her against his broad chest, his left arm supporting her head and her legs draped over his knees.

Raising his right hand, he brushed the hair away from her face with shaking fingers, revealing a cut across her temple that leaked blood into her hairline. As he did so, her eyelids fluttered, ever so slightly. The desire Sylus felt before flickered again, like a dying heart held in his palm, its beats faint and fading. The sensation of it sent him to the edge of his sanity, the feeling of her life force guttering out branded onto his soul. He choked out her name, his voice barely a whisper in the dark, his throat constricted by the horror that surged through him, thundering in his veins. A small smile turned up the corner of her mouth, recognition glimmering in her eyes at the sound of his voice.

“I’m here,” Sylus murmured, “I came.” The words were swallowed up by the forest around them, the same way his heart was being swallowed by anguish. He cupped her cheek in his large palm, turning her face towards his as he dropped his forehead down to meet hers, breathing in the scent of her. Or trying to. All he could smell was blood and pine. The metallic scent of her blood was so strong he could taste it, and for the first time in his life, it made him want to retch.

“Sy…lus…” Just two syllables, separated by a gasping breath. The two syllables that were gifted to him eons ago, in another time, another galaxy, another world. All because that version of her couldn’t pronounce his actual name. Sylus hadn’t minded. Because the name was a gift from her. Her voice, normally soft and gentle, or loud and firm, or commanding, or teasing… was barely audible now, the syllables of his name barely discernible around the blood that welled up in her throat and trickled from the corner of her lips. The torn part inside him tore even further, the sound of his name born from her failing breath ripping him open in a way Sylus couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“I’m h-ere.” His voice broke on the last word, the sound of it like whiplash as he gazed down at her limp form in his arms, the light in her eyes slowly dying. Like her.

Tears stung the backs of his eyes as a shudder ran through him, his arms tightening around her, clutching her closer to him as if by doing so he could stop her from slipping away. The sensation in his stinging, blurring eyes was unfamiliar, but it was barely background noise, unnoticed in the deathly quiet of the glade and the raging cacophony that had become Sylus’ mind.

A million things and nothing at all ran through his head. Sylus had messaged Luke and Kieran and told them where he was going, had told them to send Hunters, ambulances, anything, everything if he didn’t report back in a timely manner. He had fully expected to find her injured, but this? To find her by sensing the last desire in her mind as she lay dying on the forest floor? For that desire to have been to see him, one last time? Nothing could have prepared him for that.

Sylus watched in mute horror as the moonlight faded from her face, as the desire in her heart blinked out, like a candle snuffed by the same gentle breeze that tugged at the bloody strands of her hair. He felt that desire for him fade into nothingness as her life slipped away, the sensation etched into his heart. His grip on her tightened even further as his eyes widened, his face contorting as a sob ripped its way out of his chest. Sylus pressed his lips to hers, whispering her name as he did so, uncaring of the blood that stained his own lips in the process, trying to call her back to him. There was no answer. His large frame shook as another sob wracked him, both his arms curling around her as he bent forward over her fragile form, his lips parting in a silent scream.

Despair took him then. It stole in through his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his ears, tunneling into him, piercing through his heart in much the same way a great sword once had. This was far more excruciating, though. Half of his soul was torn asunder, ripped from him in an instant, the agony of it crushing the half of his soul that remained. It stole his breath and his sanity, devouring them. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the world to give back his breath. A void seemed to open inside him, yawning wide as it swallowed him whole.

There in the dark forest, amidst the aftermath of battle, a lone figure clutched the empty form of the woman he loved, cradling her against his chest as he rocked back and forth. The figure’s head was thrown back, silver hair shining in the wan moonlight, tears glistening on his cheeks and throat.

Shuddering sobs tore through him, each one breaking him apart as it carved its way out of his chest. The fingers of his right hand were tangled in the woman’s hair, pressing her face into the curve of his neck, her skin to his skin, as if he could somehow give her his own life force through touch and willpower alone. Sylus would have done it, too. All the power he had, all the money in the world, all the strength of his Evol, and yet he was helpless in the face of Death.

