#past 'canon' character death | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

motleyfam · 11 months

Text

Dick is convinced that food always tastes better after a show.

His dad laughs and tells him it’s just because they’re acrobats and they can’t eat much prior to spending a few hours intricately twisting and flipping their bodies through the air over the dizzying roar of the crowds below. Hunger, he tells his son, has always been the best spice. But Dick thinks there’s more to it than that. There’s something about the buzz — the energy following a performance — that makes even the simplest of dishes special.

With so many different cultures and nationalities represented at Haly’s, Dick is used to eating all sorts of things, learns to tell who’s making dinner each night by the aroma of the various herbs and spices wafting out from the tent. There’s a Russian acrobat and a Taiwanese contortionist and a French wire walker and a clown from Cleveland, and the only common factor seems to be their insistence that the nine-year-old could use some more meat on his bones. He helps his mother stir cornmeal porridge and stuff cabbage leaves with ground meat and rice while his dad, grinning, juggles bell peppers and onions and cans of tomato paste in an arc above their heads.

It’s always late at night by the time they gather around the plastic folding tables with full plates, aching muscles, and weary smiles. Snippets from conversations in three or four different languages wash over Dick, and he doesn’t understand everything, but he doesn’t mind it either. The food and laughter warm him from the inside out, and he eats until his belly is full and his eyelids start to grow heavy. His mother pulls him into her lap and lets him curl up against her chest, and he’s lulled to sleep by the hum of the troupe members’ voices, perfectly safe and content.

The night that Dick’s parents fall to their deaths, there’s beef goulash simmering on the cookhouse stove and just the smell is enough to make him sick.

#dick grayson #fanfiction #batfam #i was scrolling through some of my past fics the other night to answer an ask #and i came across this one #it's the intro to Comfort Food on ao3 but i debated leaving it just as this drabble #which is much angstier than the full fic #the full fic's more bittersweet and i'm a softie #but i wanted to share it just in the drabble format as well #so we can have both flavors #angst #grief #canonical character death #drabble

297 notes · View notes

aphel1on · 7 months

Text

not sure how to phrase this but something i have been ruminating on recently is that xue yang is strangely fragile. obviously he is also incredibly resilient. he survived, and continues to survive, impossible things. he has a million barriers between himself and the world, but none of this actually matters when it comes to what he feels. everything is personal to him. everything pierces straight through all that armor and goes right to his battered heart, the heart that no one else believes he has. that even he is not fully cognizant of. the world strikes and strikes and strikes and so he strikes and strikes and strikes back, even (especially) when the wound is something other people would not think worthy of retribution.

xue yang would never realize this- would be outraged at the concept of it- but the way everything, everything is something to rally a defense against is in itself a form of fragility. he does not know how to let go of things, or let them pass him by. passivity is death. so he is ruthlessly cruel and violent. he projects himself as a lunatic untouchable by anything you might possibly do to him, and on some level he even believes this. but in actuality he is one raw emotional wound. he never learned to separate himself from his emotions, much less process them. the volatility is not so much insanity as it is the constant lashing out of an animal in a trap, and the trap is the world, and the trap is himself, and he is never going to get out. and like so much else, this pain is just part of the background radiation of his life. it hardly registers. to be able to register the hurt, you would have to be able to register a time in which you were not hurt.

i feel like it is a fragility that could blossom into such tenderness, given exactly the right set of circumstances. how at the very first touch of softness in his life he fell into a domesticity from which he never recovered. how much was there, still, to be salvaged from the cruelty. on some level i am always thinking about the little apple bunnies. about the meal for daozhang and the straw in a-qing's bed.

it was too little, too late. it shattered like glass when the world intruded back in. but the tenderness was there. no one, least of all xue yang, knows what might have happened had it been unearthed in him any sooner.

