#tw: major character death

[radio-writes]

I Don't Know if I'm Real Without You

— Part 2 of 2 (Read Part 1 here: What is Left of Me Without You)

Synopsis: He didn't love you, but he needed you—that's what he said, at least. He needed you to show him just how deep your devotion to him really was.

Warnings: abusive relationships, power imbalance, some misogyny, heavy manipulation, gaslighting, murder and violence, physical injury to reader, major character death(s), angst

Tags: married, one sided romantic love, Alastor x Reader, female!reader

MDNI

"Why, just the other day a green fuzzy caught sight of another stiff by the river! Poor green egg went green in the face!" A laugh track followed the voice on the radio.

Alastor sat on the couch as he riffled through his briefcase, making sure he had everything he needed today.

"What poor taste," You commented absentmindedly from behind him. "Is that really any way to start off a Sunday morning?" 

Alastor let out a distracted hum at your words. He hadn't really been paying you much mind. A lazy smile simply played on his face.

Just one body? Seems they missed the other two friends it had in there.

"Well, it takes talent to entertain, my dear. Something these hacks clearly lack," He said casually, waving a hand at the radio's direction. 

"And speaking of stiffs! We've got a fresh one today, folks—" The host's voice was chipper as it came from the radio.

Alastor sat a little straighter, as if on instinct.

"Darling, do you mind fetching my script?" Your husband spoke over the hack radio host. "Seems I might have forgotten it in our bedroom." 

"Not a problem, dear," You replied almost instantaneously. Your hand landed on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze before you left the room. 

Alastor stood up, cooly making his way towards the radio as he turned the volume down slowly. 

"Glue stuffed in his mouth, chilled off, and absolutely tattered by nails, people! Brutal new body found behind the local—not so secret—juice joint!" The radio continued, but Alastor's smile remained calm despite the gruesome news.

His eyes stayed at the doorway you left through, making sure you had actually gone.

There was no need to sully your little ears with useless chatter like this. You were much more use to him all oblivious and naive, so he'd prefer to keep you that way. 

When the radio host finally finished talking about his the most latest victim, Alastor turned the volume back up to how it was. He made his way back to the couch, hands gathering his script neatly into his hands from the top of his briefcase.

He chuckled to himself before calling out to you. "Never mind, dear! The little bugger was at the bottom of my case this entire time!" 

He wasn't the type to forget these things. He was always so organized, sometimes to a fault.

And you knew that.

And Alastor knew that you knew that.

But he wasn't worried. You'd never doubt him. Whatever pesky little thought you had related to him, you'll just brush off easily.

He'd made sure of that.

Alastor heard you playfully scold him, your soft laughter rung through his home.

"—I guess you can say he really nailed that Chicago overcoat!" The annoying little shit on the radio joked just as you entered the room.

Alastor spared it one quick glare before his sight fell on you once more. You didn't seem to care for the joke much, but your eyes did linger on the dials of the radio for a second too long Alastor thought.

"Does the radio seem a bit louder to you, Al?" You asked him.

Ah, he must have turned it back a tad bit too far.

He looked at you with faux confusion. "'fraid I don't know what you mean, dear. Why would it be louder?" He stood up, closing the briefcase in front of him and straightening out his collar. "But I do have to split now, darling, or the ol' big cheese would have my head."

Your eyes met his warm chestnut ones. Alastor could practically see the way you brushed away your silly concerns in your head, a soft smile once again gracing your lips. 

He knew you were confused as to why his boss supposedly needed him at work on a Sunday.

He knew you wanted to ask why.

He knew that, at least some part of you, didn't fully believe that he was headed off to the radio station. 

If you were smart you'd have listened to it.

But you were his wife. 

So you simply nodded in understanding, moving closer to where Alastor stood. You made to grab for the suit jacket that still hung on his arm but the tall man was quick to pull it high above your reach.

"Not so fast there, darling." He teased, smiling down at you.

"It's cold out, dear. I'll help you put your coat on," You insisted, small, delicate hands reached up for the jacket.

Alastor stepped back from you, briefly tapping his fingertip against your nose. "And who said I was in any hurry to cover up this lovely new shirt my wife got for me?" He teased, snapping the suspenders he wore against the crisp white shirt.

He simply adored it when he made heat color your soft cheeks. He loved seeing proof of his effect on you.

His eyes drifted to the clock behind you, his smile straining just a tiny bit when he realized what time it was.

He'd miss his mark if he wasted any more time here.

"In any case, darling, I really do have to dash," He smiled back at you, already heading towards the door before you could say anything else. "But do keep yourself free, baby. I'll be back before you know it." He shot a wink at you.

He grabbed his hat from the coat rack and plopped it neatly on his head, then he was out the door in a second. 

Alastor let out a short, tired breath.

Sometimes, he did find your love to be a bit tiring. But he supposed, at the moment, it was still worth much more than the hassle it caused him.

He hurriedly strolled down the street, smiling and greeting everyone that passed by him politely. His ego stroked just a little bit with every flustered dame.

He didn't care for any of them, but he never grew tired of knowing the charming effect he had on people.

Alastor tried to clear his head of you as he hopped into a taxi. He laughed as the cabby recognized him almost immediately, but he didn't pay the man any mind as he yapped about how much of a fan he was.

Instead, he found that his thoughts have annoyingly strayed back to you. He's found that you've been so persistently present in his mind lately.

One would think that sounded so romantic, that he was a cold man finally falling for a sweet little thing.

But in reality he was weighing his options.

You've always been so behaved, so meek.

He found you endearing, that much was true.

You were great company, after all. You loved the same music he did, kept up with his dancing, and sang so beautifully along whenever he tickled the ivory keys.

You dressed up to compliment his style, even if it wasn't to your comfort. Smiled at all the wretched people, even as they gossiped behind your back. Perfectly prepared and happily ate every dish he liked, even stranger ones you found hard to stomach.

Because you shaped yourself to be his partner. You did everything and anything that you could to gain his approval.

And that was indeed endearing. The lengths you went to, just to hear a simple praise from him.

Alastor used to wonder if there was ever a limit to it, but as the times flew by he realized you were just too happy to rewrite even your own logic just to stay by his side.

And it was also true that you were a brilliant cover.

As a taken man, there were much less people prying into his life as opposed to when he was an eligible bachelor. And no odd rumors ever spread about him thanks to how behaved you were.

People saw him as soft, gentle, caring. Because a violent, murderous, psycho could never keep a delicate little thing like you as his wife, could he?

Yes, you definitely had your perks. That much he already knew.

But you've been so restless lately. So oddly, insistent on being by his side more. 

He'd tried to talk it out of you. Whispered how he was so lucky that you weren't like other wives. How you trusted him and respected his space. How you didn't nag him like a terrible partner would.

And it worked...for a while.

Until you've been fixated on getting the darn basement door open, at least. Somehow, you had it stuck in your brain that opening that stupid lock would have proved your worth to him.

You've been visiting that mug of a shopkeep at the locksmiths so often that Alastor just simply had to get rid of him already. He returned the useless tools he sold you last time too of course. He didn't quite like others making a fool out of what was his.

Only he could do that.

The cab stopped by a rather classy bar, the driver letting out a low whistle, going on about how they also wished that they could live up the big life.

Alastor tipped him generously, bidding him a great day as he stepped out.

He tossed his jacket on quickly before he adjusted his bowtie in the reflective glass window of the building. This was, he thought, his second favorite part of it all.

For such a detached man, Alastor loved many things.

He loved meeting his victims for the first time in person. The thrill of so many eyes on him as he clasped their clammy palms in greeting.

He loved talking to them, watching their eyes light up as he mentioned what they wanted the most. That moment where he knew he had hit the nail on the head and found out exactly what made these scum tick.

He loved using it against them, luring them to a false sense of security.

