#mourning tw

[rottingformerfirstmate]

It's lonely without Izzy. Edward feels his absence like he's been run through, and the sword is still there to catch against the walls whenever he rounds a corner and twist inside his guts as sharply as Izzy's dry humor. While Edward is not alone--never more than twenty feet from Stede, not that either of them feel a desperate need to keep the other in sight--he can't help how the hole where Izzy should be swallows any semblance of joy in interacting with anyone else, even Stede. He should still be here.

The cheap table and chair set Stede bought for the kitchen has only two seats, and Edward can't look at it without wondering where Izzy is supposed to sit. It's absurd when Izzy didn't dine with them, but Edward feels entitled to irrationality right now. Stede said as much while Ed laid on top of the dirt they buried Izzy beneath, pretending he could still hear him breathing, whispering all the words left unsaid into the damp earth.

Izzy wouldn't want a chair at their table anyway. The version of Izzy Ed remembers, the one that mocked his flights of fancy, would scoff at the idea and perhaps knock over the vase of lillies Stede arranged so carefully. He'd call this a waste of everything Edward is.

Then again, there's a version of Izzy that Edward didn't know well enough to realize his existence until after they were broken beyond repair. It was still Izzy who painted his face in gold and sang for them at Calypso's birthday. His last words in life were a comfort for Edward. That feels like the Izzy Edward knew as well as the back of his hand, but the open softness in his face and the peaceful acceptance of endings does not.

Rather than thinking too hard about whether Edward really knew Izzy at all, he sits cross-legged opposite Izzy's makeshift headstone with his eyes on the tarnished shine of the ring knotted into the cravat. He can't figure out why they denied Izzy a burial at sea, and no one has explained, which Edward suspects is because it has already been laid out for him. The several days between Izzy's death and funeral are a grizzly blur of which Ed has little memory beyond a soul-churning ache for Izzy to be beside him again. He forgave Edward before he died. It wasn't enough because he only did it to get the words out while he still had the chance, not because he was past the horrors he endured at his captain's hand.

Stede comes to check on him and deliver a cup of tea, sweeter than Izzy ever made it for Edward because he was smart about rations and Edward never went with him to make sure he wasn't skimping. It surprises him when a question of where Izzy's cup is slips from his mouth, but Stede was prepared for this and sets a tea cup next to Edward's good knee. Vaguely, Ed remembers the meltdown he had the first time Stede made tea after Izzy died, demanding to know why there were only two porcelain sets. Izzy liked tea when he was hurt or ill. If making tea for a dead man who can't possibly be aware of its presence bothers Stede, he gives no such indication. Instead, he tells Edward he will leave the two of them to chat and turns back toward the house.

Ed drinks his tea before it gets cold. He pours Izzy's over the grave, the best approximation he has for holding it to Izzy's chapped lips, before its steam dissipates.

#edward teach #blackbeard ofmd #izzy hands #izzy hands ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd #stede bonnet #stede ofmd #blackhands #death tw #mourning tw #emwrite #this is just some ed being sad and mopey ig

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

Whumptober Day 9: Presumed Dead and Scar Reveal

Disc finale bad ending AU. After defeating Dream years later, the Knights of Hope find Tommy locked in his cell, believing him to be dead, and are astonished that he’s alive… and even more astonished seeing his wounds. Warnings for graphic depictions of violence, grief and mourning, graphic descriptions of injuries and wounds, body horror, implied abuse, torture, (non malicious) infantilisation, guilt, and traumabonding.

I admit I’m not too familiar with Aimsey's BSMP lore, so I hope I got it accurate enough! They were a blast to write.

I went back and forth on whether to use multiple pronouns for Aimsey and Eret or just they/them, so it might be inconsistent at times, sorry.

ao3 link

——

The stench of rot and blood in the cell made Aimsey feel sick to their stomach.

It was overwhelming, assaulting their senses the second the lava wall dropped. Their eyes involuntarily scrunched shut, but when they opened, it only got worse, seeing the carnage inside.

Blood covered the obsidian, chunks of hair, teeth, and bone scattered around haphazardly in piles. Chains and weapons hung from the walls, rusted and cracked from overuse. Magic hung in the air, its sickly sweet smell barely noticeable over the fog of death so dense Aimsey could breathe it, but the tingling on their fingers was familiar.

It was fresh, and that made everything worse. They’d hoped, vainly, that perhaps keeping Dream cornered had kept him from hurting others, but the blood had barely even dried. It seemed that something horrible had happened in here just minutes before they’d stormed the prison, before they’d cut the head off the snake. He must have known that he was dead, then, and done just one more horrific thing out of spite. It fit with what Eret had told them of the man- cold, calculating, cruel, and above all else, possessive. If he couldn’t hold onto his desires, he’d ruin the ones who took it from him out of spite.

A faint, whimpering moan broke the silence, an almost animalistic, wounded sound. So- so whoever was tortured in here, at least one of them had to be alive throughout all this. Fuck.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eret muttered as they leaned onto Aimsey, legs trembling. Aimsey had never seen them so afraid- when creating the Knights of Hope, they’d always seemed fearless, collected, the rock of the group. They’d become almost like a mentor to Aimsey, teaching them the history of the server before they forgot it. It was a lot, but Aimsey was happy to help.

Besides, Eret knew what it felt like to waste your life in regrets. They had a kinship in that, and in that, a way to move forward. Aimsey didn’t know how long they’d stay once the dust had settled- they wanted a home, God they did, somewhere to have friends and live to see each sunset, but there were ghosts haunting every inch of the server, and in them, Aimsey saw Guqqie every day. But regardless, Eret would be a friend for life.

