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achenetype · 3 months

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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!

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clangenrising · 21 days

Text

Month 15 - Newleaf

Battle With Razor Pt 4

It wasn’t long after the start of the battle proper that Razor made a break for it. Goldenstar couldn’t believe the absolute cowardice on display, especially from a leader. He didn’t call a full retreat, he just looked around, seemed to come to a conclusion, and fled.

“Come on,” she’d barked to Orangestar and the two of them had bolted after him. Luckily, his size and the jingling of his bell made him easy to follow.

“He’s going deeper into the woods!” Orangestar shouted.

“Why would he do that?” Goldenstar called back above the noise. They burst from the throng of cats in pursuit of Razor’s fleeting tail tip.

“I don’t- Ah!” Orangestar cried out and fell to the ground. Goldenstar whipped around to see the ginger cat she had met in the city pulling roughly on Orangestar’s tail.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, reeling her in.

Goldenstar dropped into a crouch. “Orangest-”

“Keep going!” the other leader ordered, rolling over to kick at the tom’s face. “I’ll catch up with you! Don’t lose him!”

“Got it,” Goldenstar nodded and pivoted again to charge deeper into the woods. Orangestar was right. The point was to kill Razor. If they let him go, the whole meeting would have been for nothing.

She bounded through the woods after his scent trail and the faint jingling sound of his bell. The massive tom left a path of broken twigs and scattered leaf-litter in his wake that wasn’t hard to spot. As she raced through the trees, her mind was also racing. He was barrelling west, north-west, deeper into EarthClan’s territory and away from the city. Why would he do that? It wasn’t like he was headed for their camp. How would he have even known where it was? If they kept going, they would eventually run into the river but she couldn’t imagine he would run for that long.

She couldn’t hear the bell anymore. She paused, looked around, and realized that the trail had vanished too. She looked around at the trees, tried to figure out if he had jumped up one, but that didn’t make any sense given where the trail had ended. It was as if, in the middle of a clearing, he simply disappeared. The fur along her spine prickled with unease as she padded carefully to the end of the trail, mouth open to find his scent. He was close, she was certain, but where exactly? The muffled breeze was blowing against her face but there was no trace of him on the wind. The smell of mulch and growing green things was distractingly strong.

“Where are you?” she mumbled under her breath, eyes flashing around the clearing. She turned around to try retracing her steps and there he was, looming behind her. She gasped in a particularly undignified manner, puffing up to twice her size.

Razor laughed. “Did I startle you?”

Goldenstar lunged. There was no time for fear or conversation. She raised her claws to swipe at his face, aiming to blind him, but he reared up and slammed one of his heavy paws into the side of her head, sending her tumbling into a gnarled root. She groaned and heaved herself to her feet but he was on her again, laying multiple swats on her skull in quick succession. The world spun dangerously.

“Shh, stay down, girl,” he soothed, one giant paw pressing down on her throat, claws unsheathed. She coughed and clawed blindly at his leg to no result. She quickly realized that he hadn’t been taking the fight seriously before. She had underestimated him, the one thing Scorch had told her she should never, never do.

“I’m glad we could get some time alone,” he continued, his other paw trailing feather light along the ridge of her sternum. “A girl like you deserves special attention, don’t you think?”

Goldenstar snarled and he chuckled to himself. As her vision started to clear, his face swam into view, silhouetted against the blood red light filtering in through the canopy above. His too-white smile spread like a menacing butterfly across his face, his pale eyes roving intrusively over her body. Goldenstar knew that, pinned as she was, her hind legs wouldn’t reach any part of his body that would matter so she settled for curling up to try and kick at his leg in a desperate attempt to dislodge it.

Razor’s smile widened and he pressed harder on her throat, drawing blood and cutting off her air. Her body panicked at the sensation and she thrashed her body as hard as she could against his weight but there was nothing she could do. He was too heavy and seemed unfazed by the claw marks she was leaving on his legs.

“This is my favorite part,” he purred. “I think it’s just adorable: the moment when a creature realizes there’s nothing she can do. If you stop struggling, this will be easier for both of us.” Goldenstar tried to hiss at him but there was no air in her lungs. She gaped helplessly, starting to feel darkness encroaching on the edges of her vision. Razor frowned and very slightly lifted his paw to allow her to gasp for air. With the immediate threat of death removed, her eyes shut tightly and her body went slack, save for her chest which heaved over and over again as she greedily gulped down air. She couldn’t think straight.

“That’s it,” he said, “stay with me. As fun as it would be to see you choke and squirm until you turned blue, that’s too good for you.” His free paw trailed down from her sternum to her stomach. As it went, he unsheathed his claws and Goldenstar yelped as they scraped her skin hard enough to draw blood.

“No,” Razor rumbled, “you thought you could take what was mine and get away with it. But nobody,” and here, he sank his claws deeper into her belly and twisted them, causing her to nearly bite through her own tongue, “gets away with stealing from me.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Goldenstar choked out around the blood now pooling in her mouth. “She couldn’t wait to get away from you!”