So, this was what she felt. The words echoed in his ravaged mind, battering against the destroyed remnants of his sanity. This was what he had consigned her to all those eons ago and lightyears away when he had taken his own life to spare hers. This was what she felt. No wonder she had hated him when they first met here, on this planet. This despair, this agony, this unyielding torment was unbearable. To think that he had left her like this… The way she was leaving him now… What little remained of his reason left him, pouring out of him along with blood-red mist that filled the glade, obscuring the destruction of both trees and man alike.

A tortured sound rose up through the forest, a keening wail that spoke of an anguish beyond mortal comprehension, beyond any human ability to understand. It drifted through the darkness, rising and falling with the wind, telling of a soul’s burden and a curse unbroken.

__________________________________________

A cold wind blew across the rooftop of the tallest building in the N109 Zone, lifting strands of sweat-damp silver hair from the brow of the most powerful man to exist in that criminal world. Sylus stood atop the 110th floor, staring out into the night. Emptiness consumed him, the world beneath him a dull, forgotten thing. A dark stain marred the pale fabric of his shirt and the pallid skin of his hands and face. It matched the color of his eyes, eyes red as blood. His face was ashen, the sharp lines of his jaw, his nose, his cheekbones seeming even harsher under the deep red of the moonlight.

The leather of his shoe scuffed against the cement of the wide balcony balustrade he was standing on, knocking a small pebble of concrete free. It made no further sound as it fell hundreds of feet to the ground below. Sylus dipped his head, watching it fall, his hair drifting into his face as he did so. Oh, to be like that pebble. To fall and disintegrate into nothingness, disappearing like ash on the wind.

Lifting a hand, Sylus watched as dark red tendrils swirled around his fingers. Maybe the curse would allow him to disintegrate, now that she was gone. Maybe he could be free of the terrible ache that had settled inside of him the minute he felt her soul leave this world. How far was it to the street below? Over 1,000 feet. How fast did a human fall? Thirty-two feet per second, squared, without air resistance. What was terminal velocity? One hundred and seventy-six feet per second. Sylus stared down at the ground far below, his numbed mind struggling with the math, something that would normally come easily to him.

Maybe it was better if he didn’t know. Normally when he used his Evol to descend from high places, he was able to stop himself right before he hit the ground, the red mist coalescing around himself and rematerializing his body. But what if he didn’t want to stop?

Maybe if he faced the other way. Sylus turned, placing his back towards the drop, staring out across the rooftop. She had been here once before, with him. Agony sliced through him at the thought of her, the feeling of her lifeless form weighing heavily in his arms flashing through his thoughts and searing his skin. He let it, not bothering to shove the thought away, allowing it to envelope him and drown him for a moment. Eventually, the agony diminished, leaving him empty and aching once more, a husk of what he had been.

Maybe if he counted to ten before using his Evol. That should be enough time. Sylus lifted his head, tilting it back until his face was exposed to the red moonlight above him. Tear tracks marred the skin of his cheeks, leaving them raw to the frigid wind. Without a sound, he let gravity take him, falling backward into the emptiness behind him. Better that, than the emptiness within.

One. Her face flickered before his eyes; anger written across her features as she tried to slice his face open. The wind rushed past him as he fell.

Two. She stood before him at a gala, dressed in a gorgeous evening gown, a brooch pinned to her neckline. The night sky wheeled above him as he fell.

Three. He felt her hands moving over his arm, wrapping a bandage around it, despite her overall insistence that she didn’t care for him at all. The stars twinkled in and out as he fell.

Four. Her voice drifted through his mind, calling his name from across the street, surprised to see him after a near miss. The cold air fluttered the fabric of his clothing as he fell.

Five. She smiled up at him as she handed him a small pouch embroidered with a crow, a strange shyness in her eyes. The moon stared down indifferently as he fell.

Six. He felt her lips on his as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down toward her before a fireplace. The sound of traffic grew louder as he fell.

Seven. His name echoed in his mind, the sound dripping from her lips like the blood that stained his skin. The ache in his chest ripped through him as he fell.

Eigh-- Dark red mist appeared around Sylus involuntarily, dematerializing his body just feet from the asphalt. He rematerialized a second later, his momentum arrested, his body falling the remaining distance with a heavy thud, displacing the water in a mud puddle as he landed.