#he is easy to hurt. this is a fact. it is also anathema to his own self conception as well as the model of him in anyone elses minds.#xue yang #yi city #mdzs #aphelion.txt #xy #Contact is crisis; every touch is a modified blow #<- xycore anne carson quote. if you even care #meta #i guess? idk #it is always character analysis hour in my head #with a disclaimer that whether or not someone experiences empathy is NOT correlated to their morality #i dont think its necessarily that xy is incapable of empathy it's that any empathy that might exist in him is deeply deeply repressed #bc he views it as a death warrant. he (at every moment in his head and really quite often in reality) is on trial for his life #and it would be suicidal to give a shit about anyone who is not him.#especially since he knows- down to his bones- that no one is ever going to give a shit about him EXCEPT FOR him #the one chance he ever got to escape this cycle of brutality came with an expiration date built in by consequence of his past atrocities #and he only first started to comprehend anything about his own emotions after it was all already irrevocably fucked #in canon he is doomed. in fandom i am always picking him up and putting him somewhere kinder #shakes you by the shoulders do you understand what he does to me. do you. do you #if you tell me im excusing his crimes i will kill you w my lazer beam.#this isnt ABOUT THAT. this is ME BEING UNHINGED ABT HIS PSYCHOLOGY in a moral vaccuum.#i'm not saying 'hes sensitive uwu' but like i kind of am. unfortunately it mostly just motivates him to murder people #OH and when i connect the fragility to the tenderness i dont mean that i believe hes like. secretly soft #i mean that being as he is so deeply impacted by people's slights against him. he is just as deeply impacted by people's kindnesses #and he's not incapable of reciprocating it. he is INCREDIBLY fucking bad at it. but not incapable #ok i have to post this before i feel compelled to ramble any longer in the tags. jesus #got consumed by my a-yang feelings on a sunday morning sorry #not sure why i worded it as 'continues to survive' other than a constant subconscious denial that xue yang is dead

140 notes · View notes

lexosaurus · 1 year

Text

Not to be a boomer-energy hater ass bitch on main but I’m begging you guys to think critically about the content warning tags you’re using. ESPECIALLY in the context of this media.

If you tag a warning for death and your art/fic is just the “danny dies in the portal accident”…babe that’s literally just canon. We see that in the opening segments of the show. It’s in the title card. It’s approved for CHILDREN to watch by Viacom, the place that blocks literally everything.

Like you don’t need to give a content warning for death about a character that’s canonically half-dead. If you’re gonna tag for Danny’s death, I want him DEAD. Like, FULLY dead. Not coming back as a ghost dead. He g o n e.

That’s what the death tag means. It means someone died, not Danny’s canon portal accident that the entire show is based around.

I get that you’re tryna be nice to your followers but I promise giving a cw for something that is canonically shown multiple times in the show is not how you should be using tags. It’s just further sanitizing an already extremely sanitized piece of media, and it’s also misusing the death tag.

#danny phantom #phandom #this also applies for the ‘major character death’ warning on AO3 #tho i haven’t seen that used really but i’ve seen ppl complain and it’s worth bringing up #idk who started this trend but in the past year i’ve noticed a LOT of people on tumblr tagging their dp art and fics for death #like yeah dudes this is a ghost fandom and danny is a ghost #OF COURSE he died #we dont need the tag for that!! it’s just canon!!

366 notes · View notes

wangxianficrecs · 11 months

Text

the anger remains by Gaez (bell_flowers)

the anger remains

by Gaez (bell_flowers)

T, 5k, Yunmeng Siblings

Summary: The ghost, when it comes to Lotus Pier, is not entirely unexpected. That it is the enraged shade of his elder sister, does give Jiang Wanyin pause.

Kay's comments: After Wei Wuxian's and Jiang Yanli's death, Jiang Cheng expected to be haunted by Wei Wuxian, instead, it's Jiang Yanli's ghost that appears at Lotus Pier and she's angry. No matter what he tries, setting down a plaque for her in the ancestral hall, bringing Jin Ling to Lotus Pier, nothing seems to be able to appease her anger...Ah, this story! I keep coming back to it, because I feel like Jiang Yanli is often painted as this gentle angel, who can't feel negative emotions, but she's a person too! So, it's really refreshing to see her as an angry ghost, haunting Jiang Cheng, because he killed Wei Wuxian after Jiang Yanli gave her life to save him.

Excerpt: “I’ll change Jin Ling’s courtesy name. Something better, something that isn’t his, maybe Ru-“ The jar he had been drinking from smashes against the far wall with an almighty crash. His spine straightens without his input. He is suddenly, violently sober. The kind of quick switch to hyper awareness that he has not felt since the war. He recognizes the burn in the air in front of him. The acrid smell of resentment washes through his senses. It is exactly the same as it had been when Wei Wuxian died. He had been avoiding looking at Jiang Yanli while he spoke. Too ashamed of his own failure. Too full of anger to deal with her placid face without lashing out. He cannot look away now.

pov jiang cheng, canon compliant, ghost jiang yanli, good person madam jin, yunmeng siblings feels, resentment, ghost wei wuxian, grief/mourning, good sibling jiang yanli, past character death, moving on, @gaez