A pang of grief immobilised them for a second at the thought of Guqqie. They’d promised to protect her and held maybe the vainest of hopes that maybe, with the revive book, they could make things right. But all it had done was rub that grief raw, before any hopes were thrown in a fire, quite literally, before their eyes. If Dream could not have it, he’d spend his last breaths spiting them.

But then they heard that pitiful cry again. High-pitched, almost childlike. It was clearly human on the second listen around- for as much as anyone could be considered a human here, anyway. Human and young. Maybe not a child, exactly, but younger than Aimsey. Whoever it was, they needed help.

Taking a deep breath, they took a step into the bloodbath. The floor was slippery under their hooves, and they squeezed their eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend it was anything but what it was, taking another laboured breath and opening them as they slowly made their way towards the centre of the cell, where the noise seemed to be coming from.

The person was behind a sodden blanket, they realised, noticing the slightest twitch of the fabric. Steeling themselves for a horrific sight, they reached down to pull the blanket away, revealing the sight underneath.

Aimsey really did vomit at the sight.

Whoever it was, they were unrecognisable, wild hair coated in blood and their face a mess of injuries. Almost like how someone looked after making a long jump off a tall, tall tower. Bruises kept one of their eyes swollen shut, while the other was a gaping hole. Half their face was torn open, like broken stitching, and what little was recognisable looked half rotting, like a decomposed corpse one that’d been in the water far too long.

Their body was barely there, a thin, wretched mess covered by filthy rags. Their legs were twisted and broken, bone painfully jutting out their corpse-grey flesh. One of their arms was torn off, leaving a stump wrapped in the same bloodied rags as the rest of them. The other was covered in holes, angry weapon wounds that tore through muscle and bone. Worst of all was a hole throughout their chest, one no one could survive. Where their heart and lungs should be were just empty space, their ribs gone and only the blackened, charred remains of a spine remaining.

Aimsey would have thought they were a corpse, were they not sobbing and shaking, taking hyperventilating breaths.

Eret gripped tightly enough onto Aimsey’s shoulder that his claws drew blood, tearing their sweater. “Tommy,” he barely managed to utter.

Tommy? No, this pitiful thing couldn’t be Tommy. Tommy had disappeared not long after the Knights of Hope were founded, and the reason was obvious- everyone had some story of how much Dream fucking despised Tommy. He’d killed him, clearly. So why was he alive, preserved somehow with magic as some morbid trophy?

Besides, they’d met Tommy. Tall, loud, excitable and brash and desperate for friends. Like a mirror of the person they once were, before they were forced to grow up. They’d even made a gift for him once, though he’d stabbed them in the arm after they’d given it, a look of inexplicable fear on his face. They weren’t close or anything, Aimsey couldn’t stand the reminder, but they knew Tommy enough to know that this scared, shivering child did not seem like the boy who’d literally stab a random person for startling him. The Tommy they knew would be kicking and screaming, not huddling up like a lost, scared little kid.

And Aimsey wasn’t just saying that because that’s what they would have probably tried to do back then. They weren’t.

The child’s head tilted weakly in the direction the two of them were standing in, struggling for even that slight movement. “Dream…?”

And, fuck, his voice was so weak, so shattered, but that was, without a doubt, Tommy.

“He’s gone,” Eret said, a waver in his voice. “He’ll never hurt you again, Tommy. I promise.”

Aimsey couldn’t help but feel sick at those words. Promises of protection never seemed to turn out right, and it was cruel to make a promise you couldn’t keep to someone so afraid and alone.

“Gone?” There was something akin to mourning in Tommy’s voice, despite everything. “I- he’s gone?”

“We- we had to,” Aimsey said quietly, trying to soothe the best they could. “We didn’t know you were here. We thought he’d…”

“He wasn’t- he wasn’t a prick like this, most of the time,” Tommy insisted. “He was- he was scared, and he wasn’t making sense, and he locked himself in here, and-“

Tommy’s words were cut off by pained coughing, as blood stained down his mouth and the stitches holding one side of his face together grew the slightest bit looser. Not just blood, but something worse. A pitch black, inhuman sludge, crackling with something from beyond this world, painfully sparking against his skin.

Is this what they nearly put Ran through? Guqqie? Everyone?

“And he did this to you?” Eret’s voice was gentle and familiar, and Aimsey felt an awkward guilt at not being able to do more.

“Fuckin’ duh.” Tommy let out an awful wheezing sound that might have been a laugh. “Said sommat about putting that book to good use while he still had it. I’m- I’m not hurt- well, I mean, obviously I am, this hurts like shit, but I’m not injured. He revived me, and- and he said goodbye all sad like, and asked if I- if we were friends. And I couldn’t say anything, and he just made this fucking depressed noise and said sorry. For everything. I wish I could have said sorry too, man. Guess I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“You shouldn’t have to apologise to him!” Aimsey was louder than they intended to, and Tommy flinched. “I- I mean, you haven’t done anything wrong, but- but he hurt you for no reason! Man, that’s something you might not ever be able to forgive, and that’s okay. You- yeah, you gotta come to terms with that stuff, but it takes time. Just- just be gentle, and let yourself see the next sunset. Just keep going for that sunset, and the next, until you’re able to think. And then you can think about forgiveness.”

Aimsey’s heart squeezed at their own words, wishing they had someone to say that to them in the months following Guqqie. It would have made it so much easier, to think of the sunset they had to look forward to. Not her, broken and small. Not the idea Aimsey couldn’t protect her.

There was an awkward silence, before Tommy made a humming sound. “Huh. Maybe. I dunno. It’s- it’s all so complicated. I miss him. I’m glad he’s gone. Can- can I go home? Please, can you let me out of this fucking hell prison?”