Pain flashed through him at the impact, but it wasn't enough to take note of, the torment inside him rendering it negligible. Sylus opened his eyes, staring up at the night sky above him, framed by the buildings towering over him. He didn’t register the dampness from the puddle beneath him, nor the dirt that now marred his normally pristine clothes. All of it was meaningless in a world without her. Even in a world without her, his curse remained unbroken, his soul’s burden now his to bear alone. Just as it had been hers, all those eons ago.

———————————————————————

I wanted to explore how Sylus would cope with feeling what MC felt when he died. This is my first attempt at writing for Sylus, so please let me know your feedback!

*sets box of tissues out* Just in case ya'll need it.

(Please do keep in mind that MC does canonically revive after some time, but Sylus doesn't know that. Hence the despondency seen here. Hopefully, that eases some of the angst! lol)

Requested Tag: @seris-the-amious

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Written for @steddieangstyaugust, day 6 - "Who did this?" Childhood friends Steddie, delayed because I'm still sick and sleeping most of the time, sorry. I will catch up eventually.

When he was eight years old, someone up there sent Steve Harrington a miracle. It was't flashy, shiny or anything, so it took him a while to recognize that it was indeed a miracle. It came in form of a boy about a year older than him, with a mop of wavy dark hair, large brown eyes and even larger smile - Eddie Munson.

Steve was doing well at that time, or so everyone kept telling him. His parents had the money to buy a big house, get him a babysitter when needed, send him to all the activities he wanted - only they were rarely with him. But that was fine. When you have everything that so many others don't, you can hardly complain about something as mundane as feeling lonely.

God, Steve felt lonely.

He was the rich kid, the one with the "nothing is ever good enough" parents, and that rarely won him any friends. They all expected him to organize parties, to get a bouncy castle for the afternoon, to bring a cake whenever they asked, but it felt like they never really wanted him. Steve found the feeling painfully familiar.

It took one gentle rejection of another set of requests and demands, a suggestion that maybe they could just go and check out the fair that was just unpacking nearby, and everyone lost interest in him, called him cheap. Unpacking meant that it wasn't open yet, and that Steve wouldn't pay for the rides. He was just leaving the playground when he heard a high, loud voice call out to him. "Hey, hey you! Yellow t-shirt! Wait!"

Steve stopped and turned around, glaring at the skinny kid rushing to him. "Yellow t-shirt?" he asked, wondering if he should be insulted.

"Well, duh. I don't know your name yet. I'm new here." The boy stopped in front of him with a wide smile plastered on his face. "But now I will. I'm Eddie, I moved in with my uncle a week ago. You are?"

Steve offered him his hand. "Steve. So, uh..."

Eddie laughed and shook his hand. "Hi, Steve. Now, did these sharp ears hear something about a fair?"

Something lifted in Steve's chest, something he never knew weighed so heavily on him. "Sure did!"

His new friend - only friend - beamed at him. "Then lead the way! "

..

It was after they properly inspected all the attractions that the fair had to offer that Steve noticed a bruise on Eddie's arm. It was pure chance - he and Eddie were swinging on a tree branch and Eddie's sleeve fell back, revealing a nasty bruise. It must have been older, but the size and discoloration were still enough to make Steve concerned.

"Who did this?" he asked, pointing at Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie seemed to freeze mid-swing. He dropped to the ground and pulled the sleeve back. "No one. I fell, I'm clumsy like that." He spoke fast and with that carefree smile, but Steve's gut had a mind of its own.

"Eddie. You don't get bruises like that from falling," he said and despite Eddie's protests, leaned in to examine the injury. He'd seen some like that, on kids whose parents tended to fight a lot, or at least according to his parents, "had a nasty violent streak". He always tried not to stare, but he knew what they meant. "It looks...looks like a punch. Did someone do that to you?"

The smile faltered and Eddie dropped his gaze to the ground. He shuffled around awkwardly on his feet, as if he was deciding whether to run. "Uh...yeah. I mean. It's probably not a secret, it's just that it used to? I mean," he added, noticing the confused look on Steve's face, "my dad tends to get angry a lot when things don't go well. He lost his job, mom left us...so yeah. That's also why I'm here, in a new town, new school...my uncle lives here. I'm staying with him."

