#major character death mention

[bluerapunzel103]

Not an Easy Job

My contribution to @raggedyannrevivaleffort's 2023 gift exchange! @stpaulofsuburbia, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Synopsis: General D. rides at night. Now, he rides alone. This gives him ample opportunity to ruminate on his position as General Darkness, Decay, Dissolution, Done For, Death, Doom.

Fandom: Raggedy Ann/Rag Dolly Character: General D., Bat Mention, Wolf Mention, Marcella Mention, Raggedy Ann Mention Dynamics: Past General D. and Bat and Wolf, Marcella and Raggedy Ann Rating: General/K+ Content Warnings: MASSIVE spoilers to Rag Dolly, heavy themes of death, grief, repression as present in the show Beta read?: Yes

Being Darkness is a dull job. General D. must operate mostly in the nighttime, only working in daylight in times of emergency and crisis. To be Darkness is, literally speaking, just that. He is one with the darkness, in most cases, to bring new souls into his army. Working with just the din of midnight's stillness leaves him ample time to meditate--no, ruminate--on his position in his travels. Granted, often, his right-hands killed that quiet, whenever he had right-hands, but even when he has none, or just finds peace, these thoughts occupy him instead. He supposes it comes with his rank, and he shouldn't be one to complain.

Being Decay is a gruelling job. So many people and animals die every single day. If one were to think about it, it's no wonder he needs an army. The volume of his workload is simply impossible to ever dream of fulfilling entirely on his own. Come to think of it, the General should probably think of recruiting some right-hands. He was beginning to regret letting Bat and Wolf fall victim to their own hubris. They were both very useful for covering more ground on busy nights. Then again, they were prone to taking entirely too long at their jobs. And pestering him. And, of course, thinking independently. Well, just because the General's army is large, it doesn't mean that there aren't no-good, clumsy, wimpy, flat-out useless excuses for soldiers within his legions.

Being Dissolution is a thankless job. No one ever thinks about the work it takes for him to consider when a soul is ready for recruitment. Yes, there have been countless miscalculations. In fact, not long ago, he had thought he found a good recruit to take Wolf's place, but the dog survived his ills and was back on his paws in no time. And, of course, Marcella still stings, considering that was when Wolf's soul died to begin with. But usually, he knows when it's time. Like now. He has finished recruiting a bullfrog who has met the end of its life. It was ready. It had been for a while. Each time, he takes whichever appendage is the most suited for a handshake, congratulates the new soul on their use of their life, and then presents them with their new title as Soldier of General D.'s Army. Then, he points them in the direction of the nearest boot camp for the dead to have the liveliness trained out of them. If they're lucky, they may rise to the top legion, just below right-hands to the General. Even just his workload adds up. He needs to hire right-hands.

Being Done For is an annoying job. Lately, it's been a bit quieter since Bat and Wolf have been gone, and it's allowed for some welcome peace and quiet on good days, to allow the General to meditate-ruminate. There are still times, though, that he finds himself pestered by the newest soldiers. Their relentless cries over regrets in their lives, seemingly endless questions as to whether their families and friends would be okay without them, what their title meant, and whether this surely would be forever. Even this bullfrog seems so unsure of themself in their first few minutes in this realm. The General has seen this countless times in varying orders, but it gets no easier to tolerate it every time, especially after he has just told them what they were now, for how long, and where the nearest boot camp was. He briskly takes Bullfrog's hand and tugs them along. Once he thankfully finds a veteran recruit, a human whose car he found on the road one rainy night, he shoves the clueless amphibian onto her to take to camp. Now, he could focus more on honing down the gentleman he was after next.

Being Doom is a lonely job. It is true. Despite the countless thousands of legions that he has accrued over the course of his career, despite, yes, the company of Bat and Wolf, the General has always been lonely, in a sense. It is something he does to himself. Being a harbinger of heartbreak, after all, does not necessarily grant one social capital in a world that can never seem to agree whether death is a good thing or a bad thing. He is quite positive most of his soldiers don't have a high opinion of him. Even more, though, he is trying not to get too attached to his recruits anymore. The last time he sought companionship with one, he not only lost his chance at bringing her aboard when he wanted to, but in his rage, he ended up losing his own right-hands. It truly is a shame, whenever he thinks about it. That's why he tries not to. Companionship only distracts him from his work.

Being Death is a cruel job. There are times where he does get a sick kick out of it, one should not get him wrong. The General usually is the first to admit that he has historically had quite liberal standards as for whether a soul "deserves" to be taken. Even when he killed Bat and Wolf, he is willing to admit, he felt a rush that he had not felt in so long. But even then, he has standards, and death is indiscriminate by design. Death is neutral, not on anyone's side. As such, especially since Raggedy Ann saved Marcella's life, he has begun to somewhat regret some of his recruits. He begins to feel sympathy for their loved ones. Each tear of confusion from a child who has seen her goldfish flip upside down in her tank. Each pained caress of a trunk from a pack of elephants at their matriarch's funeral. Each cry of anguish from a man freshly grieving his wife after a fast-acting illness. Again, he tries so much not to let himself get distracted by his feelings and do his job without any feelings of, "what if?" He is beginning to turn into a sorry excuse for a General, if he were to say so.

Being General D is not an easy job. It never has been, and it never will be. It is only getting harder. That is the one thing certain to him tonight as he finally finds his next recruit. An old man surrounded by his loved ones. There is no doubt to the General that it's his time. He cleanses the tattered, shattered, freshly-aching remnants of his heart, then he makes his entrance.

#Raggedy Ann #Raggedy Ann and Andy #Rag Dolly #General D. #General D Rag Dolly #Wolf #Wolf Rag Dolly #Bat #Bat Rag Dolly #Marcella #Marcella Raggedy Ann #death #death mention #animal death #dog death mention #insect death mention #child death mention #major character death mention

[pilferingapples]

well 1948 Les Miserables continues to amaze, astonish, stun, and horrify

spoilers under a cut because you do NOT know what this movie is gonna do, no you don't

Remember how last time Valjean had a conversation with Science Simplice in her kickass Science Lab, to decide if he should turn himself in?

Well this week he writes a note to Javert explaining that He Is Jean Valjean and uh.. I ...

ok look I'm not gonna try to puzzle out the series of events that leads to this, because he tells Simplice he'll be gone a while and then he writes a letter and then he's with Fantine

and so yes! they cut the whole trial sequence! they cut even the NEED for a trial sequence! And you know what , I'm not opposed in theory! LM is ridiculously well known, an adaptation can choose to cut some of the more well-known sequences for time, or even symbolism! I could really like the parallel of Valjean and Javert both "resigning" with a letter!