“I know,” he laughed and Goldenstar nearly gagged. “She’s always been a flighty little bird.” He dragged his claws across her stomach and flicked them out of the flesh, tearing it away in a spray of dark blood. Goldenstar whined in pain and threw her eyes upward to try and focus on the branches of the tree, hoping it would distract her from the overwhelming pain.

He purred at the sound and kept speaking. “But she’s always known her place. It was your influence that fooled her into thinking she could live without everything I gave her.” He lifted his bloody paw and swiped his tongue between his toes, grinning down at her all the while.

“You tortured her,” Goldenstar spat, trying to thrash again.

Razor’s smile contorted into a furious snarl. “I love her!” he shouted, slamming both paws down on her throat. “I’ve shown her more kindness than she’d ever known! More kindness than a jealous little bitch like her deserves!” He sank his claws into her neck, that look of bloodlust back on his face. Goldenstar gasped and felt an uncomfortable flutter in her windpipe as the air escaped around his claws. If she didn’t do something soon, she was going to die.

She kicked her hind legs up at him again, scrabbling at his now bloody arm. She twisted her head to try and sink her teeth into anywhere on his body she could. He snarled again and sank his claws in even further.

“What could you possibly give her?!” he roared. “I am the Speaker! I am excellence personified! I am the most powerful cat alive! What are you?! You’re nothing!” The world was growing dark again, his voice fading as blood pounded in her ears and her focus started to drift uncontrollably into the void. She had failed. Tears welled in her eyes, not just from pain but from the shame of knowing she hadn’t been strong enough to protect anyone. The cold earth was leeching all of the heat from her body. Her paws started to grow stiff and numb. She couldn’t find the strength to lift her legs anymore.

Distantly, she registered that Razor let go of her throat and heard him shout, as though at the end of a long tunnel, “Dammit! Don’t you dare die yet!”

In one last act of defiance, she ignored him.

#clan gen #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #clangenrising #battle with razor #newleaf #Goldenstar #Orangestar #Razor #TW Graphic Injury #tw major character death #swear warning

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ofmermaidstories · 7 months

Text

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️#tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

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hom3landr · 1 month

Note

"just lie to me, okay? just this once."

Necessary Lies

CW - Major Character Death, descriptions of gore and sickness, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Homelander’s intentions had been pure when he arranged to dose you with Compound V. He’s reminded by a friend that’s how the road to hell is paved

You aren’t getting better.

Homelander’s stomach turns.

You aren’t getting better.

He’d done everything right. The whole process was done under the supervision of all of Vought’s best doctors and scientists. Even as you screamed and begged, he’d been confident that any complications could be swiftly dealt with. Sure, you’d been an adult when the V had been introduced into your system but you are strong. You have to be. You have to.

He watches you in your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to be surrounded by so much blank white. You are color and light but even you can’t withstand the way the awful room dims your soul. Maybe if you could see the sun you’d get better. But the doctors insist you are too fragile to handle any environment except the sterile one you are contained in.

He bites his lip anxiously as you continue to hack up blood, the bright crimson automatically drawing the eye. His instincts tell him to scan you, to watch as the V twists your DNA and transforms you into something greater.

I told you not to get your hopes up. You tend to have a less than stellar track record when it comes to mud people.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his ear. He’s wrong this time. It’s a hiccup that’s all. You’re strong. You are.

The voice is blocked out but not by his own efforts. A horrible cry leaves your lips as your bones crack and shift under your skin. More red spews on the floor. He winces at the wet splat as a chunk of something hits the floor.

That was juicy. Wanna bet that was a lung?

Homelander tastes iron as he splits his own lip. It feels like it’s your blood he’s tasting. It’s your blood he’s spilt.

That one was a little mean, I admit. But buck up Bucko, this is what you signed up for. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

He’s done this before. Why the fuck were you the one with complications?

“There’s a good reason Vought doesn’t do it.”

That’s what he told Madelyn that fateful night.

He’d killed her too

He steps to the side as a squad of sour smelling scientists rush in to stabilize you. But what can they do? What can they do now that the only outcome is for the poison to run its course? He vividly fantasizes about popping each one’s head like a ripe melon as punishment for not fixing this. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Please

He begs the voice in his head.

Just lie to me, okay? Just this once.

The once dependable steady rhythm of your heartbeat is dangerously erratic.

You smell like death.

Please!

He worries the cut on his lip with his tongue. It feels strange to have a wound. The scientists flutter around you nervously. They know you’re a lost cause but Homelander’s icy gaze compels them to at least pretend to be helpful. Their terror burns his nose. He decides to make their demise slow.

No can do Buddy, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I’m the only one who’ll never lie to you.

Your heartbeat grows fainter. Your breaths rattle.

One of the scientists pisses himself.

Please…

You turn your head and despite your eyes meeting his, he knows you can’t see him. You wouldn’t be able to even without the wall in the way. He doesn’t think you can see much of anything anymore.

I told you so. Better go in and say your goodbyes.

I hate you

Aw buddy, I’m the only thing you have left.