"Is he..." wavered Steve, "...is he angry too? Will you be OK?"

If there were any tears in Eddie's eyes, they were gone in an instant. "Wayne? Oh no. He's great. He's a bit scary, but he's so nice. You know, he gave me his own bed. I told him I don't need it, but he didn't care. And he gave me some really cool books! You'll never have to worry about Wayne. Or me. That's a promise."

..

Steve didn't think Eddie meant to lie. "You'll never have to worry about me" sounded wonderful, but it never worked that way with them. And Steve found himself asking Eddie the same question over and over.

"Who did this?" he asked as Eddie came to the school with his head shaved, gently coaxing an answer from Eddie that his classmates thought cutting his hair would be a great prank. "It'll grow back even thicker, just you wait," he snickered, but Steve could see his restless fingers reaching out for the strands that were no longer there.

"Who did this?" he asked as he was helping Eddie fish out his school supplies from the pool. Eddie just laughed it off, saying he'd pissed of a bunch of seniors by not lying to their girlfriends about cheating.

"Who did this?" he asked as he saw Eddie with a black eye and his locker painted over with the word FAGGOT. Eddie shrugged and slammed the locker shut. "It's not like they're wrong," he whispered to Steve. When Steve turned up at his and Wayne's trailer in the evening, Eddie hugged him tight, as if he thought he'd never see Steve again over that admission. As if.

"Who did this?" he asked as he was picking Eddie up after his roleplaying club, Hellfire, and seeing that someone cut Eddie's tires. Eddie just laughed and explained that apparently dragons and adventures were the work of Satan now.

"Who did this?" he asked in marvel as he saw Eddie's first tattoo. It was so crooked and imperfect, but so much like Eddie. When he admitted it was his own work, Steve asked for one of his own.

"Who did this?" he laughed as he kissed Eddie for the first time and found a small braid hidden in his mane of hair. When Eddie admitted he made that one himself, that he gets restless sometimes, Steve asked to teach him. So he could always braid Eddie's hair for him when they eventually moved away together.

But maybe the answers didn't matter.

The answer to "who did this?" didn't matter to the mob that gathered after Chrissy Cunningham's death. They decided they knew already.

"Who did this?" didn't matter when Steve raced to the hospital with badly injured Eddie in his car, the wound on his head bleeding onto Steve's pristine window.

"Who did this?" lost its importance when Wayne and Steve waited for the dreaded news.

And knowing who did it certainly doesn't help Steve now, as he and Wayne are picking up a headstone for Eddie's final resting place.

[some-messed-up-writing-for-you]

Short Prompt #1362

CW: character death.

Blood dripped past Hero’s fingers, mixing with the rain and escaping down the road. Their sidekick lay motionless in their arms, slowly growing cold.

The villain’s laughter rang out through the streets, echoing in Hero’s head. Soon, they saw a different kind of red.

[istoleyoursphenoidbone]

In Search of Kindred Spirits - Chapter 2

This has been fun to write so far, this chapter will have the warning for character death though, but it's canon character death so take it with a grain of salt. Hope you enjoy and as always feedback is welcome!

Prev | Next

June 2nd, 200X

Dear Jason,

Gotham sounds just as crazy as ever. I can’t believe you managed to talk yourself out of getting caught sneaking into a fancy restaurant. Do you always think so fast on your feet? Or is this just another one of your weird Gotham superpowers? Either way, you’ve got me beat. Last week, I tripped over my own shoelaces in front of my whole science class. Not my proudest moment.

Things are… weird here. Ever since we got back from Gotham, my parents have been even more obsessed with ghosts. The ghost portal they’ve been working on in the lab almost turned on the other day. It kind of exploded instead. Pretty sure I’m still picking bits of ectoplasm out of my hair. But hey, at least my parents didn’t notice when I accidentally melted their toaster while trying to make waffles. Long story.

Write back soon, okay? And don’t get into too much trouble. (I know, I know—that’s basically asking Gotham not to rain.)