In this case: we are cutting the trial sequence, and smashcutting to Fantine's surprisingly book-accurate death, so that we have time for the all-important FOUNDRY SCENE

you know When Javert arrests Valjean and takes him through the foundry? You know, the foundry attached to the hospital? like you do?

[ID: Javert, Valjean and several assorted cops walking into a dramatically lit room, while Javert says " Let's go through the foundry, it will attract less attention. "] Right! that dialogue, such deathless prose! so of course they go to the foundry . a room designed along the lines of a Batman: The Animated Series room, with lots of huge spaces for dramatic action sequences:

[ID: Valjean , Javert and the assorted police in a hugely tall factory room, with , again, very dramatic lighting. / end ID] and then an old guy there gets his OSHA on

[ID: an older workman in a work apron and overalls yells "No! Mayor! Beware the casting!" while turning the gears of some machinery. /end ID]

so Javert SHOOTS HIM DEAD

[ID: Javert firing a gun!/end ID] which sets the whole place

[ID: the same tall factory room as before, now with bright, molten metal pouring down from a high point in the wall! /end ID]

ON FIRE

[ID: Valjean and Javert surrounded by leaping flames!/ID]

the rest of today's installment ft.: Terrible Adoptive Dad Valjean (seriously AWFUL I hope Cosette gets away from him wth), Valjean trying to pretend he's blind (and being very bad at that too) , and Sister Simplice in the convent...with Javert! Other versions have done this but I think this might be the earliest?

I cannot wait for next week, the barricades are gonna be utterly unhinged

#LM 1948 #at this point friends I have no IDEA what's going to happen #les mis 1948 #guns #fire #death mention #major character death mention

[dragonpro809]

Hiiiii, I’ve been MIA again- But I’m back! With a new hyperfixation! 

A good friend of mine, @hanahaki-ghost, and I have been into The Property of Hate as of late (thanks to my other good friend, @bluedragonfairy2000)! As of recently, she has made a small but quickly growing AU called The Soldiers of Hate (highly recommend checking out!), and one of her drawings in particular-

https://www.tumblr.com/hanahaki-ghost/725852130234220544/bittersweet-ending-not-all-ending-are-bad-and-not?source=share

^ This lovely piece had my heart in pieces- So I decided to write something for it!

My writing style is largely under construction as I’ve started to get back into writing after almost a year, but I hope you all enjoy this little something!  Until next time, take care my fellow dragons and humans!  (To the two tagged in this post, I hope you don’t mind ^^’)

#gift fic #The Soldiers of Hate AU #Soldiers of Hate AU #tpoh au #TSoH Knight #tpoh hero #tpoh rgb #tpoh dial #tpoh negative #while RGB Negative and Dial are mentioned they aren't actually present #major character death mention #I may tweak this fic a few times but I'll see lol- #tpoh fanfiction #the property of hate #I have a love hate relationship with my writing style #Since I feel like it is never consistant lol #Just gotta get back into the flow of things I suppose

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

yeah ok the cat's dead its very sad we're all distraught but forget about that poor motherfucker i need to know about the flower babies /silly

alskdjlakjds NONNIE

i do mean to flesh out the kids in future fics, but just for a quick sketch out - from oldest to youngest is

a pair of winter twins, Bellamy (a green man of evergreens, he/lu) and Columba (mistletoe nymph, she/fae)

Adallindis, (spring trillium nymph, she/lu)

Nerissa, (spring bluebell nymph, she/her)

Diantha, (summer black-eyed susan nymph, they/them)

Seren (Autumn banshee, she/her)

#ask #anonymous #love and other fairytales ask #laoft remus #laoft io #major character death mention

[minat9c]

Y'know. The au where manslaughter is committed. The au named for notably containing manslaughter as a major plot point. The manslaughter au.

#t9ctalks #the quarry #travis hackett #laura kearney #hackearney #shitpost #major character death mention #i only killed off max the once bc the altercation was zesty #that scene was hella good I'll say it myself

[achenetype]

Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” 

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment. 

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod. 

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out. 

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold. 

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off. 

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says. 

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly. 

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?” 

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil. 

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded. 

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed. 

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.” 

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said. 

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.” 

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this. 

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday. 

You think you’re going to die. 

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it. 

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all. 

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—” 

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

#— ash's writing #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #reader insert #y/n #pjo imagine #ok now we get into the warning tags #graphic depictions of injury #major character death #major character injury #reader death #alcohol mention #doomed by the narrative #genuinely im so sorry i really ran wild with this one good god #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fanfic #— ash’s answering!

[frownyalfred]

a what-if scenario, as proposed by @lurkinglurkerwholurks and developed by myself, @audreycritter and lurker over on discord.

The original what-if: You know those delightful scenarios where Bruce is so pressed or scared or in danger that he yells for Superman and Clark POOF appears? Take alllllllllll of those, all that fear and pain and desperation...What would be required in that moment for Bruce to yell Clark’s name instead of Superman?

He’s so so so careful. Would it be an extreme amount of those emotions, like Jason’s death? Or is it something he specifically needs Clark for and needs him NOW? Like how much would that scare the living snot out of Clark to hear?

What if: Bruce finds Lois close to death -- maybe a few seconds away from dying, and it's a sure thing. Her heart is still beating, but she doesn't have long.

It’s kind of like a scene in a movie, where something happens that’s so big, so quietly awful, everything slows down and the rules don’t matter anymore. Internally, Bruce would go really still and hyperfocus to figure out how to fix this, but he’s not stupid.

Bruce sees Lois and knows. He clears the comms, kneels down next to her, and calls for Clark -- all in less than five seconds. Because there's no one else to make those snap judgements right now other than him -- or even knows why they need to be made.

Clark hearing his name shouted like that would make his entire world go staticky with panic. Because hearing Superman’s name shouted like that by Bruce Wayne has always meant the end of the world, and somehow this is so much worse.

He’d hesitate for a second because surely it’s a mistake? Why would Bruce call him that on open comms? Why is Bruce's heart suddenly pounding in his chest?

Bruce calls him Clark for two reasons: 1) Because he's about to give Clark the worst news of his life and 2) to remind him of his humanity. To remind him he's Clark at his core, because what he's about to see will shake those very foundations.

There’s nothing they can do. No medevac, Clark can’t take her anywhere. She will die, and it’s a certain thing. Lois just needs to see Clark. She needs to be able to say goodbye.

Bruce is both their friends and that’s what makes it worse. The weight of that grief -- grief for Clark, but also Lois because she is his friend too. He loves her, too, in a completely different way. And now he’s watching another person he loves die in front of him and he can’t stop it.