And, his absolute favorite part, he loved dragging the sharp edge of his knife against the skin of their necks. The lovely shade of red bleeding down their stiffening bodies.

He just can't help but love—

"My darling?" A voice—your voice—rung out in the dark alley. 

There wasn't time. There was no time to hide the body, toss the knife, flee from the scene.

There was no time to come up a with a story, a lie, a cover.

Because you were right there, standing in the alley with him. His blood stained hands and the corpse by his feet plainly in your view.

Even with the blood smudged on the lenses of his glasses, he could see the fear in your eyes, the gears turning in your head as you tried to process the scene in front of you.

It's a real shame. Earlier today he had decided that you still had more purpose to serve him. That he could still put up with you. That he would still be able to stomp out whatever stubborn will riled you up lately.

Clearly that wasn't the case anymore.

"Now, now, dearest," He started, hand reaching out to you as he held the knife still in his hand.

Your feet moved, but to Alastor's shock you ran to him.

Your panicked eyes took in the violent red that stained the pristine white shirt as you took his outstretched hand in both of yours.

"We should go," You hurriedly whispered, fearful eyes met his confused ones. "You can't be seen here."

You tugged him along the streets, careful to keep yourself in front of him as you tried to hide most parts of him stained with red.

Alastor's eyes were wide, his long legs working on their own as he tried to understand what exactly was happening.

"Dearest?" He whispered to catch your attention. "I just chopped off a man, you know that, right?" 

Your steps didn't falter as you hurried along, but you didn't turn your head to look at him either.

"Yes," You responded. The tight knot against your throat kept you from saying anything more.

"I sliced his throat open," Alastor continued to prod more. "His blood is all over me, in fact."

You whip your head around in urgency. You meant to shut him up. You meant to warn him not to talk so loud, that you couldn't be too sure who could be around to overhear.

But when your fearful eyes met his calm, warm, sweet, ones you ended up swallowing against your dry throat. Adorning a shaky smile instead.

"And I'm sure you did it to keep yourself safe, dear." You said, although it seemed as though you were trying to convince yourself of that.

It was as if a light bulb lit up in Alastor's head. He finally understood what was happening. He fought against his own body to keep himself from smiling as he stared into your uncertain eyes.

"I knew you'd understand," He feigned a sigh. His hand, that was previously unresponsive in yours, curled its fingers to hold onto you. "I knew I would be safe with you, my darling wife."

Alastor noted the way your stiff shoulders slacked at his words. As if you were waiting for his praise; as if you were waiting for that little bit of confirmation to fully push away all those pesky, silly, little doubts you held.

As if you were begging to have the slightest bit of reason to cling onto, to prove that there was no cause to leave your spot beside him.

"If anyone asks," You said softly, your hand reached out to wipe away the little bit of blood on his cheek. "I'll tell them you came home early to me. You did promise that you would come back quickly, anyway."

Alastor smiled down at you, letting himself lean into your touch as you seemed to love it when he does. "I am so lucky that you love me, doll."

You continued to lead him down the streets, sticking to less lit areas as you did so.

Alastor couldn't stop the grin from spreading widely across his face.

Because you did love him. You loved Alastor with all your sanity it seemed, but he was, unfortunately, far too happy to take advantage of that.

It was a huge weight off his shoulders really. 

Alastor enjoyed the hunt, the kill, but the clean up? Not so much.

While yes, he did enjoy tricking people into eating up his stories, misdirecting them this way and that, silently mocking how clueless they were. It was still such a pain to have to constantly make sure his stories were air tight. 

He didn't have to do that anymore, though. Not when all his darling wife had to do was smile shyly at people and hint that he was back home all night busy with more usual pleasures.

It wasn't even that hard to convince you to let him stay out late, hunt to his heart's content.

It was all just bad, terrible people. Scum of the earth. Dangers that could hurt you, or others. And Alastor, the dashing, selfless, secret knight in shinning armor was willing to dirty his hands if it meant keeping people safe. He'd taken on the burden so everyone else didn't have to.

Your husband, a great, tragic hero.

And besides, it's not like he asked you to kill someone. All you had to do was lie a little. Nothing grand, nothing elaborate—he wasn't so sure you'd be able to handle it after all—just smile, and hint, and spread a few insignificant white lies. 

It was easy enough, wasn't it?

And your little love for him did everything else. Your own lovesick mind fought your instincts without Alastor even doing much of anything else.

You convinced yourself so quickly that all this blood, all this violence, all this murder, just made your husband an even greater man.

Ah, he truly did love the way you loved him.

You were with him now down in the basement—Alastor conveniently finally figured out how to open the stubborn padlock—and if he was being honest, he never really imagined you joining him here.

Well, not alive anyway.

You watched him as he neatly packed the most latest body into a bag and burn the gloves he used during the act. Going through his simple routine to make sure he could continue to get away scot-free.

Alastor noticed how your eyes always averted from the corpses, insistent on staying on his form instead. He didn't really mind it, but oh did he enjoy that little spark of fear you worked hard to stomp down whenever your glance landed on a limb or two. 

He heaved the bag over his shoulder, before finally fully turning to you. "Well, let's get a move on, shall we, darling?" He smiled cheerfully, motioning with his arm for you to head up the stairs first.

You were glad to do so it seemed, you always were. You didn't have to watch your husband dispose of bodies, but Alastor found it rather cathartic how you've now started to cringe away from the basement door, after weeks of pestering him over opening it.

A little lesson, he thought. Well deserved. 

And look how behaved you were now again.

The walk to the nearby woods was uneventful. Silent. Routine.

Unlike the first time around he dragged you along. You kept wondering and wondering until you finally asked out loud how Alastor knew the streets so well. How he knew where to go where no one would see him. The man you saw him kill was the first one, wasn't he?

He laughed at your unsure smile, brushing your worries off with the flimsiest excuses. How he'd been home late so many times already because of work. How he just preferred to take the quieter roads so as to decompress from all his adoring fans—fans who weren't you.

And it was enough.

Because you foolishly trusted him. You wanted to believe him, and so you did.

Alastor hummed cheerfully as he continued to shovel dirt over his most recent victim. He was certainly far enough into the woods not to care too much about being overheard, anyway.

A sudden soft beeping noise joined his melody, and he looked down at his—rather expensive—watch.

"Would you look at the time! I hadn't realized it was already so late. Time surely flies when you're saving the world, right, darling?" He looked over his shoulder at your unsure form.

You stood hunched over, your back against a tree, and your arms wrapped around yourself, a fair distance from the man burying a body.

Your eyes avoided the hole in the dirt as you painted a strained smile on your face. 

Saving the world.

Alastor could practically see the way you tried to remind yourself that that is what your husband was doing.

"It's hard to keep track when you've got a lot do," You vaguely answer, choosing your words carefully.

It's not that you worried Alastor would do anything to you. But you were, unknowingly, cautious of any single thing that could trigger any more silly concerns within yourself.

Alastor hummed in response, his eyes staring at the mangled corpse he threw in the ditch. "They'll be looking for me at work if I don't show up soon, though." He thought out loud. "But I can't exactly leave this rotten stiff like this, can I?"

He sounded troubled. He looked troubled, with that wrinkle between his brow.

A good wife would soothe him.

A good wife wouldn't stand around watching her spouse do all the hard work.

He didn't need to say it though, not that he had any mind to. You heard his voice in your head regardless. 

Your timid, unsure voice spoke up. "I...I could stay behind and continue burying it?" It sounded like a question.

One that it seemed like you hoped the answer was no. 

Except you'd be a horrible wife for thinking that. You should be praying that he'd say yes.

After all, a good wife would do anything to help her husband.

Alastor froze for a second, his eyes catching yours from above his glasses before he adjusted them up his nose. 

Then you were rewarded with a smile.