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

81 notes · View notes

lunarharp · 6 months

Text

lazy scribbling of my baldur's gate 3 characters

#*emerges from 430 HOURS of life-changing playtime blearily like a lost and confused kitten*#i lost my interest in drawing bc everything is too sad & horrible right now. it was a luxury and privilege to lose myself in this instead #what follows will be my personal and trivial emotions about that #i'll do better proper drawings later. for me. they are both so very dear to me... deeply dear...unforgettable journeys of fate #truly have played like one possessed for the past few weeks. you have no idea. what do i do now. what do i do.#their personalities are so vivid to me though they mostly made the same choices. both intersex and they/them - canonically <3 #i missed out on FOUR PARTY MEMBERS in my first playthrough due to not understanding anything whatsoever.#gloaming ended up with wyll and pavane romanced karlach and astarion. and ended up with the one i did NOT plan on. this wasnt the plan #one of the most fulfilling romance paths i've ever..i cant say more..it all got too immersive and now i have to just.. MOVE ON ??????????#live in THIS world where i can't gut imperialism personally and emerge alive from that?#without Long Resting? without my character requesting a kiss from their beloved after a tough day ??#without preparing my little spells? without channelling divinity from my death god to keep us all alive?#without dyeing my man's clothes fancy colours for him? without him Approving whenever i lie and double-cross our enemies #without sharing clothes with my ex? without choosing to eat the heavy food first so that the weight is easier on her Carrying Capacity?#without orchestrating ways for all of my friends to kill the abusers that ruined their lives for a decade or even 200 years?#without experiencing degrading horrors on a daily basis but in a cathartic way where we always make it back to our rooms at the inn #WITHOUT SPEAK WITH ANIMALS???????????#at least there's music. just like with persona 5 that will always be with me. always #like how p5 melodies take me back to those feelings. those rich and personal feelings.... BUT THIS WAS A WAY MORE NUTS EXPERIENCE #i thought i would hate it. i did at times. thought it would desensitise me to various things. it did. but there was so much more..it was...#Well anyway *continues my life* imagine if dnd was real..something to think about

25 notes · View notes

zyrafowe-sny · 6 months

Text

Jagodzianka's Whumptober 2023 Completionist Post

I wrote thirty-one 100 word drabbles based on Whumptober prompts, spread across two fandoms and twelve fics.

The Owl House

Rescue: a connected sequence of six Hunter and Camila-centered drabbles (prompts 17, 26, 4, 14, 25, 31)

Reunion: one drabble from Evelyn's POV after Philip kills Caleb (prompt 28)

no one there except the moon: The Collector doesn't like the Titan's new game (prompt 3)

Freedom: eight Vee-centric drabbles (prompts 21, alt - Lab Rat, alt - Reluctant Whumper, 24, 23, 30, 11, 9)

Simile Marks: Raine (and Hunter) have trouble sleeping after Belos is defeated (prompts 12, 27)

Nimona

Home: On different days, Ballister and Nimona wake up on the same couch and have their worlds turned upside down (prompts 29 and 20)

Hindsight: Ambrosius comes to a realization after he sees the full recording (prompt 6)

Broken: a connected sequence of four drabbles following Ambrosius as the Wall falls and during the immediate aftermath (prompts 5, 1, 8, 16)

Infection: three drabbles following Ballister after the arm-chopping incident (prompts 15, 13, 2)

one final step: Nimona has suicidal thoughts (prompt 19)

Chickadee: Todd leads his squad to Ballister's evil lair (prompt 18)

Naive: Ballister looks back on his first attempt to prove his innocence (prompt 10)

17 notes · View notes

whumpacabra · 2 months

Text

In for a Pound

Headache, fever, anticipated violence, implied past torture, implied past noncon, referenced character death, referenced medical treatment, firearm mention, stitches mention

[Directly follows In for a Penny]

The Wolf felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, the din of the street outside and soft warmth around him surreal. He didn’t want to open his eyes, to wake up from the bizarre and ethereal dream of safety.

A sharp pain behind his eyes pried him from the embrace of sleep, the waking world reigniting the pain that laced his body. Every breath burned, his skin broke out in goosebumps, and he could feel every itchy inch of bandages, medical tape, and stitches strewn around his torso and arms.

(His legs were still sticky with drying blood and burning where raw flesh was left exposed.)

His headache was making him nauseous with pain, eyes barely open as he navigated to the bathroom on unsteady feet. The Wolf swallowed back a whimper when he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed and knocked his tender shoulder into the doorframe - odd. He was so used to this room by now; had his handler moved the furniture last night - ?