Your heart stops and a noise all too terribly familiar leaves your throat. The last noise you’ll ever make. A wail just as wretched leaves his lips.

He didn’t even say goodbye. He let you die in that awful room alone. He wasn’t even holding your hand. You were alone like he was alone all those many years ago. Being poked at like he was.

He vomits bile onto the floor.

You’re gonna need me more than ever now. Better get used to it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #x reader #major character death #Please read the warnings this is sad as fuck #the angstiest thing I’ve ever written #I’m so sorry anon #i went nuclear #angst #mirrorlander #I’m finally in a place where I can start working through prompts

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earring-stede · 7 months

Text

OFMD finale character death prediction: you’re not gonna like it

In the behind the scenes footage we can see a funeral scene complete with grave and a makeshift crucifix. I’ve been thinking all week about what the crucifix is made as it might reveal the identity of the deceased. Now the the base of the crucifix has a similar shape to Izzy’s wooden leg, but the image quality wasn’t good enough for me to feel confident about identifying it as his leg. So I kept looking. I could see something that looked like horn or bone, but again, I couldn’t be sure, and I don’t remember any horns or bones from previous episodes. Then I looked at the tip of the crucifix, which is very clearly a sword handle.

Now the picture is fuzzy, but I could make out the general shape and gold colour of the swords handle. So I started to look at every characters sword for a match. Each character has a signature weapon specific to their character. You will see throughout season that characters will use the same sword over and over.

Now there’s only two characters I could find who have swords with gold handles and fit the general shape of the graves sword. There’s Stede’s sword, which has a delicate, ornate style handle.

And then there’s Izzy’s sword….

his sword is the closest match I could find to the sword from the grave, which leads me to theorise, that the grave must belong to Izzy

#ofmd #ofmd predictions #ofmd spoilers #ofmd speculation #ofmd season 2 #ofmd speculations #character death #major spoilers #you’ve been warned

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seiya-starsniper · 1 year

Note

(angst prompts) ❛ i’m sorry, have we met? ❜

TJ I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR THIS. I decided to continue the prompt from @valeriianz [Part 1 Here] to make it more angsty. But also kind of hopeful? Maybe???????

cw: major character death, memory loss

----------

“Will you give me a sweet dream before I go, old friend?” Hob asks.

Dream’s eyes widen, and he is sure the shock in them must be clear, because Hob startles a laugh.

“Yeah,” Hob coughs, and new blood spurts forth from his lips. “Been here long enough to figure out who you were. Why they wanted,” he hacks again, “you or your sister. I was never going to give you up.”

“I know,” Dream says. “But you must not - “

“I’ve lived a good life,” Hob interrupts him. “But I think it’s time. I’m just happy it was you who came for me, Dream of the Endless.”

“No,” Dream replies, voice trembling. “For you, you may simply call me Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob sighs, awash with a new wave of contentment. “I like that. Lovely name.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Dream says, before he steels himself for what he must do.

“I will give you the sweetest of dreams,” Dream says, trying and failing miserably to keep his voice steady. “Once you are there, you may call upon my sister, and…she will give you her gift.”

“Sounds,” Hob stutters, “sounds good to me.”

It is little effort for Dream to call forth his sand and place Hob into a deep sleep. In the Dream, he recreates what might have been, in 1989, were Hob not captured, and Dream were a better friend.

It is not long before he feels the presence of his sister.

“Dream,” Death says, her tone soft and kind. “You must let him go now.”

Dream clutches Hob’s body even tighter.

“Please sister,” Dream pleads. “Do not take him from me yet.”

“You know that is not my choice to make,” Death replies. “It is his time, and he has made his choice.”

“Will you tell me what his choice it is?”

Death smiles sadly. “You know I cannot.”

—

Hob is running through a field of poppies, his beloved dog at his side. He has been running for some time, he thinks, and yet he is neither tired nor hungry.

He stops when he feels himself being watched, and when he looks over his shoulder, his dog has padded over to a pale man dressed all in back.

“Hello,” the man says, first to the dog, and then to Hob himself.

“Hello!” Hob greets the stranger enthusiastically. “I - I’m sorry, have we met before? You look awfully familiar.”

“No,” the man answers, and Hob thinks he sounds a bit sad about that. Something lurches in Hob’s chest, and he thinks he should rectify the man’s sadness immediately.

“Well, you seem like a kind person, so I’d like to get to know you, if that’s all right,” Hob says, offering his hand out.

The man nods, and grasps Hob’s outstretched hand firmly.

“I am Dream,” the stranger says. “I am lord of all that inhabits the Dreaming. You…you passed in your sleep, Hob Gadling.”

“You were offered a place to stay here, which you,” the man pauses, “which you accepted.”

Hobs’ eyes widen, and he lets go of Dream’s hand then falls to his knees. “My lord, forgive my impudence, my memories from when I was alive have fled me it seems.” He hopes he has not offended Dream. He does not want to be banished. He wants to stay, he wants-

“Rise, Hob," Dream says. "You may be subject to my realm but I - I was hoping that we…we may become friends.”