"My darling wife, always so helpful," He cooed, walking towards you. He dropped the shovel to the ground and wrapped his arms around your waist, almost lovingly.

Alastor could feel how fast your heart beat in your chest, almost fighting to get out. "But I could never ask a lovely doll like you to do such a dirty job like this." He tsked as he looked down at you.

"I can handle it, my dear," You responded, eyes bright with stars at his praises. It was almost as if you'd forgotten what exactly it was you were agreeing to.

Alastor pretended to think for a moment, but his eyes caught sight of the watch on his wrist and decided he didn't exactly have time to enjoy playing with you more.

"Only if you promise not to get caught, my darling." He smiled down at you, and you quickly nodded, promising you'll do a good job and meet him at home.

He pressed his cold lips chastely against your forehead, and left you with a corpse in the woods to bury.

But it's just that, anyway. Nothing too much to ask for.

It's not like you killed him.

And he was probably a horrible person to begin with.

Right?

You brushed away the heavy, gnawing feeling, as you met the glassy unseeing eyes of the corpse in the ground.

Alastor surely knew what he was doing. And you loved him enough to do this simple thing to help with that.

Just as you shoveled in one patch of dirt to cover the man's eyes, you heard a loud gun shot echo through the early morning woods.

You jumped out of your skin, cold hands gripping the shovel as the sound rung out.

Your heart was at your throat as goosebumps littered your skin. 

Alastor.

You ran. You barely registered your own body moving until you felt the cold air whipping against your face as your legs carried you to where your husband went.

Worry. It all but consumed you, as your blood rushed loudly in your ears and your heart pounded.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

Please—

You didn't know what you were doing. You didn't recall it. You didn't feel any of it.

You remembered seeing your husband's body collapsed and bloodied on the forest floor.

You remembered seeing someone with a gun standing panicked over him. 

But no, you didn't remember when you ran at the culprit.

You didn't remember the feeling of stabbing the shovel into their side, nor the warmth of their blood as it splashed on your cold skin.

You didn't remember bashing the steel against their skull with all your might; the metal dented and morphed as it disfigured the man's face.

You didn't remember screaming until your throat was raw. You didn't remember the tears scrolling down your bloodied cheeks. You didn't remember the horrible, unbearably cold, ache in your chest.

You didn't remember staring down the barrel of a shaky gun.

You didn't remember dying.

All you remembered, was the feeling of Alastor's warm arms embracing you as he pressed his welcoming lips to your forehead. 

And how you knew you'd never feel it again.

At least, you didn't think you would.

You blinked in confusion as you stared up the man—thing?—that caught you in their arms like a bride.

"I guess someone ought to rewrite those wedding vows because death didn't seem to do us part!" It laughed. Its voice sounded as if you were merely listening to it from a radio.

No, wait. Sure the thing that caught you also laughed, but you could have sworn you heard a whole crowd do so as well. Strangely, almost like a laugh track.

It's sharp yellow teeth showed proudly as it grinned down on you, and you couldn't help but cringe away a tiny bit from fear.

What are you? You wanted to ask, but you knew better than to be blunt.

You wouldn't want those nasty paper folk to catch wind of Alastor's little wife being rude—

Except. Were you still his wife? Where was he anyway? Where were you?

The thing that held you laughed cheerfully as it gently set you down onto your own feet. "Darling, I will never get enough of how easy you are to read," The thing said, twirling it's cane—microphone?—in it's hand before it leaned on it to study you. 

You got a strangely familiar heavy feeling in your gut, but before you could think much of it, your arm was looped through its as it pulled you along to a shop window.

"It seems you're a tiny bit confused, my darling," It said with a bright smile. "It's alright, you weren't always the brightest bulb in the room, but you certainly made up for it with your passion." It chuckled, once again a laugh track following its words from seemingly nowhere.

You felt the tip of its microphone at your chin, tilting it so that you'd turn your gaze from him to the shop window.

You almost jumped away, like an animal not recognizing itself in the mirror.

It took you a minute to realize that you looked at your own reflection.

You even waved your hands around and tilted your head to make sure it followed your movements. To make sure this was real.

You looked nothing like yourself. Hell, you looked nothing human.

"Truthfully, I'm a little offended, dear." The thing beside you spoke up, now turning to his own reflection as he adjusted his bowtie and dusted off his red pinstriped suit. Something oddly familiar.

"It took me less than a second to recognize you, and you still seem to not even know who I am." It said, glancing at you from the corner of its bright red eyes.

Your gaze trailed up to the top of its red hair, seeing two small horns—at least that's what you thought they were. 

"The devil?" You asked cautiously, still confused. "Am I in Hell?"

It let out a hum at your response. "One of two. I suppose it's one of your better shots, my dear." It said.

It turned to face you, suddenly leaning down close, so as to have it's mouth right by your ear. Your body freezes on instinct as it spoke.

"Must I really bed you again for you to remember me, darling? Or would watching me bury another body be enough to jog your memory?"

You leaned back, only enough to catch a look at the thing's face. The knowing eyes that seemed so warm, so inviting, so charming, despite how monstrous they looked. The smile that seemed incapable of falling.

The familiar feeling that brewed in your gut.

"Alastor?" You asked, your now clawed hands reached up to caress his cheeks, and the thing—your husband—leaned into it. His eyes briefly closed.

"Took you long enough, really." He said, a joking exasperation in his tone. 

The thing—your husband, you had to remind yourself again—abruptly pulled away, his tone bright and cheery as he began to drag you along the streets with a heavy clawed hand on the small of your back. "Now enough of that! Time for more important business, darling!"

"Wait, Alastor? How? What?" You stammered, attempting to pull away to take a second to breathe and clear your head.

The hand that guided you slid to the side of your waist, pulling you tightly against it's Alastor's side. "Ah, my darling thing. Always so slow on the uptake." He shook his head as if he found it adorable. "We're in Hell, dear!"

The words rang loudly in your ears, your heart sinking to your stomach.

"And we have important business to take care of, yes indeed!" Alastor continued, not letting you process a single thought. "And for this, I'll need a partner I can trust! I'll need a partner who I can rely on! I'll need someone absolutely devoted to me." His eyes met yours but he saw how the alarm still outweighed his words.

His eyes narrowed, lowering his face abruptly to yours, to the point where you could feel his breath on your skin. He wanted your attention, all of it, and didn't really care all that much about what else you had to think about.

"Hellooo? Anybody home?" He joked, tilting his head as he saw your eyes come back to focus on him. "Ah, there you are, dear. Thought I lost you for a moment."

You supposed you could think things through later. Even if Alastor looked terribly different now, this was still your caring husband after all. And he needed something.

A devoted parter? Was that what he said?

"Well, you know I'm always here for you, Al. Whatever this plan of yours is." You tried to paint a smile on your lips as you always have.

"Oh, but how exactly do I know that?" Alastor stood back up to his full height, his head tilting as he smiled down at you.

Your brows furrow. You don't quite know how to tell him that. You swore you've done so much for this man, and yet when trying to think of an example, none came to mind.

You cooked and cleaned and looked pretty for him? Spent time with him? Loved him? Lie for him? Hide a body for him? That's just what a good wife would do.

But you supposed—you think—you killed for him.

"I avenged you?" It came out more of a question than an answer. "I killed for you."

Alastor didn't blink as he responded. "Then do it again."

Your mouth ran dry.

Had you heard him correctly? Was it a joke?

You waited for the laugh track to play but none came.

"What do you mean...exactly?" You asked with a nervous laugh, your lips straining to keep the smile.

"Kill for me again," Alastor casually said. He turned, eyes locking onto a random demon further down the street you walked along on. He raised his microphone to point at them, turning his head—unnaturally—to face you again.

"Like that one. I suppose he'll do." His tone was still as cheerful as ever.