His handler was dead. The Wolf had killed his handler.

(“Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.”)

(Whose voice was that?)

The Wolf stumbled, eyes gradually opened as he braced against the bathroom sink. He sucked down lungfuls of air, grounding himself in the pain of each breath stretching the stitches in his back.

In. Out. He was alive. His handler was not.

In. Out. He was in a different hotel room. The agent’s name was Jackson.

In. Out. The wounds above his belt were cleaned, closed, and covered with tenderness beyond his understanding. But the agent had wanted him to sleep in the bed.

The Wolf’s breath hitched, then silenced, holding his breath as he listened to the room. There was no other heartbeat, and at a glance, the bed was still empty and clean.

(He had left the other hotel bed a bloody, filthy mess, intent on changing the sheets in the morning - )

He was alone. The Wolf ran cold water from the tap and splashed his sweaty face, vision sharpening and brain focusing on the mirror in front of him. It was instinct to shy from the face in the mirror, a person he didn’t know, a person he once was and could never be again. But today he stared at bloodshot eyes, widening with understanding.

His handler was dead. Jackson tended his wounds. Jackson left him alone. (Even if he had wanted the Wolf on the bed.)

There was a time when the Wolf would have jumped out the window and run until his legs gave out. (Which, if he did so now, wouldn’t get him very far.) There was a time when the Wolf had tried to run, and faced the consequences of that cowardice.

But Jackson wasn’t here. His handler was dead. The Wolf was alone.

He limped out of the bathroom, blood stained t-shirt and rain damp jacket in hand. (Would Jackson want him dressed?) The bed was indeed still made, seemingly untouched. Where had Jackson slept? Had he simply left after the Wolf passed out?

(Did he want the Wolf conscious and lucid for whatever he had planned?)

The Wolf shivered, shrugging his still damp jacket over his back. Maneuvering to put on his t-shirt might be difficult with his stitches, and his feverish skin quickly warmed the inner lining of his jacket.

He listened for the tell-take hum of electronics - bugs, cameras, whatever the agent had left behind to monitor the Wolf. There was nothing but the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the distant gurgle of a coffee machine. (Coffee. God, he would kill for a good cup of coffee. How long had it been?)

The only thing out of place was the notepad on the desk, hotel branded pen left uncapped beside it. It took some staring for Wolf’s eyes to decipher the handwriting. (It wasn’t particularly sloppy, it had just been so long since he had the opportunity to read something - )

“Be back soon - 1-2 hours (around 10 maybe?) -Jackson”

The digital clock on the desk read 9:23. The Wolf wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do during the interim. He picked up the duvet and pillow from the floor, tossing them into the laundry bin - the bloodstains were almost imperceptible, but who knew what standards Jackson had. He pulled a new pillow cover and blanket from the dresser, setting the bed as he supposed it should look. (He couldn’t remember seeing it last night.)

The digital clock on the desk read 9:27.

God, he hated the waiting. It wasn’t the shivers that wracked his body or the way his legs cramped where he knelt on the thick carpet that made him miserable. It was his own brain. Running too fast and too hot and with too many new variables to settle into that far away place he went to when his handler was too close for comfort.

(Was Jackson his new handler now?)

(If so, what was the consequence of killing his previous handler? Even biting back could be punished with liquidation at the bunker. The Wolf was obviously still alive because he didn’t deserve the mercy of even a messy death.)

(But Jackson was…wrong. He talked about helping the Wolf, not treating him. He talked about an asset his handler had stolen, like he didn’t know what the project was. Not that the Wolf knew what the project actually did, but - )

There were footsteps he recognized. And footsteps he didn’t. The Wolf let a tremor run down his spine before steeling himself, eyes half-lidded, hands limp and nonthreatening.

Even with the stranger’s pistol aimed at his head, he didn’t flinch. The Wolf lifted his eyes to acknowledge Jackson.

“Sir.” He didn’t make eye contact. That would be too direct. But the Wolf did let his eyes flick to the newcomer. A white, well dressed woman - was she an overseer? The Wolf thought he remembered an overseer, or handler or two that were women. (They were never any softer than the men. Sometimes they seemed worse - sharpened by the hostility and competition of the bunker.)

He couldn’t suppress a shudder, part shiver from cold and part tremor of fear when she stepped into the room, back turned to the Wolf as she faced Jackson. The Wolf looked to his new handler savior, eyes damp and dark and begging:

Don’t. Don’t let her touch me. I can’t. Not now - not like this - his old handler had promised he wouldn’t share the Wolf again - never again -

The far away came quickly, their hushed tones heard but not understood. He didn’t need to be present. He didn’t want to be. And with an unsteady breath, he was gone.