#what if #dc #dc comics #bruce wayne #batman #clark kent #superman #clois #lois lane #fic idea #writing exercise #from the discord chat from hell #love you guys jk #this chat is going to make me sob though #writers combining together for mega angst #tw death mention #major character death #justice league #jl #bruce and clark being friends to the very end #batman meta #dc meta #justice league meta

[linkedspirit-fanartfunart]

Warning: Depictions of character death

[Image Description: A 4 panel colored Legend of Zelda AU comic  “Linked Spirit”. Panel 1: The Darknut's head is turned to the viewer, one eye and a splash of the dark purple ooze pouring out of the visor space. "HA ha ha I see you now" it says. Panel 2: Hero's Spirit, appearing as breath of the wild Link, looks disturbed and wide eyed. "Malice." Panel 3: The background turns black, and Hero, back in their green tunic, looks up at the Malice's giant yellow eye looming over them. "Killing the Hero again and again clearly doesn't work." It says "You must be destroyed" ('destroyed' is italic and bold). Panel 4: A glowing teal wheel with clipped scenes in each of in the 6 segments, each Link in the segments are colored in the same tunic colors as when Hero is shapeshifted as them. Hero's Spirit is in the center, curled up and clutching their hair. Their face looks fractured and generally featureless. The 1st segment features a hand reaching toward a blue ocarina, with Beast Ganon's hoof in front of it. 2nd segment Rinku is seen from behind a hand hovering over a headstone with the name "Link" in Hylian on it. 3rd Rinku sinking in water, indicated by small bubbles. 4th: Engineer sprawled on the ground, the pan flute in one hand, the Spirit of Healing hovering over him. Maladus's clawed paw beyond him. 5th: Hope hovering over his own body as a spirit 6th: Breath of the Wild Zelda (Bloom) holding onto Glider like within the Final Memory in botw. Under this segment, a ribbon like line turns into a glowing droplet. End ID]

masterpost

smh time travel makes the order of events so confusing sometimes huh?

First- Previous (30) - 31^ - Next (32)

#linked spirit #hopefully only confusing for a second before you go 'oh shoot wait' #loz au #legend of zelda #loz #linked spirit au #ls hero's spirit #linked spirit comic #botw is next can you tell :P #ls malice #finally I can tag my beautiful monster's name :P #I'm sure most people knew it was malice but i mean Dramatic Name Drop #ls hope #ls rinku #ls engineer #ls glider #death mention tw #tw major character death

[ricciardosgirl]

you'll get lost

here in saltburn . .

let me guide you.

farleigh start x reader.

trigger warnings ; mentions of death.

————————————————————

it was an early morning , venetia had left me to gather my thoughts here in saltburn. we were the first to arrive. poor venetia was barely awake , so she decided to go have a nap. i got set up in my room — which wasn't next to venetia's room , which was odd. but of course , i was naive to think anything of it.

i was unpacking before the maids got to it , she told me that they'd throw out anything that they deemed ' scandalous ' and i had a lot of things considered that. until i heard a small knock at my door. i froze for a moment , hoping that it wasn't one of those damn maids yet.

i hurried over to the door , opening it and being welcomed by a tall handsome man , i hadn't seen him when i came in. he gave me a small little smile , looking down on me.

" hey. " he said ever so nonchalantly , i had no idea who the hell it was. it made me nervous. " hey . . " awkwardly , i leaning against my door frame. " sorry , probably just weirded you out , i'm farleigh — i'll be next door to you. " great , just what i needed , a guy next door to me.

the only reason i came to saltburn was to get away from guys — my boyfriend , now ex cheated on me. this was my escape. i nodded my head at him. " i'm y/n. " i hesitantly smiled up at him. " another american ? how wild. " he chuckled , i came from the windy city itself , chicago. " mhm , yeah. " i wasn't paying much attention , i was more focused on getting my shit together.

" what are you doing all the way out here ? " he leaned down a bit , i caught a good glimpse of him. he was handsome , great sense of style. he smelled oddly good. " i go to school out in london , needed a change of scenery. " i eased up a bit . . he didn't seem creepy. " ah , nice. " another smile from him , he's too friendly for his own good.

" so — it's a pleasure to meet you , i suppose you got stuff to do , sure venetia is going to be around here soon. " he tapped the door frame , attempting to leave. " she's not , i think she's napping. " i said , one hand on the door to keep it open. i could use the company , this place was ginormous . . but lonely. " i - uh . . don't really know much about this place , i don't even really know where i am in the house right now. " i tried to make small talk.

" it can feel like that , did venetia not give you a tour ? " he asked , i caught his attention. " no , she just took me to my room and said she was off for a nap. " i sighed , i didn't think venetia would be around for awhile.

" what a shame , this place is really beautiful. here , let me show you around. "

the hours passed as farleigh showed me around saltburn , we formed this slight closeness in the lonely halls. i . . enjoyed his presence , and i think he enjoyed mine. we talked for hours on end , we did have a lot in common after all.

i think i spent more time with farleigh than anything , we did everything together. sometimes i forgot that venetia invited me. i could tell that she was pissed — but i was just having fun. it was the best summer of my life , all spent with him.

but my favorite memory came towards the end of the summer. we avoided the hedge maze on my first go around saltburn , but i begged him to take me. we got lost , just laughing at our stupidity as we walked together. after awhile we reached the middle of the maze - there stood a huge minotaur.

we sat on the edge of the statute , admiring the beauty of the sky and the maze - until i caught his gaze on me. he stared at me , that dumb smile on his face.

" y/n? " he finally spoke. " yeah? " i turned to look at him , i met his gaze. " thank you. "

" for what ? "

" this summer. "

he was talking like he was on his death bed , but we leave saltburn tomorrow. " why are you thanking me ? " i asked , chuckling a little.

" because , it was the best summer i've ever had here. " i could feel my cheeks flush , i'd miss him so much. we never really spoke about what actually happened that summer , the bond we made - the things we did. we never talked about how one night i woke up next to him.

" i don't think i'll miss saltburn as much as i'll miss you. " he sounded hesitant , i nodded my head in agreement. this summer was one of the best i'd ever had , and it was all thanks to him. " i'm sure we will see each other again. " i stayed optimistic.

" maybe , maybe not. " that broke my heart , i stared in disbelief for a moment. " why ? " i looked down at the ground. " because i'm going back to america to be with my mother. " i understood , family comes first.