You follow to where he pointed, eyes hesitantly looking at the creature. 

You quickly looked back up to meet your husband's gaze. That feeling was there again.

And you weren't sure if it was the fact that you just died, or the sheer lunacy of the request, but you finally realized what it was.

Doubt.

You doubted Alastor.

"Why?" Your voice was small. "Is he a bad person too?"

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Hell, if I know dear. I've only just seen him now. But we are in Hell, you know?" His shoulders casually shrugged as if he didn't really care. "So, maybe?"

You tried to hide the tremble in your voice. Tried to hide how you doubted him. "But I already killed for you. Why do I need to prove my devotion even more?"

"You killed out of passion, darling. It hardly counts." He laughed, as if you were being so silly.

You're left with even more questions when Alastor grabbed your wrist, and you melted into shadows before re-appearing right in front of your supposed victim.

"What the fuck?" They exclaimed, jumping back.

"Good day, good fellow! The name's Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, quite the pleasure!" Your darling husband stepped in front and forcibly shook the confused sinner's hand.

Alastor waved a hand in your direction to showcase you. "This right here is the Mrs., and she'll be killing you now."

You flinched as Alastor's voice further distorted.

Black tentacles wrapped around the now thrashing demon. And to your horror, you realized they came from your still-grinning husband's back.

His red eyes now consumed by black as he looked down at you expectantly.

"I...I don't have a knife." You avoided his eyes and looked away.

Alastor's head tilted. "You have claws now, dear."

You felt bile raise to your throat at the idea of ripping some stranger apart with your own hands.

"It'd be terribly difficult if these clothes get stained. Who knows where I could get new ones in...Hell." You had to spit the word out. "A-and, we're out in the open. Anyone can see us, there might be police here o-or their friends and family."

"You won't do it." Alastor cut off your rambling, more of a statement than a question.

You didn't meet his eyes.

You heard him sigh in dismay. "Well, it's alright, my dear. I suppose I knew your love for me had its limits."

Your eyes widen in shock, head whipping to look at him in panic. There was disappointment in his gaze as he looked away from you. Even as his smile remained painted on his lips, you could see how he seemed to shrink away from you.

"That's not true!" You half yelled, ignoring the struggling demon still held off the ground. "I'd go to the ends of the earth for you. I'd give up my life for you. I followed you to Hell, even! How could you even think that my love for you isn't boundless, Alastor?"

"Because it isn't." He sighed, his clawed hand gripped his microphone tight as he started to walk around you. "You say you'd do anything for me, that you'd give everything up for me. But I'm asking you for something so simple, and you couldn't even do that."

Your shoulders stiffen, you try to turn your head to follow him around. "This is not simple, Alastor." You said, a tinge of hysteria creeping into your voice. "You're asking me to kill someone for you, again."

"Wrong." Your husband said in a rather, sing-song manner. A jarring buzzer effect played at his words.

"I'm asking you to kill someone who is already dead." Alastor explained, barely paying mind to the sinner who now just looked very uncomfortable. "And you're already in Hell."

He looked at you as if you were stupid not to have put this together yourself. "He won't lose anything. You won't lose anything. There is nothing to give up with this tiny request of mine."

He stopped walking in front of you, but a greater deal of distance away now than when he started.

"And yet you can't even do that, my love."

You glanced down at your hands—your claws—in uncertainty.

That persistent feeling—doubt—swallowed you whole as you stood there willing your body not to move.

You should stop.

Run.

Never look back.

But instead your body moved toward the sinner; sharp, shaking, hands hesitatingly sinking into their flesh.

Once. Twice. Thrice. You couldn't be useless to your husband.

Their muffled screams sounded so far away from you, even as they yelled right by your ears.

You felt it.

Their skin giving way and the blood dampening your clothes each and every time you sank your soft, delicate, clawed hands into him.

The feeling of your long claws coming into contact and tearing through whatever bone or muscle stood in their way.

The awful, gut wrenching, guilt that swallowed your chest.

You hated it.

Alastor's hand clasps affectionately at your shoulder as he watched you cheerfully. Enjoying the conflict in your eyes as your heart died with every drop of blood that spilled from your hands.

"I think I may have just fallen so deeply in love with you, my dear wife." He cooed into your ear.

And your chest didn't flutter, or grow, or skip a beat like you had thought it would at those words.

But it's probably just the guilt, right?

It's just because so much has happened that you couldn't process anything.

Because you still loved Alastor, didn't you?

You loved him with your very soul, but he was a liar, and you may have finally started to see it.

Taglist @lil-bexie / @mizukikyong / @amurtan / @fokrilove / @fairyv-ice 

#tw: murder and violence #tw: physical harm to reader #tw: major character death #tw: heavy manipulation #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #vien writes #Finding the right amount of old timey phrases to toss in without it sounded so cheesy is always such a challenge #Also this got out of hand I swore this fic was not meant to be this long or even in two parts #but here we are

[oh-katsuki]

your cup of espresso sits untouched and cooling on the dinner table. you have it after dinner every night, one sugar cube evenly dissolved through the mixture, giving it an almost syrupy flavor that is lovely to sip. it's bitter, but the right kind of bitter, and somehow so impossibly sweet. a perfect finish to the day.

the black screen of your phone sits unobtrusively beside your wrist. you pick it up idly, illuminating it with a quick tap of your finger. a few new notifications, instagram, snapchat, texts, twitter notifications you don't care about. nothing really all too pressing.

you tap to open up your contacts, scrolling and coming to a stop at his name. gojo satoru with a little red heart beside it.

at first, you only tap on it to look. it's not really like you had any plan to text or ring him. you just wanted to look at his contact card, maybe stare for a few minutes at the smiling, half ugly photo of him set as his contact picture. you're in the background of it, grabbing his upper arm to get his attention. it's a photo from a work meetup and nanami took it. somehow, it's come to mean a lot more to you than just a contact photo. you sigh, contemplating the phone call and then, without much fanfare, you click the button.

it rings in your ear as you put it up to the side of your head. your heart pounds in your chest, waiting for the ringing to come to a stop, maybe to hear his voice. it's been a long while since he's answered your calls though and you let out a humorless laugh as his voicemail plays.

"hey, you've reached gojo satoru. sorry i missed your call, i'm just soooo busy—" someone interrupts him, "hey can't you see im recording my voicemail message?" there's a small noise and then he's back, closer now. "—anyway, leave a message at the beep and maybe i'll call you back."

he'd set it in high school and his voice is a familiar and delightful higher pitch. you'd always told him that he needed to change it to something more mature, but he'd always blink at you and give you the same answer.

"who the hell would be calling me?" he'd say. "think i'm applying for another job or something?"

and you could never really argue with it. sure, you could've told him that it was immature, but at the end of the day he was right. it's not like he'd ever planned to change professions and professional conduct meant fuck-all when he was the strongest sorcerer of the modern age.

"hey," you start, clearing your throat, "it's me again. i don't know why i thought you'd actually answer my call this time, just sort of felt like you would. it was nice to hear your voice though, even if it was your voicemail message."

you run your finger along the grain in the wood of your table, tracing its intricate pattern with a light touch.

"i made that strawberry shortcake thing today." you're not really sure why you're telling him that. "you know, the one with the cream instead of frosting. it was good, kinda hard to make the actual cake though. the house smells good now. but yeah, i had a day off for once so i just sort of... hung around." you can feel your bottom lip growing raw with the way you chew on it between sentences. there's not really a reason that you called him. nothing particularly interesting has happened to you, let alone anything he'd care about, but you just felt like talking. still do, even if it's to his voicemail box, and you continue speaking into it about your day.

you like to think he couldn't be bothered to answer the phone. lazy, in some way, to answer your needy call. you like to think that maybe he'd seen the call, his phone ringing on the counter, from where he was in the shower. he'll listen to your voicemail and call you when he's out and dry to ask about trying the cake, maybe.