“I think you’d probably best get some help for your injuries-“

“It’s fine, I won’t die, I already did and got revived, chill.” Tommy scoffed, the noise sending him into a pained coughing fit again, the magic fluid dripping from the hole in his chest, too, this time, sending him into convulsions. He opened and closed his mouth, as best as he could with the mangled state his face was in, sniffing. “I- uh, yeah, maybe, that’s a good idea. Hurts.”

Aimsey gently lifted the hollow form of Tommy, how light he felt making them feel sick. Their backpack weighed them down more than this full person, and- well, Tommy would be an adult now, wouldn’t he? Ran was, Tubbo was. They were around the same age, right? He still seemed so young, though, in need of help and protection.

Maybe that’s what life was about, though. Protecting the ones alive, and honouring those gone through that.

#my writing #ailesswhumptober #dream smp #c!primeboys #i mean it’s mostly c!tommy and c!aimsey but I’m being consistent #violence tw #injuries tw #grief tw #mourning tw #Body horror tw #implied abuse tw #torture tw #infantilisarion tw

[rorynne]

Remember, part of mourning is being upset at missing the things they would have done. Its thinking about all the ways they fit into your life and mourning the loss of that as well. So as you are mourning techno, its okay to be upset that hes not going to be streaming anymore, or that his lore on the dsmp is suddenly halted with no clear continuation. Its OKAY. That is PART of mourning. As long as you are respectful, there is no shame in expressing upset as exactly what entails.

#technoblade #mourning tw #loss tw #when my grandma died i remember the first thing my brain was worried about was never having her cookies again #not the fact she was gone #or how i would miss her specifically #the cookies #because those cookies were special #they symbolized her in every way that I remember her #i didn't actually give a damn about the cookies #i have the recipe i could make them #but I never have #because it wasn't about the cookies themself but the love that she showed by giving them #even if i didnt realize it when i was 14 and dealing with loss for the first time #so its okay to mourn the streams #its okay to mourn the lore #what you are mourning is what those things represent #and thats the most important part of them

[oculiaperticlausi]

— INTRODUCTING LYSANDER CARMICHAEL

welcome to marina, LYSANDER CARMICHAEL ( cis man, he/him ) ! they are a/n THIRTY-ONE year old who has lived on the island for HIS WHOLE LIFE. word on the street is they’re currently living in HYLAND PARK and works as a ENGLISH PROFESSOR. everyone also says they look a lot like JONATHAN BAILEY. what do you think? — ALYSSA, 29, SHE/HER, PST.

b i o g r a p h y;

one of the eldest carmichaels

was practically born with a book in his hand

was utterly helpless when his youngest got brain cancer, it was the first time in his life he felt like he let down his siblings and his family

tried to be as protective as possible with his siblings but his anxiety was crippling when he was younger, sometimes he would stay locked in his bedroom for hours on end

constantly bullied in school, it's why he fell in love with Shakespeare he felt like maybe he was born in the wrong time

was a drama kid, enamored with the idea of being someone else for that hour a day especially since it's where he made most of his friends

didn't have many relationships in high school, didn't really try either because he felt he was too mature to hang around some of them. the only time he socialized with kids his age was in drama class.

college was where he peaked, it was easy to socialize and interact with people there because everyone was there to learn not to gossip or talk about who was fucking who

in his poetry class was where he met him

honestly, Lysander had never given himself the chance to explore his sexuality but Ollie aka Oliver was a force to be reckon with

he fell hard, he was so infatuated with the man that when the night their first kissed happened he felt like a teenage girl

life couldn't have been better he graduated a few years later and got a job at the same university as an English professor, taking over his mentors class

he proposed to ollie and everything was right in the world

until a few weeks ago, Ollie and him were driving on the outskirts of marina when a drunk driver plowed into them

Oliver was pronounced dead on the scene and Lysander was flown back to Marina and went under surgery for some internal bleeding

when he woke up to his siblings with tear stained cheeks he didn't need to ask

he has refused to deal with it, when he's home alone he talks to himself as if Oliver is still in the room

he won't acknowledge the loss when someone asks him about it, in his head they are still living happily and he doesn't know how to break himself out of the water slowly starting to drown him.

#lysander carmichael — intro. #character — intro. #brain cancer tw #anxiety tw #drunk driver tw #drunk driving tw #death tw #surgery tw #mourning tw #grief tw

[heirbane]

6. Country

Nothing felt as cold as he felt that day.

Gaius scarcely remembered his father, and he held no memories at all of his brother. He simply knew the home had been become quieter and quieter with each passing year, his mother becoming less and less like a human and more of a statue.

He had been a small one when his father perished, a handful of summers at most, leaving him and an infant sibling. He could say his mother tried her best, a widow in a new land with nary a trade to bring an income or food to the table, but he doesn't remember her trying.

He remembers her in her cot the most, lying in the dark, dank cold of their dwelling. He recalls her not responding to his calls nor reacting to the meager meals he tried to make for the three of them, a decaying, curled husk of who she had been. Gaius had imagined her once as a locust molt, the kind he'd see in spring and crunch in his tiny palms to see the remains glitter in the sun.

Her husband's death had turned her into dust. Nothing alive remained in her.

And then Marius was gone one day, too. The name stuck to the back of his mind, but little else: not how old he had been, or how he had looked, or if he had perished at all.

Gaius didn't want to know if he truly has forgotten or if the recollection is stashed away somewhere, like the letters and newborn trinkets his mother had hidden in her dresser. Few memories from before his time in the military remain, in truth, either from age or from intent.