Hob scrambles up off his knees immediately, and before he can think any better of it, he tugs Dream into a bone crushing hug. He feels the dreamlord stiffen for just a moment, before his arms rise slowly to return the hug.

“I would like that very much, my lord,” Hob says when he withdraws from Dream.

“Please,” Dream replies. “You may just address me as Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob says. “That’s a lovely name.” Something complicated flashes across Dream’s expression, but it’s gone before Hob can examine it further.

“Thank you,” Dream answers, just the barest hint of a smile crossing his face. “Would you like a drink?”

A table with wine and cheese materializes itself next to where they’re standing, and Hob sits down eagerly. Dream follows shortly after, pouring out a glass for each of them.

They sit, and then begin to talk.

Send me an Angst Prompt!

#dreamling #dream x hob #hob x morpheus #sandman fanfic #seiya writes #seiya drabbles #big warning for major character death #and memory loss #it's...kind of a happy ending? if you squint?#thanks for the ask <3 #and letting me subject you to absolute heartbreak

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spidori · 3 months

Text

Doctor Danny Fenton: On The Run

Danny knew he was on borrowed time.

Sure, he was harder for Clockwork to find than most- something about it being harder to look for an acausal nexus than a causal one, and the medallion fused into his core severing him from standard causal flow, Dan had explained it to him once, before he... no! Focus Danny! You don't know how long you have until he finds you!

Dragging himself out of his dissociation, Danny took stock. He still had the Infinimap in one hand; it was still green and dripping from something he couldn't afford to think about right now. Where and when had the Infinimap interpreted his shout of "a way to run away" as asking to travel to?

"Dann'O! You're just in time to see our newest upgrades to the speeder!"

"Uhhh... You made it look like a Volkswagen beetle?”

"Oh, Sweetie, no. See!" his mom said, opening up a control panel and poking around, then stepping away from what was now a cargo van.

"Your father and I finally figured out how to fuse ectoplasm with metals to make ecto-alloy! We rebuilt the speeder from it and added a camouflage circuit. Now it can change shape into whatever will blend into the surrounding environment for any ghost hunting scenario."

"And the best part is, it even gives off an ecto-signature! Those spooks won't know what hit 'em when you ambush 'em from this one Mads!"

A transforming vehicle with its own ecto-signature to hide inside? Yeah, that might work, even though Danny remembered the camouflage feature had been a short-lived modification because of how often it would get stuck and have to be put through a hard-reset to get it changing again. And judging by the way the Infinimap was subtly tugging towards the improved speeder that's exactly what it brought him here for.

"Mom, Dad, whatever happens next, I love you, and I'm sorry."

"Danny, sweetie, is something wrong?"

"More than I have time to explain, mom. Look, if you see Jazz... If this timeline... Just, tell Jazz I love her too, ok?"

"Dann'o, you're scaring us."

"I know. I'm sorry. Hopefully you'll have the chance to be able to forgive me for this. Going Ghost!"

Ok. He had made it into the speeder. The new metal wasn't phase-proof, there were pros and cons to that, ones he would consider later if he made it that far. At least the interior was pretty much unchanged, so he'd been able to get the speeder started before he'd heard the sound of a clock tolling and his parents' banging on the door had suddenly stopped.

He'd gunned it into the portal quickly enough to get into the relative safety of the zone before its stop sign frame and hazard pattern doors dissolved into obliterated nothingness along with everything else he had been able to see, or sense, of his home dimension...

Something else to be stuffed in the trauma box to be unpacked never if he was ever able to stop running 'later,' something to unpack 'later.'

The tugging in his hand was getting stronger, so at least he was probably heading in roughly the right direction.

He tried veering a little to the right to see if he could get a better sense for the direction the map was tugging, only for its pull to remain unchanged.

Confused, Danny glanced down to see it was actually tugging towards the dashboard.

Or rather, the ectoplasm- all that remained of Dani... 'LATER!'- which coated it was tugging towards the dashboard.

Desperately hoping this meant there might be something of his favorite halfa left to save, Danny pressed the coated map to the dashboard, and prayed.

Within seconds, the map was gone, absorbed into the speeder. Then things got even weirder.

Weirder than the group of ancients putting aside their many feuds to team up on him had been.

Stranger than those ancients somehow getting the Observants on their side.

More out of the blue than the Observants using their binding vow with Clockwork to force him to try to eliminate any timelines with Danny in them, as well as anyone who was even part Danny.

It had been a hell of a day.

And now the speeder had apparently grown absolutely gigantic after absorbing the Infinimap if the anachrofuturistic room Danny suddenly found himself in was anything to go by.

And according to the view screens it was generating a relativistic time, space, and dimensional tunnel?

Oh Lord. Danny was going to have quite the time explaining this one to his parents if he managed to undo enough of this to have a timeline to return to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tunnel let out in a universe with low-to-minimal ambient ectoplasm according to the external sensor arrays.