"would have been nice to see you. it's been like... two months since we've met up. i know you're probably busy though. doing whatever it is you do on the weekend, not that i really know anymore."

the kitchen light suddenly seems too bright, casting its artificial yellow glow down on the center of your table. you reach up to rub your temples. there's a dull throb beginning behind your eyes and in the bridge of your nose. it's almost like you're about to cry and as you sniffle quietly into the receiver, you can feel the swell of emotions as it rises in you.

"i really miss you, satoru," you say with a defeated sigh. "i know i probably sound like a broken record and that your phone storage must really be taking a hit, but i do. you probably get a kick out of knowing that though," the laugh that comes from you is muddled as your nose begins to run, and you reach quickly to wipe it. "wish you'd call me back. or come home, maybe. it's funny, i keep thinking that you'll come in the door any minute and the feeling never really... stops."

you clear your throat again, putting your tongue in your cheek and steeling your nerves a little.

"well, i'll let you go now," you swallow, laughing a little like the statement is silly. he's not really on the phone. it doesn't matter all that much how long the voicemail is. "stop before the voicemail lady cuts me off. but yeah, i just wanted to call. i keep hoping that you'll pick up. who knows, right?"

there's a short pause and then you inhale, straightening your back.

"i love you," you say. "always have. i'll call you tomorrow too, so... yeah. i love you, satoru. bye."

you pull your phone away from the side of your face, clicking the end call button a little too quickly before putting it face down on the table. it's comforting to call him, but it hurts too. there's always the hope that he'll answer. that by some miraculous turn of events, the ringing will stop short and he'll draw out a hello in a pleasant tenor hum. of course, he'd know exactly who's calling. satoru always did.

maybe you'll pay him a visit tomorrow, say all of this directly to him, though you haven't had the courage yet to visit that little stone plaque. it's a little too hard, for now. it's easier to think that he's ignoring your calls than incapable of answering them all together.

someday, his voicemail will fill up and you'll have to confront the truth. it will fill up, you'll be greeted by the voice mailbox full message, and there will be no one on the other end to clear it.

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk spoilers #jjk manga spoilers #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jujutsu kaisen manga spoilers #bro i really miss him #im so. #my everything. he's my everything #i hope you're resting baby #tw: angst #tw: major character death

[stephreynaart]

Sad!Ford AU doodle.

Been feelin it lately…

Check sad!ford au tag for context, TW: major character death

#sad!ford au #tw: major character death #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #stanley pines #stanford pines #fiddauthor

[perfect-suau-rejuvinated]

Previous

Next

First

#perfectsuaurejuvinated #steven #steven universe #comic #part 2: bluebird #perfectstevenaurejuvinated #tw: major character death #major character death

[ofmermaidstories]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

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

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

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

Others do, though.

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

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

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

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

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart lurches. Forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

When you open them, he’s gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. Standing at the back.

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

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

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He squints at you, disbelieving.

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

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new pattern starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

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

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

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

“I trust you,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

Days. Weeks. Months.

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

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

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

Days. Weeks. Months.

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

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

“You good?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Days, weeks. Days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day. Moments.

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

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

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

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

And you are gone.

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

[tinyshinysylveon]

tw; possible character death

you know what, THIS SPREADSHEET OF BKG LOOKING LIKE THIS SHOULD BE BANNED I TELL YOU 😭😭😭

#bnha #mha #bnha 362 #mha 362 #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #tw: major character death #I SAY THIS BC IT COULD BE TRIGGERING TO SEE FOR SOME PPL #😭 IVE USED THIS EMOJI SO MANY TIMES TODAY

[secretnameu9]

Illusion

“Hi, Tails! It’s just me Amy again! If you get this could give me a call back!”

“Tails, hi It’s me Amy again…uhm could you give me a call back when you can? I’m starting to get a bit worried. Thanks!”

…

“I haven’t heard from either of them in quite a while, I’m worried. Have you heard from either one?”

“No I have not.”

“Sometimes…Sonic can be a bit harder to get a hold of, but Tails? I…I…”

=========

“Smile!”

Click

A photo revealing two individuals standing close to each-other, trying their best to pose appears on an electronic screen. Miles “Tails” Prower and Sonic the Hedgehog were the ones who inhabited that photo. The background easily revealing that this photo was taken in Tails’ workshop.

After being sure the device had captured the photo the two broke away from each-other giving each a bit of distance between the other.

Tails stared at the screen for a moment, his face neutral and observant before that said face started to rapidly turn into a very pleased smile. Seemingly very happy with his handywork.

“Sooo? How’d it turn out?” Sonic questions, allowing his face to break out into a grin upon seeing his little bro’s face break out into a smile.

“Awesome! I just upgraded the Miles Electric’s camera the other day and this…is great!” Tails starts, his iconic two tails wagging behind him as he observes the photograph his device just captured. “I’m going get this one printed out and framed later. I like how it turned out” the fox continues seemingly very pleased with the outcome of it all. Tails turns the screen off for the device before laying it off to the side in order to focus on Sonic for the time being.

Sonic had been out and about, adventuring for the past several days, so the two haven’t seen each other in a decent amount of time. So when Sonic so happened to show up and not too long after Tails upgraded several aspects of the Miles Electric, he figured why not get a photo? It’s been a long time since he got a picture of himself and Sonic anyways.

“Well, I’m glad you like it so much, little buddy” Sonic starts shooting the kit a little thumbs up in approval. Just simply glad that his little bro is glad. “So now, that we went through the photoshoot and all, we still doing chilidogs? I’m starvvving” Sonic whines, as if he had not ate all day.

A chuckle emanates from Tails as he can’t help but roll his eyes a bit from Sonic’s slightly overdramatic show of how hungry he was. The fox kit knowing full well Sonic ate earlier that day in particular. So he wasn’t THAT hungry. Yet, it was around lunch-time and honestly chili-dogs didn’t so too bad at all. Actually chilidogs sounded great, they’re always better when Sonic’s around.

“Yep, we’re having ourselves some chilidogs! I specifically stocked up…had a feeling you’d be coming by soon.” Tails comments as he begins to walk through the house, making his way to the kitchen.

Upon reaching the said kitchen Tails goes ahead begins to get everything ready, pot, pan, cooking oil, turn on the stove, can of chili, and a package of Sonic Approved franks. A process the young fox is at this point in his incredibly short life very used to. The sheer number of repeats of this procedure likely being in the hundreds.

“So, whatcha been up to while I’ve been going around?” Sonic asks. Already knowing the answer of the general question. He knows full well Tails had been tinkering about in his workshop. Working on one of his 2bajillion projects he has going on at any given moment. But the hedgehog hoped to maybe here about some of the things the Fox had been working on.

“Lately I’ve been tinkering around with the Miles Electric and the Tornado recently. I upgraded the specs of the Miles Electric, so now it has significantly more memory space and processing power. I also enhanced the camera. I got the tornado’s booster enhanced as well! According to my calculations it should give at least a 20% speed boost!” tails comments. Seemingly very happy to talk about his projects with his best friend. Tails didn’t always get to talk about all the things he works on, so when he gets the chance it’s always a pleasure to speak about them.

“I almost forgot how compact everything in the Miles electric was! It was a fun little challenge to get everything to fit just right” Tails adds. The small fox comments on a couple of other things he worked on as well, like optimizing the houses refrigerator, it now only needing 75% of the power it originally needed to run. Briefly mentioning how he managed to hack into Eggman’s network, but not getting super into the details of what he was snooping around there for. Just lots of things the fox found fun to do.