" then i'll see you next summer. "

" next summer. " he smiled , grabbing my smaller hand and holding it. " let's try and top this summer next year. " he chuckled , i agreed again. i sighed , deep down . . i didn't want to wait that long.

we sat in silence for awhile , birds chirping as time passed , he never let go of my hand. when i finally looked at him , he smiled at me. getting up and releasing my hand. " let's make tonight last. " he got hopeful. " forever. " i said , standing up and following him. i wrapped my arms around his waist from behind.

we stayed like that for a moment , none of us saying a word. he turned around , my arms still wrapped around him. that cheeky smile is all i remember , that moment repeating in my mind over and over again.

next summer , didn't happen. i didn't see farleigh again till we were standing over the grave of each one of the cattons. he held my hand as he silently mourned his cousin while i mourned my friend venetia. we didn't say a word to each other. we just stood in remembrance of our loved ones.

maybe in another life , another time.

#saltburn #angst #fanfic #farleigh start #archie madekwe #mentions of felix #mentions of venetia #major character death #this broke my heart #almost romance

[wispscribbles]

hi i just discovered your beautiful art so i obviously needed to scroll down your whole blog to catch up on everything you posted haha

i just wanted to say that i got way too emotional after reading that post of yours regarding mw3 and your mental health… on one hand i’m so sorry that you felt that way, but on the other i feel it with my whole heart

ghoap content especially for me helped me these past few months with my mental health in ways i would never have expected, it was my solace and inspiration, i started working out too and got back into drawing, got a lot better at it as well!

but unfortunately i get way too fixated on fictional stuff and there comes a time that my brain switches up and connects the things i liked and comforted me with things that make me extremely uncomfortable and stressed out, especially if i fall down a fandom rabbit hole that i would never have searched up, beacuse i know myself, i know my limits and triggers but i feel like i’m not a part of the fandom if i don’t like and interact with every single headcanon, art and ship

these past days i was really down because of that, and the things i read (why did i do that???) and now when i think of ghoap i think of that stuff and im scared that i alienated myself from the one thing that made me happy

but discovering your art and with that your post reminded me that im not alone in these feelings, even if it’s not the same exactly, and i wanted to thank you, for sharing your thoughts that time i guess haha <33

((sorry for rambling))

Long reply under 'keep reading' !! CW: talk of triggers and MCD

Always feel free to ramble my way!!! How nice you could find some comfort in my art and ghoap stuff. Especially in my mw3 post. I've been considering deleting it a few times, but hearing it maybe helped to read in some way makes me happy I left it up.

I get where you're coming from - I very much use these fictional characters as a safe space, but ppl view them very differently. There's room for it all, "don't like, don't interact" is very much a policy I agree with. It's important to mute words and be aware of your own triggers as you browse stuff in this fandom, because there's such a wide variety of stuff out there. You do NOT have to interact and agree with every thought people have on this ship, that's impossible and super stressful. There's plenty of stuff and headcanons I don't vibe with. There are no 'requirements' that you have to meet in order to enjoy fiction.

It's part of why I enjoy ghoap - that their dynamic resonates and has sparked so much creativity and outlets for so many - but it also means there's gonna be a lot of stuff u don't necessarily agree with or feel comfortable with. For example, a lot of folks use the MCD in mw3 as a way to explore grief, which I think is really cool, but on a bad day that could potentially get my brain in a bad headspace, so I only check out that art and those fics when I feel okay. There's also a bunch of stuff I'd never want to interact with, and that’s fine !!

I'm personally quite vanilla and a sucker for exploring the softer, more domestic aspects of these characters. It's what brings me joy. I know there are parts of this fandom who don’t vibe with what I make at all, and would call it untrue to the characters. Some creators enjoy exploring the more violent or toxic sides to the source material. That's just how it is, we all need different things from fiction. As long as we're capable of chilling in our respective sandboxes, then all's good.

But if you're like me, and enjoy the softer things, then definitely be aware and careful while exploring this ship and fandom. I've seen takes on these characters that are so far removed from how I view them, that they're basically the complete opposite, and it can leave a very bad taste, especially if you're the type to hinge your safe space on fiction.

Just... be mindful of yourself and your potential triggers, be respectful and don't interact with things that make you uncomfortable to the point of feeling unsafe. Shape your own online experience to your best ability.

Hope you're doing okay and still find joy in ghoap <3

#ask #anon ask #long post #mcd #mcd mention #major character death #mw3 spoilers #ish #few extra thoughts in tags: #sry it took a while to respond. i wanted to give a proper answer #hope this makes sense or helps somehow #and if interacting with this fandom continues to have a negative impact on your mental health then take a break #i understand using fiction as an outlet or safe space (i do it) but if the bad starts outweighing the good then try to distance yourself #don't dive into those rabbit holes that u know will make u feel bad #i understand the urge but its so important to protect yourself online #I’m far from an expert on this stuff so this is just my two cents #stay safe!!

[mika-writes-fanfics]

As It Was

Dabi x Reader Angst

Warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, brief mentions of burns, major character death, pre-established relationship, reader cares for flowers

Synopsis: Dabi returns to you after completing his life's mission, his body now badly burned and damaged. He wonders, will you accept him with open arms? Will you take what is left of him?

Author's note: I've been on a Hozier binge. "As It Was" from Wasteland, Baby! was giving me major Dabi vibes. This is kind of different from the content I usually like to write and read, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it. Word count: 1.1K

He’s now thankful your home is on the outer reaches of the city, tucked in a secluded pocket between the border of the forest and the concrete hell of the city. After what he’s done, there’s not a person in Japan that wouldn’t recognize his face. Had you not lived in the middle of nowhere, he’d already be arrested by some weak police officer or jumped by some rookie hero. 

It’s ironic, the thinks, that his opinion has changed. He hated it, at one point. You lived so far away from his shitty apartment at the time, meaning that every time he wanted to see you, he had to take the agonizingly long train rides. It was like you lived in a fucking retirement community since all the elderly would take the same train, giving him judgemental stares all the while. It pissed him off to no end. And if that wasn’t enough, being in the forest always reminded him of Sekoto. 

But still, he bore it all for you, back before he let his rage consume him. 

Before he devoted himself entirely to revenge. 

Before he started burning himself all over again. 

Before he fucked it all up.

Despite the way he left you, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to him to accept his return, to not instantly slam the door in his face.

If he even makes it to your doorstep, that is.

Each step he takes feels like a battle between life and death. These heavy and labored movements exhaust him, made worse by the state your driveway is in. Of all the days for it to rain, it just had to be today. The torrential downpours make the path harder to traverse. Mud clings to his boots with every trudging step he takes, threatening to suck him into the earth, burying him at his final resting place. 

The puddles of water settling in the tire tracks of your car show him grim reminders of his appearance, showing him glimpses of just how ghastly he’s become.