That phrasing! That was Exactly how Clockwork had phrased it the last time Danny had talked with him as 'Clockwork'; after the Observants took control of him with their vow he had called himself Chrona, which was the first thing which clued Danny in that something was wrong.

What was it Clockwork had told him?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Local ambient ectoplasm levels are an important consideration for stronger ghosts, Danny. Your perception is skewed by the limits of your experiences, as well as your unique biology, but Amity park and the Infinite Realms as a whole are essentially the top of the scale for ambient ectoplasm levels.

Normally, ectoplasm is a renewable, but much more finite resource. A sufficiently powerful ghost can easily consume all that is available in an area with a normal level before they are able to accomplish anything worth the effort if they aren't extremely frugal with their use of power. Normally, it makes any plans which would involve other realms simply not worth the effort and energy expenditure involved, especially with the additional up-front cost of breaching the veil.

There are even locations with low-to-minimal ambient ectoplasm, which makes them practically immune to ghostly influence. Only the very weakest of shades, ones who require next to no ectoplasm to maintain their current state of existence, can naturally persist in such places. Well, them, and extremely rare exceptions such as Halfa's, whose unique state of existence allows them to generate nearly all of the ectoplasm required to sustain their ghostly half. Any other ghosts would have to gather all of the ectoplasm they would need before going to any such spot, like how the astronauts you love so much need to bring everything for survival with them into deep space.

Actually, the deep space metaphor is particularly apt, as there are whole dimensions with far lower levels of ectoplasm than the one you call home.

Should you ever find yourself able to indulge that space obsession of yours, that would be a good place to do it. Most ghosts would be unable to follow you there, and even those who technically could would have great difficulty sustaining themselves once they arived."

"Geez, Gramps, you're feeling talkative today. Usually I can't get anything nearly this direct out of you."

"It will be important for you to understand your options, my young halfa. Speaking of which, keep in mind that your specific nature is vital to your ability to so easily sustain yourself in such environments. Even other halfas will have much more difficulty surviving in the lowest ecto-level locations as a result of their less balanced compositions. I know your young mirror's obsession also involves exploration, but she would require near constant fulfillment of her obsessions to have a hope of generating enough to get by without supplementation for you or another living being with a similar drive to seek new experiences. Mr. Masters would be better off due to his greater degree of human biology, but would also be hindered by the less complete connection to his ghost side. He would likely find transformation essentially impossible outside of survival scenarios- though you yourself probably would as well- and even his human form would experience side-effects like pounding headaches, or the constant sound of his heart pounding in his ears like a drum as it was pushed to maintain his starving ghostly side."

"I'm sure Dani and I could manage. And if we couldn't, we could always call you to pick us up."

"Untrue, actually. Any location with low enough levels to cause young Danielle to suffer would also be extremely difficult for me to reach. Such low levels could require anywhere from days to centuries in order to push enough ectoplasm through the veil to form a link, possibly more if an entity- such as an injured halfa- or anomaly- such as a rift of any kind- on the other side is draining whatever bleeds through. Your own presence may act to shorten that time somewhat if you can generate enough ectoplasm on site, but even then I would have to find you first. My abilities as an ectoplasmic entity rely wholly on manipulation of ectoplasm, and that includes my near omniscience. Should you ever find yourself in a location with sufficiently low ectoplasm, I would have a great deal of difficulty locating you; the link between our cores would mean that I would always be able to locate you eventually, but you would need to stay in one place for quite a while, which would rather defeat the purpose of emergency rescue."

"So if I ever need to hide from you because I actually manage to pull a prank on you which you don't see coming, all I have to do is find and then literally flee to one of a very select subset of alternate dimensions?"

"Pretty much. Although if you're hiding from me you would want to actively muddy the waters as well."

"Setting aside that I don't think I'd ever want to hide from you, Gramps, muddy the waters?"

"I'm a conceptual entity, Danny. I anchor to that concept in every single reality in which it exists. If the concept of time is sufficiently redirected to something or someone else to any degree, whatever portion has been redirected is therefore unavailable for me to latch onto. The same idea applies to Nocturn not being able to enter the DC Dimension because of their Dream of the Endless. Meanwhile, Pandora could enter almost at a whim if not for her guard duties, because that universe associates hope with her almost directly. In my case, anything strongly associated with the flow and concept of time could hinder me, while spreading my own name would allow me a greater share of any ectoplasm generated by the dimension.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok.

Danny could work with this.

He would have to keep traveling so that Clockwork- no, it was Chrona now- couldn't lock onto him or Dani-fused-to-the-dimensionally-traveling-speeder (He would have to workshop that).

If possible, he would also have to find a way to make a myth associated with time in an abnormal manner; the question was how to do that?

And he would need to do all of this while expending as little of his ectoplasm as possible, and probably supplementing Dani's whenever he could if she was ever going to have any chance of reconstituting.

He could definitely work with this; he refused to accept otherwise.

Maybe his parents had left some things he could use in the speeder before they were- 'Later!'

Hmm... No tools lying around... There was the weapons locker, but he should probably use whatever was in those ecto-batteries immediately so they wouldn't act as some kind of concentrated-ecto-homing-beacon. Maybe they could help Dani heal?