“Well- sounds like you’ve been busy! I’m happy to hear my little buddy is able to keep doing the things he enjoys” Sonic chirps in. Very content and happy his little bro is able to keep doing his passion. “You’ve been getting the proper amount of sleep though, right?” Sonic questions. Hoping that his little bro might have had a change of heart and started to prioritize his sleep a bit more. That kid…he got so into his projects sometimes he’d just forget to sleep entirely.

Sonic didn’t get all that much of a response out of the kit. Tails simply humming to himself seemingly ignoring the question. Sonic knew full well Tails heard him. He was just dodging the question.

“Tails…” Sonic shakes his head at the youngers response or lack their of. When they were younger, Sonic would always try and help get Tails to sleep. He was rather successful in that endeavor, but as Tails grew older and started to pick up new things and the two of them branched out to do their own things, Tails sleeping issues have grown worse over the years. That’ll have to be a topic he talks to his best friend about at a later time.

Not too long after the cooking was completed, Tails bringing a plate of chilidogs to the dinner table. One plate for himself to boot. At this point Tails had figured out on average how many chilidogs each of the brother’s ate. His success rate at getting the perfect amount for each at this point was around 95%, but he always made one extra for himself…just in-case. It was usually too much for himself, but if Sonic wanted an extra he could have it and if he couldn’t eat it, Sonic would happily take it. It all worked out in the end.

The two indulged in the delicious meal. They both are quiet while they ate, focusing more on eating than talking. They didn’t want their food to go cold after all! Plus, honestly they were both a bit hungrier than they both actually thought they were. It was nice to have company to eat with, however. Always made for a good mood.

The seconds on the clock kept moving forward until the two finished their meal together, Sonic picking up and doing the dishes, lighting quick of course! Figuring it was the least he could do since Tails was kind enough to cook him up something warm to eat.

The two took some time to hang out, they played some video games together, watched one of the their movies, and just in general took the time to enjoy each others presence. Being sure to make the most of the time they spent together. At the end of the day, both Sonic and Tails truly cared for each other. So it was quite obvious that the two just liked to do things together.

In due time the ever present star that gave light and life to Mobius began to make it’s descent to the other side of the world. Things were starting to die down. The two had their dinner and more than likely were going to call it a night, but something had been on Tails’ mind for a while. It was not something he couldn’t just simply let fly, it was important.

Tails made his way downstairs, from his workshop a bit relieved seeing that Sonic was still awake, sprawled out on the couch. Seeming to be reading a book of some form. The hedgehog’s ear flicking upon hearing the fox making his way down the stairs. Sonic’s attention mainly remained on the book, until he was certain Tails’ was wanting his attention specifically. Which that became evident rather quickly when the fox came over to the couch, Sonic quick to pick a spot in his book that he could remember to pick up on later on down the line.

“What’s up, little bro?” Sonic questions. Now giving his full attention to the little fox that now stood in-front of him. The small foxes luxurious tails swaying behind him from side to side as he awaited to get his older brother’s attention.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Tails asks. His face remaining rather neutral his voice a bit unsure, he didn’t want to bother Sonic, but this was something that needed to be talked about. “I’ll make it quick, so you can get back to reading.” He adds quickly.  

Sonic removes his legs from the couch, patting right next to himself. A signal to his best friend that he’s more than welcome to take a seat. “Sure thing. What’s on that cunning fox brain of yours?”

Tails takes a seat right next to Sonic, looking forward staring at the television straight ahead not making eye contact with Sonic just yet, trying to figure out the best way to go about communicating this. It wasn’t that it was hard, but it was Tails trying to make sure Sonic takes this 100% seriously.

“Do you remember earlier, when I said I hacked into Eggman’s network?” Tails references back to a small passing statement he made earlier when both Sonic and himself were catching up. At the time Tails didn’t bring it up as it just wasn’t the right moment, but now, now was the right time.

“I think I do remember you mentioning it earlier. Why? What’s up?” Sonic questions, cocking an eye brow. Wondering what Tails managed to dig up.

“Uhm…well…” Tails starts, trying to figure out the best way to talk about this, before sighing and figuring it was time to just drop it and let spill it. “Looks like Eggman has the Phantom Ruby again. Somehow.”

There was a light pause between the two, before Tails continued “I checked the dates of the documentation, to make sure I wasn’t getting into old details. All of it is new, he’s doing testing in a new base…I think it’s something we’re going to have to look into. Quickly.”

“Quickly? Do you know who you’re talking to? We’ll have that whole situation sorted out before Eggman even knows what hit him!” Sonic says, his voice oozing with confidence. No matter what scheme Eggface comes up with, Sonic always stops him. This time it won’t be any different.

A smile was quick to break on Tails’ face. At the end of the day, he knew things were going to be fine. He knows he and Sonic take care of Eggman on a regular basis, this isn’t going to be any different. But the phantom ruby…”Yeah…you’re right. I just-you know how much trouble it caused last time around, it’s dangerous you know that. We need to be careful.” Tails mentions as he turns to Sonic, crossing his legs so he can fully sit on the couch.

“It’s okay, we got this. How about this, we go tomorrow, we’ll go to Eggman’s base wreck his little scheme before it gets going, and we’ll be back by evening and we’ll have ourselves a second serving of chilidogs? Deal?” Sonic says. Not seeming too worried all things considered. This won’t be the first time he’s had a tough battle with egghead after all.

“I’m serious Sonic, we got to be careful. We don’t-“ Tails cuts himself off as a absolutely massive, yet incredibly adorable yawn escapes. His lack of sleep finally seeming to catch-up to his body.

“Somebodies tired, now aren’t they?” Sonic grins. “Looks like somebody has to finally get to bed at a reasonable hour.” Sonic looks at his wrist at his fake watch that he’s not wearing. “Go ahead, get yourself some rest kiddo, wanna make sure that brain is well rested for the butt kicking we’re gonna give eggface tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah. All right. Fine.” Tails gets up, wiping away a tear, his very aggressive yawn causing his eyes to water a bit. “I already have the coordinates to the base. So we’ll get that figured out tomorrow. Goodnight, Sonic.” Tails leaves off as he begins to make his way to his bed room. Another yawn escaping  on his way back. “Goodnight, Tails!” Sonic wishes to his little brother. Now having the whole room himself.

“The phantom ruby…?” Sonic murmurs to himself. “But how?”

=========

This was a bad idea, this was a really bad idea. Tails internally thinks to himself, trying to get through corridor after corridor. He knew they needed prep time, he knew they should have called for back-up. This was just all bad. Nearly every worst case scenario has arrived.

As promised both Tails and Sonic did make their way to Eggman’s new base. Tails had brought some extra fire power, bringing his newly upgraded arm blaster. In the back of his mind he hoped that maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, since they were striking so early, but hope…is not a very scientific word. Hope doesn’t account for things going wrong and hope doesn’t rewrite history.

The operation itself didn’t go too bad at first. If anything, by all accounts it seemed this would just be a quick, enter base, wreck the plans, go home, and not have to worry about it after a while. But, this was the Phantom Ruby being talked about here.

Practically upon a false sense of security setting in, Sonic and Tails were both separated. It began to become more difficult to determine what was real and what was fake. So it wasn’t much surprise that, that were to have happened. Luckily Tails accounted for this and had himself and Sonic bring their communication devices. Unluckily there seemed to be a rather large amount of interference when attempting to communicate. So long distance communication was not much of an option.

“We’ll have to wait to regroup.” Tails murmurs to himself as he keeps going forward. He knew the layout of this base, it wasn’t very convoluted compared to some of Eggman’s previous designs, but something was off. He couldn’t figure out where point a was or point b. Which was strange because he did specifically take the time to remember the layout.

Tails made sure to put his arm blaster to good use. There was badniks loitered through the building as he went on. They didn’t really stand much of a chance against the upgraded weapon, he thanked his past self for doing those upgrades. There numbers weren’t impressive at first, but over time they seemed to begin growing. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was getting closer to important details of the base or…was this all in his mind?