[Directly before The North]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #headache #fever #anticipated violence #past torture #implied past noncon #referenced character death #medical treatment #stitches #firearms #freelancers #brought to you by: how I woke up the other day #another one today [canon this time!] because i have SUCH a backlog to post lol #ikik normally something you want to preserve but...i am a social animal and i crave attention

17 notes · View notes

this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 6 months

Note

And this is just a bonus one I thought of but Grace and 24 Capitalism 👁️👁️

Story is also posted on ao3!

(tw capitalism, mentions of colonialism, mentions of racism/speciesism, trauma, mentions of cigarettes/alcohol, addiction, grief, past canonical character death, identity issues, implied dehumanization, hallucinations, unreality)

It's not as if they have a problem with expense. Fuck no, of course not. They can find the cash for their fucking war machines, their stupid goddamn spaceships, their love children born on a planet where they'll never be able to breathe the air. The cash for their guns and explosives, for their dozers rolling over the ground, for pressed suits and cheery propaganda vids and everything single one of the politicians in their pockets.

And oh, they've got the money for her as well, Grace knows all about it, a special set of funds to keep their little labcoat safely in line. The killing ground school, the botany book with a Na'vi face on the cover cause it's all just wildlife, doc, remember that, the cigarettes to keep her strung out and numb, the alcohol when that's not enough.

Never enough, not for them, sure as shit not for her. Her hands shake, she's fiddling, muttering, things slipping through her hands. Focus, Augustine, fucking focus. She's only got so many cigarettes, the 3D printers only work so well (as well as they're supposed to, heh). If Max is hiding them again she's going to fucking--

Cash. Right. Money, profit, power. Expense. They'll make a body, grow it in a tank like a promise, but if shit goes down, a bloody murder on a planet she can barely remember, happening six years and a million lightyears and last week ago--well, they can't take the fucking loss, oh no, they're going to stuff in some random jackass marine, pulled off one conveyor belt and shoved onto another.

Like it's that simple. Like it's all just meat, isn't it, they all are, deep blue company logos hanging heavy over her skin, sinking into her bones until she feels it even when she's physically out of the link. Jake Sully shrugging into his brother's skin and grinning at her, Jake Sully with Quaritch's brand stamped onto his soul, Jake fucking Sully coming out of the Soul Drive upload room with jagged, defiant eyes.

There are some things that cannot be bought, Mo'at says, her hand wrapped around Grace's throat. Not enough to choke, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the point, to prove that tonight, Grace was not worth the suffocation. I had thought you learned this, if nothing else.

In a way, the rejection had been a relief. No need to try and twist everything into a knot trying to justify the application into a knot, no excuse to get shot in the head months down the line for trying to grow a rogue body on company resources. None of Sylwanin's DNA, so no watching her grow in the tank that would be Sully's, no waiting to see whatever would be left if you hooked an empty Avatar into the Tree of Souls, if you'd get something like a return or nothing, nothing, nothing...

No breath. No life. No meat, or at least not enough of it to go around, not enough bodies to go around. Just cold, hard cash and an ache in the pit of her stomach as she scratches meaninglessly, thoughtlessly, because where the hell are her cigarettes. Where the hell are her--

A hand on her shoulder and she yelps, something undoubtedly expensive slipping through her fingers and clattering to the floor.

"Jesus, Marine," she snaps, because it's Sully, of course it's Sully, standing there with a stupid look on his face and hair slipping out of his braid. Grace shoves him off with a huff. "Personal space, remember?"

She turns back to her work, eyes narrowed. A stack of bundles...shells? Grace frowns. When had she been collecting shells?

"I don't suppose you know what happened to my cigarettes," she mutters, glancing up at Sully. He's still standing there, stiller than she's ever seen him, wearing an expression she can't quite read.

"Marine?" Grace waves her hand in front of his face, but he doesn't respond. "You read me?"

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything there's another voice, young, feminine. "Kiri?"

Grace turns her head, frowning. There's a Reef Na'vi girl walking towards them, wearing Metkayina garb–Metkayina? When had the Metkayina been visiting the Omatikaya?

"Kiri?" the girl asks, looking worried--looking at Grace. She takes a step forward and Grace automatically takes a step back, feeling something skid under her foot (sand, not soil, where's the soil, where's the ground) and she falls with a curse, Sully yelping as he lunges to catch her.