As he brought the disconnected batteries to the console in the center of the room, he saw it. There, sticking out of one of the panels which would probably have originally been the cup-holder in the center console before everything was transformed, was his dad's favorite 'screwdriver.' Not that it was even remotely recognizable as a screwdriver anymore; his dad had modified it so many times that it looked more like a futuristic laser pointer now. It had become his favorite hobby project before he was- 'LATER!'

He recognized this one as the version which required next to no ectoplasm to work, but as a trade-off had been completely unable to interact with wood for some reason. Something about still partially living matter and destructive interference with foreign emotional resonance as a naturally evolving survival mechanism in- Ramble 'later', focus on surviving now.

And Danny was actually starting to feel like he could find a way to survive with what he had. It was like his dad had always said about the screwdriver.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"See how many things it can do now, Dann'O! If I had tried to turn it into this version from the start it never would have worked; I would have gotten frustrated and had to move onto some other project for the sake of my sanity, and our house's walls. But since I took it one small change at a time, look at what I've been able to turn it into.

Incremental change, son! It's how any real change happens. If you want to accomplish something big, you try to choose the things which you think will lead towards wherever you want to end up, especially when they won't get you all the way there, big easy changes like that almost never stick for one reason or another. Over time those small steps add up, and you end up somewhere a lot better than where you started. So, what do you think you can do to apply that to working on your grades?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, Danny could start to do something with what he had. He was still half alive, and could keep himself that way as long as he never stopped running long enough for Chrona to find and catch up to him. He had a Time and Dimensional and Relativistic Space ship (still not quite right, but better) with Dani fused into it to help him do just that. And he had his dad's screwdriver and advice.

So where should he start?

Well, if he wanted to build a myth, and to fulfill his obsessions wherever possible, protecting people while exploring all of time and space was probably as good a way as any. A time-traveling madman with an ever-changing camouflaged space-ship and a 'screwdriver', just passing through, helping out, was sure to get some attention.

It just needed a name to really give people something to latch onto.

He had just gotten his doctorate in engineering before everything went to hell, but as much as he'd like to use Dr. Fenton, that was just laying down a trail and begging Chrona to follow. His real name would probably have to be a closely guarded secret; the title was good though, so instead, he would just call himself

The Doctor.

Now, where should he run to next?

#danny phantom #tw major character death #tw light gore #TW light body horror #All the death is off screen #but theyre still dead so be warned #dp x doctor who #doctor who

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aziraphales-library · 5 months

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Hi! I’m looking this fic I probably read maybe 2 years ago. It was a corpse bride au of the good omens characters. Crowley was the corpse bride and Aziraphale was Victor but I’m pretty sure they were both women in this. The biggest change was also that they ended up together at the end of the fic. It’s very likely I would have read this on AO3 but now I can’t find it anywhere. Any help is appreciated! <3

Mind the tags, but I believe you're after...

The (After)life of the Party by CloseToSomethingReal (T)

Reciting her vows shouldn't have been so difficult for Aziraphale. They were just a couple of sentences, a promise to her fiance, Gabriel Malachi. But when she's sent out to practice in the garden, she does manage to say them. Only not to Gabriel. To a lovely Corpse Bride, with flaming red hair, and strange eyes, who drags Aziraphale to the underworld with her, declaring them newlyweds.

A little tip for anyone looking for a fic with something niche enough that it's actually going to be really easy to find: use the "search within results" box in the filters tab. It searches the tags, summary, and I believe notes of all the fics. So whether a fic is or is not tagged for what you're looking for, if the author has mentioned it or you remember part of the summary, you can search for it. This fic took seconds to find!

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable wives #corpse bride au #major archive warning #graphic depictions of violence #major character death #mod d

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legobiwan · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Salvage: Episode 1

I obviously did not do Whumptober this year as my October schedule was INSANE. Now that I have a good percentage of my life back, I want to make up for this, as I have some cool ideas and I need the challenge of writing on a schedule.

I can't guarantee that I can produce something every day, but I'm damn well going to try. Caveat that these shorts (ha, "shorts," they said, laughing) will be less polished than my usual work (much less edited, if at all), as I'm using this as an exercise to get my writing back in shape before tackling my larger projects.

Today's theme: Forced to Choose

Today's author commentary: This was supposed to be a short. It ended up just over 2,000 words.

Warnings: Major character death

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bleck is dead.

They’re out of options, out of time. The last gambit with the Pure Hearts was just enough to break through Super Dimentio’s shield, to make him vulnerable to attack. (It, not him, Mario reminds himself as he bounds forward, executing a messy somersault that delivers him a mere breath from the angry slam of a gargantuan boot that would see him flattened in an instant).

It was a bizarre piece of irony that the loyalty of Bleck’s minions could resurrect the Pure Hearts for one last encore performance, that the same people who attempted multiple times to kill Mario and his friends, the ones who ushered in the end of all worlds without a second thought, the ones who corrupted his little brother -

If they live through this, they’ll get no thanks from his mouth.