Then suddenly there were only occasional amounts of the robots. Just one. Or maybe two at most. Just scattered about. Strange. None of this was making any logical sense. The young fox turned around to see the path behind him. It seemed like the way he just came, nothing out of the ordinary.

Forward. Keep going forward and don’t look back. You’ll run into Sonic that way, right?

So Tails kept going forward, he took care of whatever robots that remained in his path.

Tails was getting into a rhythm, see robot shoot. See robot shoot. See robot shoot. See robo-

Wait…wait why did that robot just scream out in pain? Why is that robot screaming out in agony? Why does that voice sound so familiar…oh no…

“No…no, no” Tails closed his eyes and shook his head violently. Trying to make these illusions stop for just a moment. He should have known better he was just seeing things this whole time. But when he opened his eyes, his heart dropped. The fox dropped his weapon to the floor as he stepped forward.

“Sonic…SONIC!” Tails ran forward kneeling down before his brother, the hedgehog clutching the wound know inhabiting his chest. “Sonic, oh my- chaos…I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-“ Tails was panicking. He just shot his own brother, he just blasted his own family.

“Gotta say…you’re a killer shot, little bro, heh…” Sonic manages. His body doing it’s best to focus mostly on surviving and less on talking.

“Sonic, I’m gonna get you out of here, please just hold on, let me…I just need to find a way to…I just-“ Tails looks around trying to find anything to help in this situation. Something to temporarily, yet useless dress the wound. Something to use as a support to help carry his injured best friend out of this cursed base. Anything. But in his state of panic, he didn’t notice that Sonic had reached out to him. He did notice when a hand gently cuffed around the side of his head.

Tails turned to look at Sonic. And Sonic looked at Tails, staring into his sky blue eyes…eyes that were now stained with tears, worry, and panic.

Sonic took his hand and moved it to where Tails ear was and cupped his hand, rubbing behind the kit’s ears. Tails wasn’t sure if Sonic was just so out of it right now that he didn’t know what he was doing or if the hedgehog was just trying to show his affection at such a dangerous moment. No…Sonic didn’t think he was dying, right? Sonic’s not going to die…he can’t die.

“Come-on Sonic, help-help me apply pressure to your wound, please…I just need to buy sometime so I can figure-figure…figure-“ Tails hiccups trying his best to finish his statement.

“Tails buddy…” Sonic reaches and gingerly holds one of Tails’ arms with one of his free hands. Using his other to help Tails apply pressure to the wound. Despite how futile it seemed. Both of their hands covered in red. “Tails look at me.”

Tails looks at Sonic, directly into his eyes. Staring into those ever green emerald eyes, that he always looked up to. Those eyes that always brought hope and light to any situation they were in. Those some eyes that the universe seemed so headstrong to take away from him.

“Tails…”

“Tails, I love you, little bro. More than you’d ever know…” Sonic coughs a bit, his voice growing weaker, his body feeling lighter by the minute.

“Can you promise me something?” Sonic asks. Tails quickly nods. “Anything, Sonic. What is it?”

“Promise to take care of yourself…live your best life, be free. I know it’s going to be hard for you bud, but-“ cough “but, do it for me will you?”

Tails swallows a lump that had been in his throat since the moment this went down. He only now noticed how little he himself was breathing. The fox shook his head a bit “Don’t, don’t be saying stuff like that. You’re going to be here. This…” Tails inhales deeply “But I promise, just please…hang in there just a little longer.”

“Thanks, little bro. I knew…I could…count on you. I lov u” Sonic smiles. His breaths growing shorter and shorter. Time was running out. Quickly.

“I love you, too Sonic.” Tails says quickly. The small fox looking around again to see anything that would help them out, but there was nothing. Just empty corridor. Why…just why.

When Tails turned around, he could feel whatever spirit was left in his soul vanish. Sonic’s eyes were open still, yet they were so empty. Like there was nothing there.

“Sonic?” Tails questions panic in his voice. “Sonic?!” Tails releases his hands from the wound they were covering. The small fox shaking his big brother, lightly at first praying it would get some form of response. He quickly moved his hands to the hedgehogs wrist. Pulse? No…was he…breathing? Tails looked to see just any form of movement. Was Sonic breathing? No…he was not.

The fox moved his hands back to Sonic’s shoulders “SONIC?! PLEASE! WAKE UP!” he shook Sonic violently. Maybe just maybe it would be enough to get Sonic’s body to cooperate…yet nothing.

The young fox lies down next Sonic, cuddling up next to his best friend, his brother, his…family. Lies next to him and sobs. This was all his own fault. He should have done a better job at emphasizing how dangerous this place was, he should have had a better plan, he should have called for back-up, he should have…Tails looked at his discard arm blaster. He then slowly and scarily looked at his own red foiled gloves.

“It was me…” Tails chokes. “I killed Sonic.”

He laid there in silence, snuggling close to his brother. The tears never stopped, not until everything went dark. =================

@nixoon-again @tornado1992 @myyla-x @tornado1992 @000marie198 Am I cool yet? I did the thing. II want y'all to know y'all single handedly got me back into writing. With your stories. Hope you know that. This is inspired by y'alls work <3

#miles tails prower #sonic the hedgehog #unbreakable bond #tails the fox #sonic #dynamic duo #sonic and tails #sth #tails #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: sibling death #tw: major character death #Not gonna lie. I had a lot more planned with this #but had to rush for Sunday #and had to rush to get this done before work #I really need to learn to condense #my writing is way too long.

[pawsmos]

TW: drdt spoilers, major character death, graphic depiction of violence

i am so sorry min jeung and all her fans

ASK BOX IS OPEN please suggest!!!

#tw: blood #tw: major character death #danganronpa despair time #drdt #drdt fanart #pawsmos art #fanganronpa #min jeung #drdt min #min drdt #can you feel it #I AM SO SORRY

[withacapitalp]

Countdown Pt 2

Follow up to this thing I wrote yesterday

People always acted funny when they saw his timer. They usually reacted in two ways- either they tried to pretend that they didn’t see it, or they said how sorry they were. 

That’s not enough time. 

Oh I wish you had more time. 

Only a few days? I’m sorry honey. 

But Steve had never been upset about it. Sure, he only had less than a week with his soulmate, but that only meant that their time was more treasured. They understood that they had to make every second count. 

Wasn’t that a good thing? 

“You’ll understand someday, Steven,” His mother had said quietly into her wine glass one night when it was just the two of them at home. She was sitting on the couch, flipping through their photo album idly, holding Steve hostage with stories about how good things used to be. How in love his parents were, once upon a time. How happy they used to be before the job, before the promotion, before the big house in Loch Nora. 

(They really mean before they had him. Not that either of his parents will ever admit that) 

“You’ll understand,” She repeated in a whisper, taking another long sip. 

“What will I understand?” Steve replied. Usually he tried to stay as still and silent as possible on nights like these, did his best to pretend like he didn’t exist, waiting for her to finally wave a hand and release him to his room. But this time he didn’t get it. 

“You’ll understand that this? This is a curse,” She spat out, holding up her right arm and showing him her timer. All zeroes. His mother’s soulmate had died when he was ten, but her timer had counted down. She had met him at some point in her life though. She knew him, but she hadn’t lived a life with him. Whoever he was, he had died alone.  

Steve had always wondered about that, always wanted to ask. If she knew who her soulmate was, why not be with them? If she had found that person, why not make every second count? 

“It’s a curse,” His mother had said, continuing when Steve didn’t say anything in response, finishing what was left in her glass, “Especially yours. I remember the first time I saw your timer. It was right after you were born. I was holding you against me, you were so little then, so sweet, and I looked down, and I saw it. Five days. What kind of God would only give my baby five days? Not a good one,”

Steve wasn’t exactly sure what kind of God was out there. If he was being fully honest, he wasn’t sure he believed in God at all. 