He's content to keep them that way, that separation, the wound that sheared boy from man, child from soldier. He prefers not to remember the animals he killed before he knew how to do so mercifully, scared and sobbing at the cruelty of it all, taking a life to sate the belly of another. He buried the bones of the role he was forced to take up to survive, becoming the man of the house before he had ever truly cut his first adult tooth.

What he did remember was Solus, and the arrow that had embedded itself into the fir he was crouched besides. Nothing felt as cold as he felt that day, his gloves sodden through with snow, painful and fumbling. He had caught a fox, who had caught a rabbit, and now the Emperor of Garlemald had caught him, a wretch of a thing trespassing into the land behind the palace.

"All those guards," Solus had drawled, the bowstring relaxing as he settled. His horse snorted, a plume of hot air rising from its nostrils. "All my guards, and a boy has deceived them?"

He was cold. He was scared. And he was afraid --

( If he didn't return home, who would feed his mother? Who would curl into her bed with her and hope for better days, that he would awaken and she would still be breathing? )

-- so he ran.

Solus' guards caught him this time, at the least, one wild boy with his bloodied catch held to his coat. He should have known he was done for when the Emperor didn't bother to follow, his dark steed still in the snow, the predator staring his prey down.

A wolf didn't chase his prey - not when it would become his supper anyway.

They rid him of his catch. They rid him of his bloody coat and scarf. They fed him, foods so rich and hot that they burnt his mouth and upset his stomach, and then the Emperor offered him an ultimatum:

He could use his skills for his army, or he could be let go with his feast - the rabbit and fox had been field dressed just for him. But if he saw him in his woods again, he wouldn't fire a warning arrow.

Gaius wished he remembered deliberating. He wished he could say he thought about it, about leaving his mother in the cold dark, that both options kept a boy in men's shoes, that he lost no matter what he chose.

And maybe that was why he hadn't. His mother would die, a widow haunted by the spirit of her husband and baby boy, no matter if he returned home or not. After she died, he would, too, cold and alone and as afraid as he had been that morn.

"Yes, sir," Gaius had mumbled.

"Good boy," Solus had said, patting the boy's head through his leather gloves. "I knew you'd make a fine son of Garlemald. Come - take him to be cleaned up. He's to be at the academy come morrow."

Gaius thought he had been cold and alone in the woods, staring up at a divinity ten fulms tall atop his steed. He thought he had been cold and alone in his home, trying to draw warmth and love from a mother who didn't know what to do with her grief.

But now - sniveling in the freezing dawn air, his head bare of hat and hair and his throat full of what he had done as his country's flag waved overhead, he wondered if he would ever, truly, be warm again.

A uniform was thrust against his chest, and the soldier ahead of him spoke.

"Glory be to Garlemald."

Yes. Glory be.

#i. think i made a post abt g.aius's mother in the past. and his brother #but i might have deleted it bc i got embarrassed about my world building akdnkfngk #im not an academic and i was pulling garbage straight from the pail #but. i'm committing this time #death tw #child death tw #mourning tw #war tw #: )

[ccmpletemess]

closed starter for @prcttyvxnom ft. phineas prescott & ophelia rowle

A soft sharp breath left his lips as he raised a trembling hand against the door to Fi's place. He still couldn't believe it. The last few days had been a blur, the funeral in which he had to bury his little sister, the one he had failed to protect. He never thought he'd leave his parents, never thought he'd escape, and yet here he was.

The moment he'd reached town, Phin hadn't even hesitated to go to Fi's. She'd understand better than anyone, despite how helpful Sammy had been the past few weeks. When the door opened to reveal the other, Phin finally let out a sob he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. Crying was a weakness, and he'd always been taught to keep his emotions tight to his chest, but with Fi, he couldn't help but unravel. He didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her as he trembled. "I can't believe she's gone," he muttered hoarsely.

#thread; phineas prescott. #thread; phin ft. fi #closed starter #death tw #mourning tw

[reclaimself]

CINNA .   WRITTEN BY JEAN , 21 , THEY / THEM .

john david washington . demi man . he / they ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s CINNA, the THIRTY-THREE year old DISTRICT TWELVE STYLIST from THE CAPITOL . they’ve been in the capitol around THEIR WHOLE LIFE , long enough to gain a reputation as THE RISING STAR for being so ELEGANT & SUBDUED . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising ) jean here again ! cinna is one of my favorite characters from the series because of the number of unanswered questions i have about him. his motivations, background, personality, and artistic ability are all an enigma, and i’m very excited to fall down a rabbit hole of explanations.

cinna harbour was born in the capitol to a family of artists. his mother was a tattoo artist and body modification specialist, and his father the editor of a high-end fashion magazine. although they were by no means the most wealthy or influential family in the capitol, their family’s trust was more than enough to fund their indulgent lifestyle. they saw the world as their stage, with every moment a carefully crafted performance. when life is art, image is everything. cinna was raised to put his best foot forward in every scenario, even the most dull and mundane. though many capitol families waltzed through life as if their actions had no consequences, the harbours knew that one bad moment, one unflattering headline, one malicious rumor could poison a family name for generations. thus, the pressure for cinna to shine was enormous, to say the least.

cinna’s art has always been his emotional outlet. when he doesn’t have the words to express his feelings, he instead opens his sketchbook and begins drawing. after a long, stressful day, you’ll often find him on a patio cafe, designing an entire runway show based off of a single passerby or their colorful pet. he also dabbles in architectural design, hair, and makeup as occasional side projects.

cinna’s empathy and strong sense of justice led him to pursue a career as a stylist for the hunger games. he initially strove only to give the children a better chance at survival by helping them make a strong first impression. however, he later realized that he could use his talents to bring about real societal change.