But that’s a thought for later, for when the dust had settled and the worlds remained standing. (The worlds would remain standing. Mario won’t let it end any other way).

Mario sprints towards a rectangular pillar, kick stepping his way to the top. He’s certain to plant a foot directly into the grotesque likeness of Dimentio’s smiling mask as he clambers upwards, landing on the narrow platform just in time to hit the decks as another one of Super Dimentio’s missiles flies over his head.

Too close, he thinks, shoving himself upright on trembling legs.

They need to end this now. Peach is waving her parasol, trying to attract the attention of the enormous creature as Bowser booms from behind, ricocheting from platform to platform until he’s near enough to unleash a torrid stream of fire aimed at the back of Super Dimentio’s head.

It’s enough to send the creature staggering, if that’s what the spastic, jutting movements of the sickly elongated neck could be called. But Bowser’s retreat is too sluggish, the Koopa not quick enough to avoid the retaliatory swing of an iron foot to the gut that sends him hurtling across the blank room, Bowser crashing into the far wall with a thunderous roar.

There’s no time to think, the small opening possibly their last hope of survival. Mario acts on years of well-honed instinct as he summons Carrie and Cudge in quick succession, riding the little boxy platform straight into Super Dimentio’s face, rearing back with Cudge to deliver a devastating blow to the bridge of the gigantic monster’s nose.

The resulting shriek is like a thousand sharpened nails being drawn down a chalkboard, a screeching static that melts with the creature in real time, feet dissolving into bubbling, swirling puddles of acid, legs less collapsing than imploding, a house of skeletal cards upended, each joint falling to the ground with a hollow bounce.

A line of tiny, fire breathing molecules eat their way up two-toned smock and white ruffles, leaving a disembodied neck and head to float freely over the empty floor for a long second before the creature’s head comes smashing down to earth with a horrid splat, the force of the collision cracking the monster’s jaw in two, the upper portion of the head now unhinged from its base, the gaping maw open at a wide, unnatural angle.

Mario slides to the edge of a crumbling platform, the echoes of Dimentio’s mask now wiped from the edifice. Gingerly, he hops to the floor, limping through the smoke-shrouded scene to join the Princess and Bowser, who are keeping a safe distance from the now-malformed mockery of his brother’s face.

“Is…is it over?” Peach asks, wheezy. She puts a hand on Mario’s shoulder. He’s not certain if it’s a gesture of comfort or evidence of the toll the battle has taken on her. “Did we -”

“Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

Terrors seizes in Mario’s chest as the decapitated head of his brother laughs, the unhinged jaw popping and creaking with each pulsating syllable. Peach’s grip tightens on Mario’s shoulder, her fingers digging into sore, bruised flesh as she lets out a horrified gasp. Behind him, Mario can feel the heat rising from Bowser’s fiery exhalations, the Koopa grinding his fangs together as he lets loose a dangerous, guttural growl.

“You think this is the end?” Dimentio’s voice bounces off every surface of the high-ceilinged room in a nightmarish symphony of sing-song mockery. “This isn’t finished. The Count is dead. And there is only one means of escape.”

The jaw detaches even further, the upper piece of the head bending back with a tortured squeal of viscera and metal. There’s a low rumbling, the earth beginning to tremble beneath Mario’s feet. All at once, the head of Super Dimentio lets out a rusted, phlegmatic bark that seems to emanate from the invisible depths of a diseased chest, and with it, expels a soft, human-like object in a spray of gooey, greenish fluid.

Mario’s heart stops in his chest. “Luigi,” he whispers, breaking free of Peach’s iron grip to sprint towards the prone form of his brother.

Please be alive. You have to be alive. Oh my God, please. I’ll do anything.

Relief floods past spiky adrenaline as Luigi begins to stir, Mario covering the last distance between the two of them by sliding on his knees across the smooth, marble floors, coming to rest at his brother’s side.

“Luigi?” He’s pawing at his brother’s chest, his legs, his face, Mario doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he's even doing aside from trying to account for all the little bits and pieces that make up his brother, to hold Luigi together by sheer force of will, as if he were a broken vase just waiting to fall to apart.

“Mario?” His brother’s grey-green eyes focus on his own, the dreamy, half-hypnotized look now melted away in favor of sharpened anxiety. Luigi grabs Mario’s hands in his own, using his brother to leverage himself up to a sitting position.

“Mario, what happened? Where are we, why am I - “

The words die in Luigi’s throat as his gaze lands on his own bloated, distorted image, jaw jackknifed away from the upper part of his skull, blackened moustache now seeping with a gooey phlegm streaked with crimson, the wide, unblinking eyes criss-crossed in impossible directions.

The ground trembles again, this time with enough violence to send a set of pillars toppling into a pile of broken concrete, the linear shapes and angles of Bleck’s castle seeping trails of pustulent white down the dark walls of the chamber.

“Oh my God,” Luigi rasps, shuddering.

“Ciao, Luigi,” the bodiless voice of Dimentio greets.