He’s a burnt husk of what he once was.

Nothing is left of him now that he's achieved his life’s purpose. 

The only thing that remains of him is this homing instinct to return to you.

To go back to the start. 

To give you what’s left of him.

To feel his final sensation of comfort.

To feel loved again.

He’s faced with the reality of how long it’s been when he finally catches sight of your home. In the year he was by your side, he never saw those Foxgloves bloom once, as he met you in the late summer. But now, judging by the towering violet, bell-shaped flowers framing the sides of your window, it’s been three years.

It’s in this moment that his mind replays the memory of the following summer, the one in which he noticed you agonizing over the flowerless plant beds. He remembers it, with surprising clarity amongst the mental fog. 

“Why do you bother taking care of those stupid flowers if they never fucking bloom?” He asked you, critically. 

“They’re foxgloves,” you answered. 

“So?”

“So, they do bloom, just biennially, and their flowering season just passed. You’ll see why I keep ‘em around in another year,” you explained.

The fact you even implied he’d still be in your life a year from then filled him with a sense of security. Whether you meant it or not, he took it as a promise, and kept it tucked in the darker reaches of his heart. 

Three long years have passed since he left you, since he abandoned you without a word. But he has known you have a patient side to you, he’s seen it in the way you always gave him space in his darkest days, how you allowed him the time to come back to you when he was ready, how you never took his frustrating habit of pushing you away to heart, weathering his toxicity with love and carefulness. Maybe, since you’re so patient, you have been waiting for him. If you welcomed those flowers despite their long absence, maybe you’d accept him, too. 

Normally, he’d sneer at the thought of you turning him into such a hopeless romantic, a weaker version of himself, but considering how there’s nothing left of him anyways, he’s fine with the idea. Maybe the positivity you give him would turn him into something beautiful again. 

He finally climbs up to your doorstep and stumbles against the door. When his shaky and weak hands turn the knob, expecting to be met with a locked door, it turns easily without resistance. Your door is unlocked, which in his state of hopeful delusion, he interprets as you waiting for him.

Maybe you knew he would come back.

You had made it easy for him to crawl back into your life.

Or maybe you just forgot to lock it. 

He swings open the door as he leans against the door frame. Any other time, the sound of the groaning hinges would grate at his ears, but right now, the sound feels familiar and comforting. It feels like nothing has changed, everything is as it once was.

He trudges deeper into your home, shambling past your living room and tracking mud all over your floors. There’s a pit of anxiety forming in his stomach the longer he walks through your home without seeing a glimpse of you. But it’s when he approaches the kitchen that he hears you humming, the sound calming his mind. 

His boots thud on your tiled floor, loud, and uneven. He sways as he walks, bumping into one of your dining chairs, the movement scraping the chair against the floor. Your humming abruptly cuts off at the sound and you turn to the source, on high alert, only to see him propping himself up against the walls.

A sharp gasp escapes your lungs. 

All he can see is you as the edges of his vision grey out. Against your better judgment, you rush over to him as his legs start buckling underneath him.  

He starts to collapse on the spot. You close the distance and open your arms around him, catching his fall and attempting to bear the brunt of his weight. 

Despite what he’s done, despite how he left you so suddenly, he can still feel your love for him.

It’s in the way you try to make sure he doesn’t fall, despite tripping being the least concern to him given his injuries.

It’s how your voice sounds frantic as you ask him if he’s okay if he can hear you, if he’s still in there.

It’s how you start to sob at seeing the state he’s in. 

You’re so worried about getting him to lie on the ground safely and checking his pulse that you fail to see him softly smiling at how you fuss over him, what’s left of his burnt face forcing out a peaceful expression. 

The last thing he hears, the last thing he feels, the last thing he thinks about, is you.

#dabi angst #dabi fanfic #dabi x reader #dabi x reader angst #major character death #Major character injury #tw: mentions of burns #tw: death #hozier inspired fic #dabi x y/n #dabi x you #bnha dabi #mha dabi #dabi #reader insert #gender neutral reader #no pronouns mentioned for reader #dabi x gender neutral reader

[whumperofworlds]

Love it when before a Whumpee and Caretaker get separated for a long time/one of them dies, they have this exchange:

"I love you."

"I love you too."

It's so whumpy yet so sad.

#whump #whump prompt #love confessions #<it can be platonic! #caretaker x whumpee #<again can be platonic! #death mention #major character death

[ggomos-maribat]

8 | bearing another mask

Part 8 of Marinette Dupain-Cheng is Dead | Masterlist

TW: a bit of SH, noncon touching

Lila sat in her dimly lit apartment with a souring mood on her face. One hand tapped against the side of her hot mug while the other held a fingernail wedged between her teeth. She stared at the email from her PR and legal team, which promised that they would put out the flames and advised that she kept quiet for the meantime so as to not worsen the situation. But it's not enough, she bitterly thought. No matter how much cleanup they do, those rumors were scars that would forever mar the face of her company.

She let out a slow breath. My sales will be affected, the employees, our suppliers. Why, why does this have to happen now? She switched to another window that showed an article detailing the designs she 'stole' from the deceased girl. I was taking inspiration, she seethed. Aren't those designs better off seeing the light of fame than being stuck in a piece of paper? If Marinette were alive, she should be thanking her.

Sharp trills from her doorbell snapped her out of her stupor. Quickly, she told herself to calm down and let the issues pass—people move on from one intriguing gossip to another in no time anyway. She glided over to her door and opened it up, expecting to see her assistant to greet her.

But instead, a tall blonde man was on the other side of the door.

"Adrien!" The smile froze on her face, albeit also showing slight surprise. "When I said I wanted to meet you, I was expecting to go to your place or something."

"I thought I should come to you instead, so I don't need to see your face ever again." His voice was devoid of any warmth, eyes lacking their usual shine. In fact, it was the coldest Adrien had ever been in front of her, as he clearly didn't bother to hide his disdain.

Lila snorted. "How nice of you. Won't you come in?"

Adrien actually stepped into the place, but only by the living room. Out of obligation, Lila headed into the kitchenette to open up the cupboards and look for something to serve him. "Want anything to drink? Eat?" She hummed. "I think I still have cheesecake cups from an influencer friend of mine . . . or oolong tea?"

"I don't want anything. I'm not planning on staying long."

"You look well." She tilted her head. "We didn't even get to talk much in the reunion. It feels like you were avoiding me."

"I was, in fact."

Lila paused, and looked at him with narrowed eyes. Can't we play pleasantries just for a while, Agreste? "Fine." Her lip curled as she neared him. "You don't want to talk like mature adults, I get it. I'll go straight to the point. Are you behind all those rumors?"