even before becoming a stylist for the games, cinna was involved with the underground rebellion in the capitol. he and plutarch heavensbee, as well as the rebel-aligned victors, have been patiently waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves and declare war on the capitol.

other rebels, particularly those from the districts, sometimes perceive cinna’s focus on fashion as shallow and materialistic. however, he believes that clothing is both an art form and the extension of the self, and it can be used to shape public perception just as much as words and other forms of propaganda. his beliefs are proven correct after his designs for katniss skyrocket her to fame as “ the girl on fire. ”

cinna’s sense of style is, paradoxically, an obvious yet subtle way he pushes back against the capitol. rather than indulging in their over-the-top lifestyle and flamboyant couture, his daily attire consists of sleek, black clothing and his signature gold eyeliner. it’s his way of altering other rebels— and only other rebels— that he is one of them.

although i admire cinna’s kindness and believe he is a good person, i’m interested in exploring the negative aspects of his character that katniss doesn’t necessarily see. although cinna genuinely cares about his tributes’ well being, they are ultimately pawns in his long-term plan: to liberate the districts and overthrow president snow. in the trilogy, he is but one of the countless adults guilty of manipulating katniss to serve their own goals. i believe that he was acutely aware of his influence over her, as it’s mentioned in the films that cinna wouldn’t show katniss his sketches for the mockingjay suit until she agreed on her own to take the role. however, i believe that he ultimately cares more about the “ greater good ” than any individual life— even katniss’s. likewise, his economic status awards him a privilege he can never fully abandon. his capitol upbringing inevitably influences his view of the world and approach to the war.

according to canon, cinna’s first year as a tribute stylist was the 74th games, and he specifically requested district twelve. i’m keeping both of these details in my portrayal. cinna’s first job in the fashion industry was as an apprentice at one of the largest fashion houses in the capitol, but he quit / was fired as a result of pervasive creative differences between himself and the lead designer. after this, he started his own fashion brand and began networking with other rebels in secret.

he rose to fame after katniss and peeta’s tribute parade, and his designs were all the rage from the period between their victory and their tour. when katniss and peeta were killed, cinna only became more popular. the star-crossed lovers’ clothes were immortalized in a museum exhibit, which cinna was forced to host and promote. following the limited exhibit, the clothes were auctioned off to the highest bidder. reliving the trauma of their loss hardened him considerably, but it also solidified his desire to see the capitol pay for their crimes.

#mj.intro #𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀 : introduction. #death tw #mourning tw

[saintchaser]

it's almost fucking funny, remus thinks bitterly, how he's the only one left.

he once promised, james once promised, they, the marauders, once promised, that they would never have to live without each other, and that they'd never be as alone as they were before fate, a game of yes's and no's, brought them together.

and it's almost fucking funny how one night, the spawn of hours, minutes, seconds, even, can ruin all of that for a miserable person.

the thirty-first of october and the first of november were always maelstroms of emotions and words they were once meant to say but never did, and his heart aches whenever he thinks of them.

his friends, his companions, his mates. they were eight, and then seven, six, five, and then, in one night... one. remus john lupin, alone, in a world that had never been nice to him but until then, he had them, who he loved, who he trusted. who he'd mourn and grieve for and for whom he'd wake up and pray that he'd be taken away, just as they had been, and be together, once and for all.

alas, that wasn't meant to be, and seconds blended into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, whole years, and still, remus lupin was alone, alone as he had been on that night of a full moon.

#death tw #mourning tw #grief tw #pain because i can't seem to be able to leave remus alone and happy so remus... putting you through pain again #grieving mourning remus. friends and then his mother. sorry m8 #remus lupin #remus lupin angst #my writing

[angelseth]

All body, all skin, all bone, borrowed.

The time has come for Seth to face this new stage in his life on his own when he receives an unexpected birthday present in advance.

When: October 8th. Notes: written on Discord. Part of the Second Writing Challenge: About pink skies.

Sharing a body with Josh had been a peaceful experience since the beginning. The human possessed such a calm and friendly demeanor that it had been easy for Seth to get along with him when he asked his permission to inhabit his body. Even when the young human had received such devastating news about his health, he was at peace with himself. Seth had wondered many times if perhaps he had taken advantage of Josh’s emotional fragility when he offered to extend his life in exchange for time in his body even when the human had assured him that he had accepted because he wanted time to finish his business before his time was up.

It hasn't been hard to get used to hearing Josh sometimes. The human never disturbed Seth when he was in charge of the consciousness and body, and just a few times, he had asked for control. That was the main reason why Seth opened his eyes as soon as he heard Josh’s gentle voice inside his head. “What is it?” the Grigori inquired softly in his mind, unable to ease the concern in his voice. He was aware Josh’s illness was back, and he was now unable to keep healing the body they were sharing, “Are you in pain?” the room was dark, and Seth could tell it was too early for the sun to be out yet.

“No! Not at all! I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you. Can we go somewhere?” Josh asked still in the piece of mind where he had been living these past years. As calmly as he could manage, Seth pushed himself off the bed, kissing Erik’s cheek and assuring him he was fine, but he needed to go to the bakery already. As calmly as he could manage, Seth got ready wearing a cozy sweater, jeans, and their beloved beanie. It was a fond memory of when they had gotten it. They both laughed when they looked at the same item when they visited Josh’s family for the last time.