Luigi squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing at the sides of his head with both hands. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be real. It didn’t happen. None of it happened. You can’t be real!” he screams, bringing down a shower of debris from the cracked ceiling.

“Careful, mon ami,” Dimentio chides with a small chuckle. “This reality seems to be contingent on your mood.”

Mario wraps a protective arm around his little brother. “It’s over, Dimentio. You lost.”

“Is it, though?” The mouth of the monster has stopped moving, frozen in a gaping expression of demented awe. Only the eyes remain animated, dark, swirling irises pinballing off the walls of jaundiced sclera in a chaotic polyrhythm.

“One last surprise! Ah ha ha ha ha. I may be dead but the Chaos Heart is not. A piece of it lives on, and while it does, nothing can stop the end of all worlds!”

A thunderous crackle booms from outside the castle, the room, reality itself teetering to the side as chunks of marble and plaster cascade to the floor, revealing an open wound in the ceiling through which the violet eye of the Void swirls, tempestuous.

Luigi grips his brother’s shoulders, his voice high with panic. “Mario, what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to stop this, Luigi,” Mario grits. “Right here. Right now.” He turns towards the head of Super Dimentio. Black skin is peeling from its cheeks, an ear dangling to the side by a single string of flesh. “Alright you bastard. You’re obviously done for. Where’s the last part of the Chaos Heart?”

“Where else?” Dimentio laughs, the teeth of the monster now crumbling to dust one by one. “Inside its perfect vessel. Just as it was foretold in the Dark Prognosticus.”

Reality phases in and out of a sickening double, a photographic negative overlaid with a collapsing present. Peach and Bowser scramble over to join Mario and his brother, Bowser shielding the brothers from the worst of the falling detritus with his shell, Peach unfurling her parasol, situating it as best she can over both her and Bowser’s forms.

“Whatever it is, Red,” he growls, “we gotta do it fast.”

Mario nods. “What’s the vessel?” he yells over the rising clangor, pushing his brother further into Bowser’s protective embrace.

“You mean who is the vessel,” Dimentio cackles through half a disintegrating face. “It’s quite simple. Destroy the man in green.”

The man in…

Denial tears through Mario’s chest.

“Liar!” he screams, jumping to his feet, oblivious to the hailstorm of matter pelting his body. “You’re a fucking liar!”

There’s no answer to be had, the last physical remnants of Dimentio carried off by the whirling Void, the space the head had occupied now a congealed puddle of tarry emerald.

“Shit!” Mario yells, leaping out of the way of a massive piece of scaffolding. Something grabs at the straps of his overalls, pulling him under one of the last standing arches, bright, fuchsia lightning setting the room afire with a violent crackle.

“Lou, what are you doing?” Mario demands, shoving his brother further into the shadowy alcove. “You could have been killed!”

His brother is silent, gaze fixed on the ashen floor. Outside, the tumult crescendos to a booming, percussive explosion, rattling the very foundations of the castle. Small wisps of violet are beginning to reach down from the heavens, each eddy scraping a few more atoms of reality with it.

Luigi locks eyes with his brother, biting his lip.

“Mario - “

“No.” He knows what his brother is about to say. What he’s going to ask Mario to do. He grabs his brother by the back of the neck, pushing their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Mario.” His brother cups either side of his face, a movement so gentle Mario thinks he might cry. “I remember it all. Everything. Let me - “ Luigi’s voice cracks. “I need to make it right.”

Something awful crawls up Mario’s throat, a tight, squeezing thing wrapping vice-like fingers round his vocal cords.

“It wasn’t your fault, Lou,” he manages to force out through a tangle of emotion.

Luigi gives a small sob. “I still did it, though.”

A low moan sounds from the sky, a deep, bass drone not voiced by any creature of this existence, as if it were the fundamental tone of all of reality.

Mario slides his face into the crook of his brother’s shoulder. “I just got you back,” he croaks, wet. “I can’t - I can’t - “

“You can’t let the world end because of me,” Luigi says, petting the back of his brother’s head before gently guiding Mario to meet him eye to eye.

“Let me be the hero for once.” Luigi gives a watery smile. “I’ve got this one,” he says, giving Mario’s cheek a fond pat before turning to walk into the maelstrom.

Mario stands frozen as he watches his brother walk away, his thoughts and emotions encased in a sticky amber, his body either unwilling or unable to put a stop to what is happening. As his brother reaches the edge of the threshold between safety and annihilation, he pauses to look over his shoulder.

“I love you, bro,” Luigi says.

All Mario can do is give a simple wave back.

It will have to be enough.

Luigi huffs out a small laugh, waving back in kind. “Ciao, Mario.”

His brother disappears into the rainbow-hued whirlwind, the world coalescing into a single point of darkness.

#hello there #writing #the eternal struggle #luigi #mario #bowser #peach #dimentio #major character death #spm au ending #the sad au where dimentio is just a LITTLE more sadistic than he is in the game #lightly edited writing #you've been warned #also my prompts are a mix of the this whumptober and some alternates #aka i'm doing what i want hahahahha

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