"No," Adrien replied coolly. "If it were me, if I were trying to protect Marinette's designs, don't you think I would've done that a long time ago?" A ghost smile flickered on his lips. "But I do think it's well-deserved for you. Your current silence means you've been put into your place."

"'Put into my place'?" Lila echoed. Maybe it isn't you, or maybe it is and you've just been waiting for the right time to strike. "Those posts are ruining the reputation of my brand! They're baseless rumors trying to make me look bad!"

"How are they baseless when you've clearly tried to rip off Marinette's creations and even designs from small businesses?" Adrien asked.

She scoffed, "Now you're insulting me just because you're back from that hiatus of yours? Look, I've built my company with my own hard work and talent. I get that you're hurt about Marinette's death but I don't deserve this for my petty lies in collège and lycée. They were white lies! I was trying to make friends. Why do you think our class ended up being so close after these years?"

Lila could see the enclosed rage in Adrien's eyes, one with a fire that burned as strong as the one setting off inside her, but he didn't act on it. His tone was calm and unwavering, albeit holding a silent venomous undertone. "You can't call your lies petty if they've hurt someone badly. You didn't make the class so enamored with you—you trapped them and manipulated them that they have no choice but to play along if they didn't want to be dragged to hell with you."

She put herself closer to him, looking him in the eye. Why did Gabriel have to go so soon? Why couldn't you have stayed obedient like you had all those years?

"That's bold coming from you," she whispered, breath touching his skin. He flinched a little. "You and I both know Gabriel would've entrusted his company to me, if you weren't already written out in his will."

She slid a hand up his chest, then to his shoulder, and down his arm. "I don't think the company is even holding up right now. When's the last time it had a show? What was the last design you released—"

"—Don't touch me—"

Her hand cupped his cheek lightly, but when he moved away, she grasped his forearms instead. "If you're smart, you'll realize you can't handle it alone. You need me, you need his protégé. My company can partner up with yours and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

But Adrien pulled away again, more forcefully this time, and glowered at her. "I think it's the other way around—it's you who needs me. If you can get me on your side, you have another celebrity backing you up, or you can divert attention from the scandals with another partnership."

Lila clenched her jaw, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning in to give him a saccharine smile. "Unfortunately, I don't stoop that low. If you don't want us to help each other, that's your loss." She ran a hand through her long hair. "Your father's company will go bankrupt, and Lilia Designs will be the new top fashion brand."

Calm down, she told herself. Although Adrien wasn't an option to be a pawn anymore, it wasn't that big of a deal. She just wanted to feel a little bit of satisfaction if she could put him under her thumb, see him helpless and compliant. But I can't lose my nerve here. If I lash out, I lose. I just need to be the bigger person.

"That's quite confident of you, Lila," Adrien said forebodingly. "We'll see, I suppose."

***

"There's one more thing we want to ask. Felix Fathom—was he related in any way to the case?"

"My cousin? What makes you think so?"

He saw some hint of hesitance on Tim's face. "He had trips back and forth from London to Paris at that time."

"He was helping take care of me after Marinette died while juggling his responsibilities at home." He shrugged. "Technically, I had no family anymore, aside from him and my aunt."

"Is there any way we can talk to him?"

He paused for a few beats, thinking it over. Then he replied: "I can put in a word for you, but I can't guarantee that he'll be available. His schedule's pretty tight nowadays."

He slammed the car door shut as soon as he got onto the seat. That woman's touch was still ghosting on his arms, making his skin crawl. His stomach was a gurgling pit of nausea and his jaw was clenched tight. Was that how Lila acted this whole time?

He kept himself from shivering while starting up the car. It had been a while since he adopted an alter ego, and still, he was yet to fully understand his cousin. Even as he donned Adrien's clothes, and messed up his hair to match the unkempt style, he felt like an impostor in his own skin. Ever since he appeared in the class reunion a couple weeks ago, a voice would nag at him telling him that he was a fake.

Adrien wore many masks, more than what Felix could bear to put on.

And now, Felix finally knew how much Lila had tormented Adrien. Disgusting. She's disgusting. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he drove. He went through all of that, under the clutches of that vile woman.

But he knew he was the one who chose to be put in that situation. The job is done . . . the recorder is working and the camera was in place. He took a deep breath. Everyone will finally know her true colors.

Everything was slowly coming into fruition, but it wasn't over until Lila met her downfall.

Felix drove around for a few minutes just to make sure no one was tailing him. Then, he sped up and headed for the outskirts of Paris, in an isolated apartment building. He shrugged off his jacket after parking the car, and reached the top floor just as the first drizzle drops of an incoming storm pattered on the windows.

When he opened the door, he found an occupant inside already.

"How was it?"

Felix ran a hand through his hair, idly shutting the door. "Don't give me that look. It went fine."

"It's a live feed, Felix, I saw you." Marinette spun on her chair, following his figure with a disapproving stare. "I saw everything."

Felix tugged at his collar. "It was fine, it was my idea and my decision." Even if I hated her hands on me. "We got the video and it'll smear her reputation if the accusations on her haven't already."

He peeked at the computer where she had just been working, looking to change the subject. "What's that?"

Marinette sighed as she turned back to the screen. "Other testimonies popping up about Lila copying other designs. Turns out it's not only clothes—even accessories and jewelry too."

Figures, he thought. She can never be original. "Well, she got awfully greedy."

"I don't understand her sometimes," the bluenette murmured, "I saw her cry real tears at my funeral, and yet here she is, stealing from the deceased on purpose."

Felix poured himself a glass of water to dispel the sour taste in his tongue. "It's because she thinks she's not doing anything wrong."

He watched as she switched to the second screen, one displaying a high-security website with a sleek modern design. Big letters spelled out the brand: Mira Designs. A few months back, he had argued with her that a new branding could give her away because of the similarity to her former designs. But Marinette had firmly promised that that wouldn't be the case.

And that became the truth: 'Mira's' designs were different, better even, mirroring a rebirth in Marinette's creativity following the new life she'd made for herself. Lila's company paled in comparison, and Mira Designs had gained traction in such a short span of time. Although Felix wasn't an expert in fashion, he could see that Marinette was on her way to become a celebrity in the fashion world. But the appeal point in her company was that the designer herself remained mysteriously anonymous.

"We'll be hitting our quota by the end of the week." Marinette showed him the current numbers. "And you said you didn't believe in my designing abilities."

"I didn't say that." Felix rolled his eyes.

"You implied it." An amused smile tugged at her lips.

"You wouldn't be making these sales without my business expertise."

"Oh, right, yes I'm sorry Mr. Fathom, I must get on my knees and thank you for your help."