"Easy," he says, but his hands are shaking. "Easy. Fuck. Okay." She can feel his pulse pounding, she can feel his panic gathering, she can feel the world moving and shuddering around her, she can feel everything, and she knows that--she knows--

"Reya, go get my mom and dad," Sully says, his voice taut, and there's the slap of feet against sand as the Metkayina girl runs. The slap of feet, and the thudding of waves, the howling of wind in the trees. Blood grubbing as Sylwanin heaves for air, as Tom Sully chokes out, as Neteyam--

--Neteyam--

Not enough bodies to go around. Not enough bodies, too expensive to look back, too much.

"Kiri." Sully's got his hands on her face, cool against her skin. Five fingers, strong and callused, resting lightly around the corners of her eyes. "You gotta breathe, Kir."

She can't. She's choking, she's choking on her first cigarette, she's choking on her own blood, she's choking on every lie she's ever swallowed with eyes sewn shut. She's choking on Sully's hand wrapped around her throat like a bad dream, like a memory.

"I've got you," he whispers, pulling her close. "You're not leaving us, Kir."

Kir. Kiri. Little atokirina. Little miracle, little secret, little liar, little ghost…

Over his shoulder she can see Tom Sully and Sylwanin (only it's not them, she knows this, she knows this just enough to wish she didn't) running her way. They're shadows, running, looking for the blood stolen from their veins; they're shadows, running, come to make sure she pays every single of her debts.

12 notes · View notes

an-animagi · 6 months

Text

dropping fic for mcyt yuri week day 2: post-canon!!

this turned WAY darker than i first had in mind, so please take care

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51430891

cw: suicide/self-harm mentions, grief, suicide ideation, past character death, alcohol

#none but the past character death are very graphic but just in case #mcyt #fanfiction #ao3 #soulkie #sookie x soul #yhs sookie #yhs soul #yhs #mcyt yuri week #post canon #mcytyuriweek2023

11 notes · View notes

excelsiorfics · 5 days

Text

Playing House

Date: April 1 2024 Author: gayliepop Rating: General Word Count/Status: 863, complete Dynamic: Laura Kinney & Logan Characters: Laura Kinney, Logan Tags: Alternative Perspectives, Canon Compliant, Grief, Parenting, Past Character Death, Parent-Child Relationship

Summary: Laura and Logan have a talk. It goes about as well as one could hope.

(Laura's perspective on the last 4 pages of Generations: Wolverine & All-New Wolverine).

#rating: general #uni: 616 #team: x-men #char: laura kinney #char: logan howlett #dyn: laura kinney & logan howlett #tag: canon compliant #tag: grief #tag: parenting #tag: parent-child relationship #tag: past character death #length: <1k #status: complete #category: one-shot #rel: gen

6 notes · View notes

teakoodrawz · 2 months

Text

🥳🎉🎊🎈🧨

#[Album]#WWW #M4rk #cw #cw blood #cw snowgrave #happy birthday to M4rk 😀#audio :: World of illusion (Genesis)#also inspired from stocktales by Sr Pelo #pov. you created a character with their death date that also became their birthday the day they're made 😀#name indication :: M4rk (past/dead timeline). Mark (if possibly alive in another timeline). Molly (in Mark void)#btw M4rk is one of some Marks with a canon death (that did not get their happy ending like Heroin Shot au)

6 notes · View notes

izzydaninja · 26 days

Text

Summary: "One moment, he’s on his own, debating on taking Rouge’s offer to join her and the others for Sonic’s birthday party, and then the next, the sky’s ripping open with some strange looking portal, and he’s being pulled in. Everything goes white, and when he comes to, he’s in a very familiar, long, metallic hallway."

*No stealing!* Thank you!

5 notes · View notes

kjack89 · 1 year

Text

Flooded with the Dawn

For @themiserablesmonth Day 31: Dawn.

Canon era E/R, implied canonical character death.

Read on AO3.

What woke Grantaire was not noise, as he had long become accustomed to sleeping through all manners of noise, whether from his neighbors or the street below, in large part due to the thinness of his walls. But that morning, what roused him from his slumber was a sudden lack of warmth, and he rolled over into the recently vacated space on his bed before opening his eyes to blink blearily around the room in search of the body who had recently departed his bed.

It did not take him long to find him, bathed as he was in the early light of dawn streaming through Grantaire’s window. Grantaire’s eyes traced his naked figure appreciatively, marveling at how the golden light seemed to emanate from the man’s pale skin, transforming him into something ethereal and radiant and unspeakably beautiful.