“Is there somewhere, in particular, you want to go to?” this time, the question came out loud since he was just leaving the mansion. “Can we go to the lake? I would like to see the sunrise from there.” Josh's request was simple, and Seth merely nodded as he started to walk in the lake’s direction. There was some nervousness the angel was sure Josh could feel. Often, Seth worried about Josh being in pain or uncomfortable by the side effect of his illness even if the Grigori kept using the remains of his grace to keep healing the body as much as he could.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for everything you did for me,” Josh started talking inside their shared mind, “I saw places I would’ve never seen without you. I met amazing people. I got to say goodbye to my family and make sure they let go of me,” his voice soft and thankful, “You helped me carry this burden and helped me be comfortable. You didn’t let me suffer,” he added, “I don’t think I ever did enough to repay you.”

The human’s words were deeply touching because even when Seth had considered he had taken advantage, the young man was thanking him, “You did more than enough, Joshua, you allowed me to have a life I was not supposed to have,” it was true and the Grigori knew he could never repay the human for allowing him to find Erik and learn about love.

“I have a present for you,” Josh said, and Seth could almost picture the human smiling at those words, “Tomorrow is our birthday and I think I have the perfect present for us.” When the human accepted to become Seth’s vessel, the Grigori took Josh’s last name and birthday. They decided it would make it easier for when Josh was in charge of the body and legally, they could easily pass as twins for anything that was needed. It had been Josh’s idea and Seth agreed. There was so much the kind human had done for him and it pained Seth to know his decisions had led them to the point where he had not been able to save him as he had initially planned. His fall from grace had changed it all, and even then, Josh never seemed to be resentful of the change of plans.

They arrived at the lake just in time when the first rays of the sun started to color the sky. It had always been Seth’s favorite time of the day. The change from darkness to light. To see the world come into life and colors in a matter of seconds. That angelical song he could no longer hear. It was his moment of peace and not long after he had taken upon Josh’s body, he learned that it was the human’s favorite part of the day too. “You know you do not have to give me a present, Josh. You have done too much for me already,” the grass was cold and slightly wet from the night’s breeze, but Seth did not mind as he sat down looking towards the lake watching the sun starting to rise, “I know but I wanted to… I’ve always liked It when the sky is pink,” Josh said with a sigh, “can I have the body for a moment? I would like to see it myself,” the human requested, and Seth did not hesitate or say anything more. In a blink and a heartbeat, Seth was now tucked into the back of their shared mind and blue eyes blinked to focus on the beautiful shades painting the sky.

Josh sighed and smiled brightly, “It’s so beautiful here and without you, I could’ve never seen this place…” his smile faltered for just a moment, and it was enough for Seth to know something was going on. “I am ready, Seth. My time has come,” the human said in such a calm voice that it scared the Grigori. “I can feel it. It doesn’t hurt but I can tell it is time for me to go,” he laid back with his arms behind his head, “my present for you is this body. I heard when Adam told you that once I had to go, you could keep it and I think I just need to let go,” he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the grass and the lake. “I’m not afraid anymore and you can’t keep healing this body for me. I know that when I leave it, it’ll be healthy again and you’ll be stronger. I want that for you. I want you to be happy with Erik. You deserve it.”

Kindness was not new for Seth. The angel had learned about it since the first moment of his creation and he had practiced it his whole existence, but Josh was living proof that some humans were just as kind for no reason. The angel was overwhelmed by the human’s words. If he had been in charge of the body, he probably would have cried, and the only thing Seth thought he could do was to pray. It had been months since the last time the Grigori had prayed. It was bittersweet now to talk to his father knowing how disappointed he was in his actions, and even if Seth rarely asked something for himself in his prayers, this was no different. Seth prayed to his father to receive Josh in heaven with him. To help him pass peacefully because the human deserved it. Because he was a kind soul and had never been corrupted, not even by Seth’s actions.

Josh could hear his friend praying in a language he didn’t understand but was familiar too. It wasn’t the first time he heard the angel talk in that language and even if he didn’t understand, it was soothing. He opened his eyes, looking at the pink sky above him and how it changed to orange and purple before washing off to a pure soft blue scattered with white fluffy clouds.

The only sounds around them were the soft wind blowing between the trees and the ducks swimming on the lake. It was calming and peaceful. Josh smiled and let out a soft sigh before joining his hands in prayer and closing his eyes, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake,” he prayed softly feeling a small tear roll from the corner of his eyes, and with that, he exhaled his last breath.

As Josh’s soul detached from the body, Seth was immediately aware of the silence inside of it. It was quiet and peaceful. Just as the human had predicted, the Grigori felt stronger, but that strength came with a price, and that was being just a bit lonelier, “Be with God, Josh,” was the end of the prayer slipped from his lips.

#Para with josh #self-para #Second Writing Challenge: About pink skies. #death tw #Illness mentions TW #mourning TW #self para #para

[pale--horse]

charlize theron . cis women . she/they ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s ANDROMACHE “ANDY” KATZ, the FORTY-FIVE year old 61ST VICTOR/EX-MENTOR/HEAD OF PEACEKEEPER OPERATIONS from DISTRICT SEVEN / THE CAPITOL . they’ve been in the capitol around SIX YEARS , long enough to gain a reputation for being so SELF DISCIPLINED & ALOOF . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising ) 

Quick Facts

Full name : Andromache Katz

Nickname(s) : Andy ( Only people with permission allowed to call her Andy or she get mad )

Gender : Cis woman

Pronouns : She/They

Birthday : January 1st, Forty Nine

Relationship Status : Single

Family : Fiancee/Soulmate - Lavender (DECEASED)

Moral Alignment : Neutral Evil

Likes : Crisp fall mornings, Baked goods, Holding grudges

Dislikes : Disobedience, Georgette Woods, Playing nice

District : Seven but now lives in Capitol when working but still has Victor Village home in Seven as well as a private house she built in Seven in the forest. 