Your sidekick,

Danny

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Jason chuckled as he folded up Danny’s letter, slipping it back into the shoebox under his bed. The kid had a way of brightening up even the darkest days. No matter how bad things got in Gotham—or how heavy Bruce’s expectations felt—Jason always knew he could count on Danny’s letters to pull him back from the edge.

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July 15th, 200X

Hey Danny,

Tripping over your shoelaces in class? Rookie move. Next time, at least do it somewhere less embarrassing. Like, I dunno, a haunted house or something. Bonus points if it involves ghosts, since you’ve got your mad scientist parents to back you up.

Things here are… well, it’s Gotham. You know how it is. Same old, same old. There was a fire at one of the warehouses by the docks last week. I didn’t see what happened, but there were rumors it was tied to some gang fight. Sometimes it feels like this city’s falling apart, y’know? Anyway, enough depressing stuff.

Bruce—uh, my new guardian—keeps dragging me to these fancy events. You’d laugh if you saw me in a suit. Don’t even ask about the food. It’s all weird, tiny stuff, like caviar and quail eggs. I snuck a slice of pizza in my jacket once, and Bruce nearly had a heart attack when I pulled it out at the dinner table. Worth it.

Stay outta trouble, Sidekick. (But if you do get into trouble, at least make it a good story.)

Your favorite hero,

Jason

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The months passed, but their bond remained as strong as ever. Each letter carried snapshots of their lives, written in messy handwriting, and peppered with inside jokes and ghost puns. Jason didn’t tell Danny he was Robin, but he dropped subtle hints about his nighttime escapades: vague mentions of “training” and “helping someone out.” Danny, in turn, never told Jason about the accident that had turned him into half a ghost.

But the things they couldn’t say didn’t matter. The letters, though slow and sporadic sometimes, were enough.

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October 10th, 200X

Dear Jason,

Okay, I laughed so hard at the pizza story that I snorted milk out of my nose. Thanks for that.

Things here have been… kinda crazy. My parents finally got the ghost portal to turn on (no explosions this time), but it’s still not working right. I swear, one of these days they’re going to accidentally summon some giant ghost monster and blame me for it.

School’s been weird too. There’s this kid, Dash, who keeps trying to pick fights with me. You’d totally kick his butt if you were here. Don’t worry, though—I’m handling it. Well… mostly.

Anyway, I gotta go before Mom and Dad notice I’m writing this instead of “helping” in the lab. They just started yelling about “ectoplasmic anomalies,” which probably means something’s about to explode. Again.

Write back soon, okay? I miss you.

Your sidekick,

Danny

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December 3rd, 200X

Dear Danny,

This Dash kid sounds like a loser. Tell him that if he messes with you again, he’s gonna have to deal with me. Not that he’d stand a chance, but still. You’ve got this, Sidekick.

Things are… well, you know how I said Gotham’s a mess? That hasn’t changed. Bruce has been working late a lot, and I’ve been “helping out” more. (Don’t ask—it’s boring, trust me.) But it’s not all bad. I got to sneak out for a while last week and saw this kid giving out sandwiches to homeless folks in the Narrows. It made me think of you. He kinda reminded me of the way you’re always trying to help people, even when it’s risky.

Anyway, enough of the sappy stuff. Have your parents blown anything up lately? And are they still wearing those crazy jumpsuits? You’ve gotta get me a picture someday. I need to see this for myself.

Stay outta trouble, Danny. And remember, you’re tougher than you think.

Your hero,

Jason

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February 14th, 200X

Dear Jason,

First of all, I’ve gotta see this pizza stunt you keep mentioning. Next time, record it or something, okay?

Second, yeah, my parents are still walking around in those ridiculous jumpsuits. It’s like they’re allergic to normal clothes. I’ll try to sneak a photo for you, but if they catch me, it’s your fault.

Things have been… weird here. Again. There’s this creepy ghost lady who keeps showing up in the middle of the night. She keeps calling me “child of both worlds,” whatever that means. I think she’s just trying to mess with me, but it’s still super freaky. Anyway, I’ll figure it out. I always do, right? Oh and I sent some drawings with the letter, have fun.

Write back soon. And try not to fall off any rooftops or whatever it is you do in Gotham.