Of course, that may partially have been Grantaire’s bias towards the man in question showing.

Enjolras turned, looking surprised to see Grantaire awake, though Grantaire was relieved that he did not appear overcome by modesty when he saw Grantaire admiring him. “I did not expect you to rise so early,” Enjolras said.

“Under normal circumstances, it would be several hours hence until I woke from my slumber,” Grantaire said, his voice a low rumble after sleeping. “But the absence of your warmth returned me from Morpheus’s realm sooner than anticipated.”

“In that case, allow me to assist,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire arched an eyebrow, hoping that this might mean the man would return to his bed.

Instead, Enjolras grabbed the coverlet from where it had fallen and tossed it on the bed, his lips twitching towards a smile as Grantaire scowled at him. “I would prefer the warmth of your body far more than any cloth,” Grantaire told him, petulantly yanking the coverlet up to his chin.

Something in Enjolras’s expression softened. “I am certain you would,” he said. “But unless you wish to seek out a different companion for your bed, my time has come.” He glanced again towards the window. “There is much work to do, and daylight enough to do it.”

“I know,” Grantaire said quietly.

He had long since come to terms with their unspoken arrangement, those fleeting hours he was able to spend with Enjolras in one of their beds. He knew he had no other claim to him, that Enjolras in the daylight belonged to the Cause and to the people; his claim to Enjolras was solely in the black of the night.

And winter was passing, and with it, the long hours of the night, chipping away at what few precious moments they could together steal.

But Grantaire knew he would still cling to these all too brief hours they spent together, as they were far better than the prospect of spending no time together at all.

Still, as he sat up to watch Enjolras dress, he could not help but voice at least a fragment of his discontent, trying to keep his voice light instead of letting the bitterness he felt creep in. “Dawn has fast become my least favorite time of day,” he told Enjolras, watching as the man put on first his shirt, then his trousers. “Watching as you dress yourself, piece by piece, in the clothes you wear like armor to separate yourself from Enjolras the man to instead become Enjolras the symbol.”

Enjolras just shook his head as he knotted his cravat with practiced fingers. “And see, dawn has always been my favorite time of day.”

Grantaire knew that Enjolras was not referring to the fact that dawn was when he had to leave Grantaire’s side, but still the words stung. To hide it, he asked, “Why?” Enjolras frowned at him and he shrugged before elaborating, “I admit I am not usually awake enough to enjoy its appeal, so I am interested to know why any would enjoy such an early hour.”

Why any – why you – would prefer dawn to my company.

Enjolras took a moment to answer, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt before picking up his jacket from where he had tossed it the night before. “Because dawn is a reminder that I am still alive,” he said finally, “that a new day has dawned with me in it. That there is still time to do the work that I need to do.” He shrugged before adding, simply, “Dawn is always a symbol of hope.”

“And here I thought you might simply take joy in leaving me,” Grantaire said, lest his cynicism cause him to say the wrong thing to Enjolras’s proclamation of hope.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture of impatience. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say that it is among my favorite times of day,” he said.

Grantaire half-smiled. “What are your other favorites?” he asked, mostly teasing now.

It was little surprise that Enjolras did not answer, merely crossing back to the bed and bending down to press a chaste kiss to Grantaire’s brow. “I shall see you this evening,” he said.

Grantaire grabbed his arm, holding him in place, and stretched up to kiss him properly. “My favorite time of day,” he said softly.

Enjolras’s expression softened. “Yes,” he said. “And one of mine as well.”

With that, he took his leave, and Grantaire returned to his supine position, staring up at the ceiling and wishing for not the first time that evening would come all the sooner.

— — — — —

What woke Grantaire that morning was not noise, but rather the absence of it, the horrible, deafening silence that can arouse even a drunkard from his respite, such as it was. It was the silence of defeat, and as Grantaire came to, the air was rank with it, with blood and tears and a future scarcely realized and already lost.

Grantaire blinked against the light shining in his eyes, and it took him a moment to place from whence it streamed: a bullet hole in the wall of the Corinthe, at just the right angle for the dawning sunlight to hit him directly in his eyes.

Dawn.

Enjolras’s favorite time of day.

At the thought of Enjolras, Grantaire’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest. He knew all too well what fate had likely met him on that barricade, had known that their time was all but spent, and yet the reality of it felt like a bullet piercing his own chest as he squinted his eyes against the light of dawn.

Then his first clenched as Enjolras’s words echoed in his head, unbidden.

Dawn is a reminder that I am still alive. That there is still time.