Victor Year : Sixty-One

Uprising : Part of, very much undercover

Background - CW: Parental Death, Eye Gore, Death, Drowning, Partner Death, Mourning 

What little of a childhood that Andromache had gotten to experience, felt like it had occurred lifetimes ago. Andromache was orphaned shortly after her birth which led to her growing up in an orphanage in District Seven. Andromache didn’t mind, she had never known anything different and her best friend from birth made everything so much easier. 

Her name had been Lavender. They had grown up side by side and spent nearly every waking moment by each other’s sides. Lavender was quiet, polite, kind, caring, and the most compassionate person Andromache had ever met. Andromache loved her best friend more than anything or anyone else in the world. 

Before being Reaped, Andromache was terrified of the Games. District Seven had had their Victors, but they weren’t known for winning by any means.The effect of seeing much older and larger tributes destroy smaller and younger tributes really got to Andy.

When Andromache was Reaped she cried and clung to Lavender. She knew she wasn’t coming home. Andromache was ripped from her best friend’s arms and taken to the stage, tears still streaming down her face.

After Andromache won her Games she withdrew into herself becoming a shell of the girl she used to be. Eventually, with Lavender’s help and support, Andromache was able to compartimalize her feelings, memories, and fears, though she is still not free of the night terrors. Andromache committed herself to training to become physically and mentally stronger. Hours of training everyday eventually lead to Andy becoming incredibly well trained and deadly. 

It was all starting to come together, Lavender was eighteen, almost too old to be Reaped, and madly in love and engaged. Lavender had moved in with Andromache in her Victor Village home and they were looking forward to the future together. 

Then the unspeakable happened, Lavender was Reaped. Andromache was glued to the Games at all hours, not sleeping because of not wanting to miss anything happening with Lavender. 

Lavender finished second in the Sixty-Eighth Annual Hunger Games. Kane Marcello got the advantage on Lavender, overpowering her before holding Lavender’s face down underwater until the cannon sounded.

After Andromache’s soulmate’s death, she was never the same. Andromache became aloof and unemotional for the most part, cutting herself off from everyone, losing purpose in life, and becoming a person she never imagined herself becoming.

Andromache isn’t very close with many and those she’s “close” to, she’s still very aloof to majority of the time. When Andy was mentoring she wanted to help her Tributes and tried to bring as many home as she could but she also expected a lot from her Tributes but also doesn’t take kindly to attitude, lack of trying, or pity parties. 

One of the few people Andromache used to be close with was Eben Greyfield. The two won back to back, both at very young ages so it made sense the two would connect. Andy and Eben became a chosen family.

Unfortunately, being back to back Victors would become a curse. Not long after Lavender’s death, Andromache became forced to ‘entertain’ Captiolites. Worse yet, Andromache and Eben were marketed as a ‘package’.

Eventually, with both Andy and Eben losing their soulmates, the two drifted apart as both became aloof and numb.

Despite them drifting apart, they are still both forced to entertain together at times.

The other person who had been one of the rare few let in by Andromache was Io. Io won two Games before Lavender died and for some reason Io grew on Andy. They became close friends before drifting apart when Andy “went dark”.

After attending Peacekeeper training, Andromache became a Peacekeeper in 78 in District Two before being Head Peacekeeper for the District in 82. In 88 Andromache became Head of Peacekeeper Operations for all of Panem. After last year’s Games, Andromache retired from Mentoring. 

Secretly, Andy hates the Games and is involved with the Uprising but if you were to ask anyone else, they’d say Andromache either supports the Games or plays her role without objection. 

Games - Death, Hunger Games Violence, Eye Injury, Eye Gore, Blood

Andromache may not have had luck on her side when she was Reaped at her first ever Reaping, but she did have luck when it came to her Arena’s theme. 

The Arena theme for the 61st Hunger Games was the Pacific Northwest. The Arena had mountains, gorges, dense forest, and a river which varied in depth and water speed and at one point turned into a massive crashing waterfall. 

Andromache’s strategy going into the Games was to hide as long as possible and if she had to fight, fight with everything in her.

This strategy worked well for Andy and for most of the Game she was able to stay hidden away from the other Tributes, watching them from her hiding spot, usually high up in the treetops, but never attacking. 

On the last day, Andy was forced from her current treetop hiding spot by a wildfire started by the Gamemakers in an attempt to drive the remaining tributes together, like animals being hunted. 

Forced into the river just above the waterfall as the trees burned on either side, Andy watched in horror as the District Two female sunk her weapon into the neck of the only other Tribute remaining and for a moment, the water downstream turned red.

With nowhere left to go, Andy tried to run upstream but suddenly the water became deeper and Andromache’s feet couldn’t reach the bottom. The swift water started carrying Andy back downstream and right into the hands of the District Two female who dragged her into shallower water. 

Andy was so much smaller than the other girl and it felt even more drastic with the girl looming over Andy. Water splashing as Andy tried to escape, the older Tribute was able to grab Andromache’s face and shove Andromache’s head underwater. 

Andy knew she was going to die. She had opened her eyes, not even feeling the sting of the water, and was able to see the sunlight and shadow of a person above her. She could see the surface she needed to break in order to get a breath of air. It was so close, yet impossibly far away. The edges of Andromache’s vision were turning black and her lungs were burning.

 Desperately needing air, Andromache had clawed and scratched wildly above her. Eventually she felt a nose. Instinctively, Andromache reached a little further up and to the side on each side of where she had encountered the nose. Andy’s fingers curled, nails digging into the girl’s eyes and clawing as hard as she could.