Your sidekick,

Danny

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Jason stared at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands. Danny had scrawled a diagram of something called a “ghost thermos” on the bottom half of his latest letter, complete with doodles of stick figures fighting over what appeared to be glowing green blobs.

"Figures," Jason muttered, smirking. Danny hadn’t changed much, even after all these years. His friend’s goofiness was one of the few constants in Jason’s life, a lifeline that kept him grounded when Gotham’s darkness threatened to pull him under.

But some things had changed. Jason could feel it.

Danny’s letters were different lately. There were hints—small, almost imperceptible cracks in the cheerful façade Danny always wore. Jason knew the signs. He’d seen them in the mirror.

The truth was, Danny had changed. His accident had transformed him into something he didn’t fully understand. Being half-ghost came with powers he was still learning to control and a sense of responsibility that weighed heavier every day.

It wasn’t that Danny didn’t trust Jason—he just didn’t know how to explain it. How do you tell your best friend that you’re half-dead?

When Jason wrote about his “training,” Danny sensed that he, too, was keeping secrets. But he didn’t press. They were still kids, after all. Everyone had their demons.

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The stars seemed to align, however, when Jason’s "training" brought him to a city near Amity Park. For the first time in years, they had a chance to meet face-to-face.

Danny sprinted toward the abandoned park they’d chosen as a meeting spot, his breath visible in the cold winter air. He spotted Jason leaning against a rusty jungle gym, a cocky grin on his face.

“Hey, Sidekick,” Jason called.

Danny laughed, tackling Jason in a hug. “Takes one to know one.”

They pulled back, grinning at each other. Jason had grown taller, his frame more solid. But his eyes carried something darker, a sharpness Danny didn’t remember.

“You’ve gotten taller,” Danny said, feigning jealousy.

“And you’re still short,” Jason shot back. “Some things never change.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, catching up like no time had passed. Jason didn’t miss how Danny seemed… different. He moved like he was always on edge, like he was ready to disappear at any moment.

Danny noticed things about Jason, too—the reckless way he joked, like he didn’t care if he got hurt. There was a bitterness in his voice sometimes, a chip on his shoulder that hadn’t been there before.

Neither of them brought it up. They were too happy to see each other to ruin it with questions.

As they sat on a bench, watching the city lights in the distance, Danny nudged Jason’s shoulder. “You ever think about… y’know, what’s next? Like, after all this training stuff?”

Jason tilted his head. “I don’t think I’ve gotten that far. Gotham doesn’t exactly let you plan for the future.”

Danny frowned. “That’s not fair.”

Jason shrugged. “Fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

Danny bit his lip, hesitating. “Well, if you ever want to get out of Gotham… come visit me in Amity Park. My parents will probably try to feed you ectoplasm, but at least it’s quieter there.”

Jason laughed, the sound softer than Danny expected. “I’ll think about it, Sidekick.”

The night ended too soon. Jason vanished into the shadows, leaving Danny with a nagging sense of unease. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what. At least he could look forward to Jason's next letter.

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Except, Jason’s next letter never came.

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Two months later, Danny sat in his room, staring at the envelope in his hands. The handwriting wasn’t Jason’s.

Inside was a letter from Alfred.

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May 6th, 200X

Dear Mr. Fenton,

It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of Master Jason’s passing. He spoke of you often, and I believe he would have wanted you to know how much your friendship meant to him. Jason was a remarkable young man—brave, compassionate, and fiercely loyal. He will be missed dearly.

Yours sincerely,

Alfred Pennyworth

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Danny’s vision blurred as he read the letter again and again, the words refusing to sink in. Jason was gone.

How could someone like Jason—so alive, so stubborn—be gone?

Grief twisted into determination. Danny clenched his fists, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Jason wasn’t just “gone.” He couldn’t be. Not entirely.

If there was even a chance Jason’s soul was out there, Danny would find him. No matter how long it took, no matter where he had to go—he would bring Jason back. The portal swirls to life with it's bright green before a shout of 'going ghost' echoed through the basement. The ghost zone awaits.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

Cross X Tahny- What If...

Disgrace Alternative: + A Path of No Resistance + What if Crosshair never attempted to dissuade her?

A few rotations later...