Felix snorted and grabbed his things again. He was reaching for the doorknob when Marinette stopped him.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air," he lied.

Of course she wouldn't buy that. She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm going out to visit Adrien," he finally said truthfully. "Just fix up dinner for yourself. I might come back late." 

Taglist: @hammalammadamdam @toodaloo-kangaroo@missmadwoman@afanofmanyships@atomicherringpersonjudge-blog@wheredostarsgowhenyoudie

#maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat #maribat fic #character death #major character death #angst #MDC is Dead #dc x miraculous #tw mentions of suicide #tw mention of death #maribat mystery #tw noncon touching

[tobythetrashyartist]

A scene from Chapter 6 of "Haunting My Own Skin," written by @kirii-kitten

Here's a few warnings for the fic, read the tags on ao3 and read at your own discretion:

TWs: Suicide, Major Character Death, Alcoholism

#mp100 #mob psycho 100 #mob #kageyama shigeo #serizawa katsuya #reigen arataka #ekubo #dimple #tome kurata #comic #angst #tw suicide #tw alchoholism #tw major character death #i actually also wanted to draw the hug scene from the same chapter #i just think it would be fun to do so #but that will have to wait :) #ksjsksk ANYWAYS UH BYE #tws are for the fic the art has no mention of them

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

prompt: spider takes the bullet, not neteyam. quaritch will do anything to get his son back, anything. he'll even work with augustine's recom.

(warnings for discussions of past torture and character death, although really an astonishingly gen ending to this magnificent journey)

ao3

"They won't help you," he says. "You know that, right?"

Augustine stares at him, face studiously blank the way it used to get during long board meetings. He can see her tail twitching, though, ears flickering like she's trying to ward off a nonexistent fly.

Behind her, farther down the bloodstained rock, Mo'at'ite hisses, knuckles white around her bow (that bow, that fuckingbow, but Quaritch won't look at it, anymore than he'll look at the body at Augustine's feet). She and Sully both have their weapons drawn, but Quaritch isn't the slow target he was in the AMP anymore and Augustine's standing tall, fucking up their sightlines.

"Kiri," Sully says, voice taut. "You gotta get out of the way, babygirl--"

Quaritch barks a laugh, the ragged kind that comes when you're teetering on the edge of hysteria. "Babygirl? You shitting me?" He shakes his head. "Come the fuck on, doc. The Augustine I know would've put out her cigarette on any man who tried that shit with her."

"She isn't Grace," Sully says hoarsely. "Kiri, stand down now. That's an order."

Quaritch doesn't even dignify that shit with a response, just rolls his eyes (easier to avoid looking at the ground, at the body). Augustine doesn't seem particularly moved either, her fingers flexing as she adjusts her stance.

She could kill him, Quaritch knows, without any help from her so-called mommy and daddy. He can feel the power crackling in the air around her, buzzing around her fists, blood-metallic on his tongue. It makes his kuru ache, same way it had in the woods--back then, he'd been too focused on Spider Spider Spider to really pay attention.

He knows better, now. He'd seen what she'd done to Lyle after Sully's voice has crackled over the line, sharp and cold and still shaking ever so slightly: your boy's dead, one of your dumb fucking grunts shot him. Let my daughters go, or you're next. Sully's always been a shit liar, but it was the panicked look at Lyle's face that made it impossible to deny.

Fucking Lyle. He's lucky the way Augustine turned his brain to slurry when she did, before Quaritch could get his hands on him. Lucky he doesn't have to fucking stand here and not look at the thing on the ground, the thing, the body--

"You think they'll even let you bury him?" he asks. "The locals won't stand to have this shit in their holy grounds--they'll probably give him back to Spellman so he can get dumped in a fucking crematorium. You'll never see your Monkey Boy again."

The pipsqueak with the eyebrows, tail lashing. "Don't you talk to her--" he growls, but Augustine cuts him off.

"I'll never see him either way." Her voice is hoarse--Quaritch remembers the way she screamed on the ship, like something had been torn loose in her and would never be put right. He knows that feeling.

"Kiri," the older boy says, the one Lyle had screamed something about trying to shoot instead as his blood ran out of his eyes. "Kir, please, come on--"

"We've got his memories," Quaritch cuts him off fast, can't let her get swayed by her fake family now. "At Bridgehead, we--we scanned them. Got a copy." If they're still there; they better be still there. The kid had thrown a shitfit in the scanner like every time before, but he'd still gone into the revamped Soul Drive with the rest of them.

"You hurt him." There's blood dripping from the tips of her fingers; he wonders if Sully and the rest have realized it's not hers.

"I did," Quaritch admits, because he doesn't have any time to fuck around. "Whatever you want to call me, whatever I've done, you're right. But I want him back, you understand? I mean it, you know I do."

She does. He can feel this fucking eyes of hers burn into him, bright with whatever wacky upgrades she got from her own trip through the other side, flaying him deeply enough she can see Spider Socorro's name written on her heart, same way it's written on hers. Kid's always had that fucking way about him.

"I want him back and none of these assholes will help, none of them could if they fucking wanted to, but I can." Quaritch takes a step forward and the Sullys tense, knuckles white on their weapons. "And you--you've got the know-how, you're the egghead I need in my corner. You brought yourself back, didn't you?"

"She didn't--" Sully whines.

"Didn't she?" Quaritch doesn't bother looking at him, keeps his eyes firmly on Augustine as he holds out a hand. She looks at it, then at him, those little flashy lights twinkling across her skin like she's rebooting. Remembering.

"I offered you a chance to make amends and work on this moon together, once." She knows what he's talking about, he can see it. "You told me to go stick my dick in a woodchipper, and you were right. But I don't care about that anymore, I don't give a fuck about this stupid mudball we're on or the stupid mud ball we're from, I just want my son."

His gaze flicks to her family, just for a second, then back to her. "They don't see anything about you except the meatsuit, same way those RDA pukes did with me. And they don't see anything about--" His breath catches, twists, "him, except that he's a big fucking mistake, and they'll do everything they can to forget he ever existed."

Silence. Her jaw works and he wonders if she wishes she had a cigarette right now--seeing her without one feels more jarring than the baby face or the blue skin. 

"Kiri," the little girl whines, reaching out before the Metkayina girl carefully tugs her back. "Kiri, please."

Augustine's hair rustles with a wind that doesn't exist and her fists curls tight at her side, fingers trembling. Quaritch wonders if she's going to burn him like she burned Lyle, or maybe just call up something big and toothy to rip him apart.