Suddenly Andromache was no longer being held down, she swam toward the shore where the fire had extinguished, crawling out of the way as Andy gasped for air, panting, coughing, choking. Looking back, Andromache saw the other Tribute, screaming and blood streaming from mangled sockets, a sight Andromache will never forget, stumble backwards into deeper, quick moving water. The other girl tried to swim but it was futile as she was swept down the river and over the crest of the waterfall. A few seconds of silence that feel like a lifetime. A cannon. A voice announcing Andromache had won. It all happened so fast.

#Andy~𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓼𝓮: 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓓𝓮𝓪 #mj.intro #blood tw #parental death tw #partner death tw #drowning tw #near drowning tw #death tw #eye gore tw #eye injury tw #gore tw #Hunger Games typical violence #mourning tw

[iliadette]

Just got a spam email with subject "-10 to the best christmas" I'm mourning the death of my grandfather...

#death tw #mourning tw

[resonatingradiance]

I miss Cal.

#pkmn irl #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #mourning tw #memorial

[rorynne]

Some things that people might not think to say on the matter:

its okay to not feel like crying

Its okay to laugh

Its okay to let yourself be happy

Its okay to focus on the good things

Its okay not to be sad

Not all mourning is the same. For a lot of people, mourning is just letting yourself live your life, to continue. And theres no shame in doing that. You aren't a bad person, or a bad fan, or whatever you might think. There is no reason to feel guilt because some react differently than you do. It's okay. Let yourself feel what you are feeling, and don't let anyone make you feel like you should be feeling any different.

#death tw #mourning tw #loss tw #technoblade

[wordnerdworld]

Warning: Long post; personal, painful. Much more serious than I've been posting. Just need to process.

I drink tea.

No one in my family does. It doesn't come from there.

It started in grad school. I made a friend who drank it. She got it from her Scottish grandmother. Told me all about her ritual of warming the pot with hot tap water while waiting for the kettle to boil. Talked about sewing a thick fleece tea cozy for her brother. Talked about squeezing the bitterness out of the bag at the very end to really perk you up.

I'd never drunk hot tea before. Just sweet Southern iced tea. And I didn't like or drink coffee.

But she loved tea and started me off on something easy and approachable, Good Earth. Easy to find at the local whole foods. Sweet. Spicy. Wonderful.

I was hooked.

(tw: death; tw: grief/mourning; tw: domestic violence )

I have tea pots and tea kettles and tea tins galore. I have strainers and spoons and a mug warmer and favorite tea suppliers and tea blends. Everyone knows to get me tea for Christmas or gives me the tea they don't want from their gift baskets. I couldn't reliably tell you a favorite color, but I have a favorite tea (a nice, smoky Russian Caravan).

Tea has become a huge part of my life. I love tea.

And it's all thanks to her.

I have had few friends in my life. I basically make them whenever an extrovert decides to adopt me. But when that happens, they become a hugely important part of my life, and I usually end up adopting a shared trait or interest that persists even if the friendship ends--fandom, booze, crafts, Renaissance festivals, and tea.

We spent so much time together. Cooking, drinking, watching football, clubbing, adventuring. We were both queer women, and while I'd known queer women before, this was the first time I had true queer community. A vision for what happiness could look like for me.

I've never been that happy since. I've never made a friend like that since.

When she suddenly moved away, it hurt me very badly. So much of my life and happiness revolved around her and the easy ways we had to spend time together. It felt like rejection. Like having the rug pulled out from under me. Like being back in school where I might be a friend but I was never someone's best friend and would never be picked when it came time to choose.

I visited, after she moved. And texted. And sent her a gift when she got married. But it wasn't the same. We were in different phases of life. In different states hours apart. It still hurt to think about what I'd lost. She'd moved on. We drifted and hadn't had any contact in years. Normal.

I've been wanting that type of friendship again for so long. Someone to hang out with. Someone to play games with. Someone to share the good times and the bad. Someone to trust. Someone who is here for me and with me (I have only two truly close (emotionally speaking) friends right now; one is in another country and one is in another state; and some people on the border of friend/coworker who haven't graduated to that level yet, if ever).

I went looking for her online. Wanted to know how she might be doing. Would she have kids? A blog? A successful writing career? Would I find her cool and sassy presence online doing something awesome? Or would she be impossible to find, a connection lost among changing names and addresses and phone numbers?

I found her immediately. In the worst way possible. She was violently murdered by her boyfriend earlier this year.

It hurts to think about. That someone so cool and strong and funny. So vibrant and larger than life. Is not only dead. But died terrified and in pain. That's not supposed to happen. That's not supposed to be real.

We've been separated for longer than we ever knew one another and might never have spoken again. But she's always been part of my thoughts, part of my life. The relationship that defined what happiness means to me. Something I've dreamed of recreating, even if it would never be with her.

And now she's gone from this world in such a horrible, hateful way. Why her?

I'll always remember her. Always. Not just in the tea that she taught me to love drinking.

That's just the most obvious daily manifestation of what she gave to me.

#domestic violence tw #death tw #mourning tw #personal #painfully personal

[nagiru]

Neku dies. This time, he does not come back. (or: Beat mourns someone he doesn't know if it's still there or not)

[Written for Whumptober 2023 Day 19: "I'm not as stupid as you think I am"]

#whumptober2023 #no.19 #i'm not as stupid as you think i am #the world ends with you #fic #suicide tw #mourning tw #the suicide is more implied but better safe than sorry #post neo twewy

[firedragon1321]

#writing #writing memes #writing community #character death #i was just listening to a song for vibes #and then #PLOT TWIST PLOT TWIST PLOT TWIST #don't mourn for that character she had it coming from a book ago #tw gun #and ofc this is the fallout of a battle i didn't write yet yay