A few rotations more...

Luckily that's not how it goes down!

Thanks for sticking with me for @clonexocweek! If you're a Disgrace reader I hope you liked the supplemental content, If not and you want to see how the story actually plays out you can find the chapter index HERE. Read on Tumblr or Ao3!

@feral-ferrule @vimse @kaytunez @substantial-exposure

[the-elusive-soleil]

Silm AU with the Feanorian death order reversed

I apologize in advance, but:

Maglor regrets the Oath and kinslaying on the voyage over. He stays aboard the ships, meaning to stow away back, but falls asleep (it's been a long day) and wakes up on fire. His brothers and father become aware of the situation when they hear the screams. Maglor's cries become a permanent echo in that area, much like Morgoth's at Lammoth.

Maedhros does not have the clearest head in the ensuing battle. He gets separated from the others and is beaten into the dust by balrogs. His family isn't even able to retrieve a body.

Feanor is very shaken and very mad. He doesn't parlay with Morgoth, not even for the Silmarils. He and his remaining people spread out across Beleriand and establish fortresses.

Things are chilly at best when the Helcaraxe group arrives thirty years later. Feanor does not yield the crown. The two groups don't fight, because Morgoth's a bigger problem, but they're not working together. Partially because Fingon refuses to speak to the Feanorians after he hears what happened to Maedhros, and Finrod won't even be near them after what they did to Maglor.

Feanor is very careful with his remaining sons.

Time goes on, the Bragollach occurs on schedule, and so does the Silmaril quest, except that C&C aren't in Nargothrond because of the Finrod-hating-them thing, so Celegorm never meets Luthien. She doesn't get Huan, but still manages just fine.

We do still eventually get to the point of "Silmaril at Doriath" + "no Girdle" + "stubborn Dior" = Second Kinslaying. But this time Celegorm's not grudge-fueled and Curufin's not having to cover for Huan and watch his back, and... Amrod and Amras die instead.

Elwing escapes to the Havens. Elured and Elurin aren't left to die, but Feanor has no interest in keeping around Sindar reminders of his dead sons. He has them sent away. (They don't know where Elwing and the Silmaril are, so ransom isn't an option.)

Then they do learn where the Silmaril is, at Sirion. They attack. Caranthir dies.

Curufin has been doing increasingly badly since Celebrimbor forswore him right before Doriath. Celegorm decides the solution is to pick up Elwing's twin sons and get Curufin to help parent them.

Feanor isn't thrilled, but he can't say no when he sees how Curufin latches on.

Love grows after between them, as little might be thought.

War of Wrath happens. Feanor keeps his tattered family out of it, but contributes weapon designs via courier. The Host uses said designs, because even if he's problematic they need this stuff.

Afterward, the claiming and theft of the Silmarils proceeds. Curufin sends the twins to Celebrimbor to preempt another rejection.

He's hollow, disillusioned, attacking the camp. The guards don't have to work very hard to kill him.

Feanor and Celegorm escape. The Silmarils burn them. Celegorm starts laughing and laughing and can't stop, and backs away...right into a chasm of fire.

Feanor flings the Silmarils after him, hating the things he chased so long at the cost of his sons, and staggers to the shore as the sea encroaches.

No one knows what happens to him.

[anticidic]

"Domestic" Soukoku AU where they've been living together for a while (Dazai was the one who had to move in, no way Chuuya was budging in this agreement) and everything's all nice and dandy. They still have their silly banter and Dazai's probably set the kitchen on fire a couple of times by leaving things in the oven and forgetting. They fight over the thermostat. Dazai likes it ice cold and Chuuya wants it warm, reasonable.

It took some getting used to sleeping in the same bed because Dazai likes to thrash in his sleep and kicks blankets off of him a lot. He also rolls over and sometimes Chuuya wakes up being clung to for dear life.

But lately Chuuya doesn't remember the room and the bed being so cold. It's even summer, so it's not the temperature. He still has all those blankets to bundle himself in.

But Dazai isn't there. He hasn't been there for a while. Months. But his ghost has been. Watching. Mourning the loss of touch.

Chuuya hasn't gotten over grieving that loss. Dazai's always there. In spirit.