Grantaire knew little of work and even less of hope, but he knew in that moment, down to his very bones, that he was alive.

And if he was alive, then there might still be just enough time.

It would not save Enjolras, if still he was alive to be saved. It would certainly not save himself, though he had long ago resigned himself to his fate, knowing that he could not bear to live in a world in which Enjolras did not, one way or another.

And he was not fool enough to believe that it was an act of anything like hope.

But it was all he had left. One final moment to truly live in the dawning of this, the last day.

So he stumbled to his feet, and he held his head high, and he called in a voice that was as clear and proud as any he had ever heard Enjolras himself use, “Long live the Republic! I am one of them!”

#enjolras x grantaire #exr #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les miserables #canon era #established relationship #ofpd #implied character death #because canon #the miserables month 2022 #thank you to everyone who's read along this past month #it's been...uh...real lmao

30 notes · View notes

wangxianficrecs · 1 year

Text

You in me, you are mine, my everything by BriaPia

You in me, you are mine, my everything

by BriaPia

M, 24k, wangxian

Summary: “Hanguang-Jun, oh thank the gods,” the disciple exhaled, she was one of the new recruits the sect had accepted, Lu Chen he remembered was her name, a little older than it would be considered appropriate for a new disciple but that had never stopped the sect leader before. “It’s sect leader Song, he’s requesting for your presence at the main hall.” One small switch in Wei Wuxian actions resulted on many changes in the life of several others. The smaller of them being Lan Wangji leaving Gusu Lan.

Mojo's comments: I just love it when Lan Wangji takes a look around his sect -- after they've beaten him nearly to death and are disrespecting wwx's memory AND little a-yuan -- and decides, "I'm done with this shit." So off he wanders, with his new son, to hook up with song lan and xiao xingchen and found a new sect. So it is this new lwj, with no forehead ribbon, who clocks wwx at dafan mtn after he's called back as mxy. Lan xichen, having made a few egregiously poor choices 13 years prior, is lurking around, trying to make amends; jiang cheng is an angry grape; and young lan jingyi is just happy to get to see his old friend once more.

canon-divergence, temporary character death, somebody lives/not everybody dies, lan wangji leaves gusu lan, 33 lashes, 13 years, lan brothers enstrangement, brotherly feels, pov multiple, non-linear narrative, past and present, getting together, love confessions, light angst, single parent lan wangji, happy ending, @briapia95

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

74 notes · View notes

luxshine · 11 months

Link

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: మగధీర | Magadheera (2009), Yamadonga, RRR (2022) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Kala Bhairava | Harsha/ Raja Characters: Kala Bhairava | Harsha, Raja (Yamadonga) Additional Tags: Reincarnation, Past Lives, crossover fic, Major character death - Freeform, Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death Summary:

When young Harsha touched the hand of a boy his own age, he was inundated with images of a past life. Now, 12 years later, they meet again. Harsha is completely in love already, sure that this man is the reincarnation of his beloved. But is Raja ready to learn to love? And when he insults Lord Yama, the God of the Dead, things only get much more complicated for the pair.

#crossover #Reincarnation #Past lives #Major canonical character death #But he gets better #Kala Bhairava/Raja #Harsha/Raja #Magadheera #Yamadonga #Raja #Kala Bhairava #Harsha

7 notes · View notes

tha-star · 3 months

Link

Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Past Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson - Relationship, past Peter Parker/Johnny Storm - Relationship, Past Felicia Hardy/Peter Parker - Relationship, minor Shiklah/Wade Wilson - Relationship, past Carmelita Camacho/Wade Wilson - Relationship Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, Matt Murdock, Shiklah (Marvel), Dmitri Smerdyakov Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Crossdressing, Temporary Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Secret Identity, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Peter Parker, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Implied Sexual Content, CEO Peter Parker Series: Part 2 of Peter and Wade - When I kiss you - series Summary:

Wade and Peter don't just look alike in costumes and their sense of humor with constant jokes. Both were unaccustomed to depending on someone, to partnering, and even worse, to noticing a genuine interest that someone has in them, or rather that they have each other. That's why it's better to let your actions speak more than words, like a simple kiss.

#Canon Divergence #Bisexual Peter Parker #Pansexual Wade Wilson #CEO Peter Parker #Peter Parker/Wade Wilson #Friends to Lovers #Crossdressing #Temporary Character Death #spiderman #deadpool #spideypool #Canon-Typical Violence #Emotional Hurt/Comfor #Past Felicia Hardy/Peter Parker #Past Peter Parker/Johnny Storm

2 notes · View notes