And she might have, if Sully hadn't decided to lunge across the island in a few big, stupid strides, clapping his hand down her shoulder. "Kiri," he gasps, tugging her back. "Come on--"

Her eyes flare (panic anger fear, quick and smashed-up the way it always came with her) and she whirls, queue crackling, palms raised high. Sully goes staggering backward with a yelp, clutching his bleeding nose, and Mo'at'ite lunges to catch him before his head hits the rock. Augustine watches him topple, stunned still, gaping in horror.

Then she moves. Turns and scoops the...body up from the ground, cradling it (him) carefully to her chest even as she hustles down the rock. No vocalization, but her banshee swoops down from the sky, landing with a whomp of wings next to Cupcake, and she's hauling the body (Spider) onto the saddle before Quaritch's got his first leg up Cupcake's side.

"Kir!" Pipsqueak yells, rushing to their side, frantic. "Kir, wait, don't--"

She holds out a hand and he jerks to a half, from his own volition or hers it's hard to say. "Look after them," she says, and then Quaritch is fitting his own queue home, not that Cupcake needs more encouragement to go go go as they soar into the sky.

They go swoop out over the smoldering sea, Augustine's hair--Spider's hair--whipped gently by the wind. Quaritch glances over his shoulder to see the Sullys vanishing, a scatter of blue dots rapidly fading from view.

"They won't follow us," Augustine calls flatly. "Their ikran won't listen until we're out of range." She shoots him a cold look, hand resting on his son's spine--Quaritch doubts he's getting near that body any time soon, but that doesn't matter, he'll make it not matter. "Lead the way, Ranger Rick."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, just to be an asshole, tossing off a snide salute before leaning into the next turn. She bares her teeth the way the kid used and follows, banshees swerving together to meet the rising sun.

#avatar #avatar the way of water #avatar series #miles quaritch #kiri te suli kìreysì'ite #spider socorro #character death #avatar au #major character death #grace augustine #reincarnation #recombinant #sully family #torture mention #I wish you would write a fic where #mutuals #neytiri te tskaha mo'at'ite #jake sully #lo'ak te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #tsireya #tuktirey te suli neytiri'ite #little goddess #kiri augustine #kiri sully #avatar movies #we're nothing to each other #atwow au #canon divergence #colonel quaritch

[jacksprostate]

Before Project Mayhem, before fight club, before Marla, before Tyler — there is still one sad sack of shit.

.

.

The hard part about work trips isn't making the plane or seeing another family of five burnt into their leather seats. It's missing support groups.

See, if you're lucky, the company will send you out to a major city. Cities are great. A little advanced work to find a slightly below average church or library, you're set each night you're there.

It's a bit of novelty, getting to be a new face all at once. People assume you've just been diagnosed. It's never the failed treatments, the degradation of their life and everyone in it, the continuous experience of knowingly dying — none of those things are the worst thing that happens to you.

It's finding out they will.

So people cry. They crowd around, I sob like I've been told I've got stage four colon cancer and three weeks to live. We all cry. I sleep soundly on the plane back or in the nice, four star hotel my company provides me.

Flying out to a small town, though. I'll be awake enough to be hallucinating by the time I get back for Remaining Men Together. The only mercy is that the next time I show for all the groups I missed, I can see who thought I died. I get to be resurrected.

The other part about small towns, you have to take a second, shitter plane to a local airfield, or you have to take a rental car. One of the most popular rental cars available right now, it'll light itself on fire if you use the cruise control at the wrong time. I know this because I sat next to another guy with my job, who worked for a different company, and he said I'll show you mine if you show me yours. So I told him about the faulty airbags, and he told me about the overheating switch.

I prefer to avoid driving.

All the rental place at the airport has left for me, it's one of those flaming cars. I use cruise control. If I don't, one of my narcoleptic spells will send me into the Jersey barrier.

When you drive into these small towns, you have to try to pay attention, or you'll end up a county over talking about the wrong wreck. They're otherwise interchangeable, but the miles on your rental car won't line up and those are the type of records that might get pulled out when the company is finally sued for the big one ten years down the line.

As a result, I see the same decor on the way in every time. Meth lab. Abandoned homes. Garbage fire. Classic Americana. There is no four star hotel here; I sleep the same.

The only reason I've been brought out here is because the poor shithead who drove his truck into the ditch drunk was driving my company's flagship vehicle. It loses power steering if the car jostles the right way going above 55 miles per hour. I've been told to keep track of potential incidents and make sure the company can firmly claim it's not at fault.

We've had this problem for decades, and we will for many more. Sometimes, everything is falling apart.

The job is simple, and I only get tempted by the town's blatant opioid addiction for a day and night. Painkillers would probably make me sleep. The thing about being a recall campaign organizer, though, is like recognizes like. It's not only other Compliance and Liability guys who tell you company secrets while sharing the aisle in business class.

When I'm finally back in my own town, after my own support groups, after crying my eyes out into Bob's meaty middle — I pick up my mail. There's the newest IKEA magazine. Half of it looks like shit. The type of thing you'd only see in some curated art deco, modernist, post-modern traditionalist bohemian minimalist apartment.

I have to have it.

I go to sleep, hard, like God himself tucked me in. I sleep with my wallet net four hundred heavier, because even an IKEA spree tends not to outweigh a work trip. I sleep, with my called in IKEA goods only two short weeks away, my job well done, and I know, my life is complete.

#fight club #my writing #KEY INFO: this is Before Tyler #bit experimental as a result. how to peel away some of the narratorisms but have him still be the narrator? how to make him complacent #like a wisconsin dairy cow but still have undertones of extreme conscious and subconscious distress? #all car faults mentioned are real #ford had an overheating cruise control switch #and some other overheating fire switches #and jeep. i know because i knew a guy with a jeep — they randomly lose pwoer steering sometimes #horrific and scary and potentially deadly in any car — but jeeps have this known and bizzarely widely accepted flaw called the death wobble #which refers to the oscillations that rapidly feed on each other if the car is slightly out of tune #and can result in tearing the steering wheel from your hands #until you slow down #for some reason that's just accepted. #theres a lot of jeep propaganda #anyway you combine those two #you get the picture #i dont doubt theres been incidents even if there hasnt been major recalls lol #i hope this one comes across well... it's always strange to explore an almost hypothetical version of a character. the narrator where Tyler #is just a growing little menace in his head.... #I think what made this one fun for me though is the narrator would still be pretty openly bleak I think but the SUBCONSCIOUS stuff. #especially all the stuff I implied at the end. very fun to write #and it was also just fun to lay down the like.... seeds. of things #this is before Tyler in the sense that it's before he was well cooked. Before they met. Etc. Pretty early into the support groups. But yk #he is sleeping.