He believed….in the universe. He believed in something linking them all, something that knew them and wanted them to find the person that completed their lives. The Universe knew that Steve and his soulmate were strong enough to handle five days, four hours, and twenty two minutes. That unnamed unexplained universe knew that they would know what to do with that time. 

Steve had plans for his five days, four hours, and twenty two minutes. 

When he found that person, the first thing he was going to do was hold them for at least five of those minutes. Steve loved hugs, and his parents hated them, but his soulmate would love them too. He knew that for sure. 

So a five minute hug, and then he’d ask where they wanted to go. The two of them would travel to wherever his soulmate wanted. Steve had the money, he’d been saving every single birthday and Christmas check he had gotten since he was nine. By now, it was more than enough for two tickets to anywhere in the world. 

They would spend the whole plane ride talking and getting to know each other. They would laugh, probably a little too loudly, and annoy everyone else around them with how infatuated they were with each other. 

Maybe they’d go to Paris. Stroll through the city, eat pastries, stuff like that. Maybe they would end up in some remote part of the world where it felt like they were the only two people on the planet.

Maybe they’d just stay in Hawkins. Hole up in his house, listen to records, swim in the pool, or lie in bed all day. 

A hug, possibly a trip, and after that it was up to his soulmate. Steve wasn’t going to monopolize their five days with just his ideas. He had a bunch of suggestions if they didn’t know what they wanted, but those were the only two things he really cared about. 

He didn’t hug his soulmate when they finally laid eyes on each other. Steve didn’t even realize his timer had started counting down. 

He was too busy thinking about the broken bottle being held against his neck. 

By the time he and Eddie both realized that their timers had started, they were already in the thick of things. Steve had seen it while Nancy was wrapping her sweater around his waist to try and stem some of the blood coming gushing out of him from the bat bites. He had put both hands in his hair just to try and give himself some other pain to ground with, and his timer caught his eye. 

It was already on three days. 

He had only met one new person in the last two days. One new person who always hid his timer under a leather cuff around his wrist. 

Steve did go through with his plans, but it was a funhouse mirror version of them, twisted and wrong. 

They did hug, but it wasn’t something soft or intimate. Eddie had woken Steve up from a nightmare on their second to last day, and Steve had laid in his arms shaking for two of their final forty eight hours. 

They did go on a trip of sorts, if stopping the apocalypse in an alternate dimension counted as a trip. They went, but they didn’t stay together. 

God, if Steve had a chance to do it all over again, he never would have let Eddie out of his sight. 

There was no avoiding fate, no changing what The Universe had planned. Steve has always been aware of that. He’s known that as fact his entire life. But still. Maybe things would have gone the way they were supposed to if they had been together. 

Because it was supposed to be him that died. 

His entire life he had known it was going to be him. 

Steve has imagined it a thousand different ways. A random heart attack, or a freak accident, maybe even saving his soulmate’s life somehow. He had never even thought to consider it might be his soulmate saving him instead. 

It was perfect. Dustin and Eddie would be far away from the danger, and Robin and Nancy were going to be just fine. Steve had no idea when it was coming, but it was going to happen in this final fight. They would win and he would have to do something stupid to make sure they did. Something off plan that would end up killing him. 

Except, he didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the plan. 

It went off without a hitch. Well, there was a pretty scary moment where there had been vines around his neck choking him, but the rest had gone exactly as they wanted it too. He and Robin had torched the monster, and then Nancy shot him in the head. 

Vecna was dead, burning to ash on the floor in front of them. They did it. They actually fucking did it. 

The elation of that was unlike anything Steve had ever experienced. The bone deep relief of knowing everyone he loved was finally safe, that this was finally over. That he had somehow lived to get to see it all. 

He had lived. 

He…..he was still alive. 

Steve hadn’t even thought to look down at his timer. He had been so busy just reacting, being in the moment of the fight. The fight was over. They had won. Everyone was safe now. 

Steve was still alive. 

He looked at his timer. All zeroes. 

How long had it been all zeroes? 

Steve took an experimental breath, and then another. Still breathing. Still alive. He looked down at his wrist. Still all zeroes. It was like he was looking at a puzzle with only one piece left, holding that last piece in his hand, but unable to make it fit for some reason. There was just something that was so wrong. 

There were two options when it came to Timers. You died, and your timer vanished, or your timer hit zero, and your soulmate died. There were two options. 

Steve had just never considered the other one. 

And by the time he ran out of the Creel House, it was already too late. Steve knew that. He was running anyway. He wouldn’t believe it until he saw Eddie for himself. His mother’s voice filled his ears the entire time. 

“You’ll understand that this? This is a curse,” 

Steve had promised himself he would never think about his timer that way. Promised that he would never be like his mother. 

But she might have been right about this. 

#Steve harrington #Eddie munson #steddie #steddie au #steddie soulmate au #tw: major character death #tw: death #stranger things #st #st4 #stranger things 4 #stranger things soulmate au #countdown au #Steve and eddie #timer au #Steve and Eddie #Steve harringtons mother #Steve harringtons parents #Liam speaks up #Writing(withacapitalW)

[batwynn]

When they come back wrong... or not at all.

#Sterek #Teen Wolf #horror comic #demon!Derek Hale #horror #Tw: undead #Tw: major character death #Tw: murder #Tw: body horror #Tw: blood #tw: possession #tw: amputation #tw: eye horror

[thedwarventradesman]

Hollow — Tech x GN!Reader Batcher

Description: Tech x GN!Reader Batcher, established relationship; POV is 1st person so there's no use of gendered pronouns (: Warnings: Angst, major character death, grief, very vague allusion to suicidal thoughts and self-destructive tendencies Word Count: 916

A/N: This is the first time I've really written any fandom content since high school. Or at least, with the intention of letting others read it. Tried to balance the mix of recounting the past while also shifting to how reader/oc is in the present which can be tricky so I hope it reads well.

Image Credit: @ilcuoreardendo-fic

Everything happened so fast.

It was like any other mission gone bad — shots from grounded enemies, shots from the sky, and having to problem-solve on the fly amidst the chaos. Then… it was very different.

There was a violent shake as the rail cars were hit and then I was looking down at my husband hanging far below the car. Momentarily, all sound became an indistinguishable noise, garbled voices of distress mixed with ringing and roaring in my ears, as you struggled to climb up to the car.

As I moved to help you, the car creaked and, snapping back to reality, I heard you shout up, “Whoa! Don't! Any shift in weight could send both of these cars over. You must sever the connection hinge. Now!” Wrecker and I immediately exclaimed our rejection of that idea. I could feel my panic rising, my desperation increasing. There must be something. There HAS to be something. Anything to fix this mess and save you.

Your next words, spoken so calmly and matter-of-fact, slammed into me. “There is no time, cyare. Plan 99.” “Don’t. You. Dare, Tech.” My voice cracked on your name. Gently, desperately, I repeated my words, punctuating them with “please”. Your eyes locked with mine — soft, sad, and full of love. “I love you, cyar’ika, but when have we ever followed orders?”

When you shot the connection and began to fall, a deafening scream ripped out of me. “NO!” My body automatically lunged for the side with my hand outstretched before Wrecker grabbed me and held me firmly. Thrashing to escape his grasp as the car began to move, I screamed, “TECH! No! No no no! Go back!”

As the car got further and further away, the shock of the situation overtook me — numb, unseeing, unmoving with that same mix of indistinguishable sounds in my ears. My body went into a survival autopilot – moving as prompted but I wasn’t there – and the team had to help drag me back to the Marauder through the attacks.

Once aboard the Marauder, standing in the middle of our quarters, my knees gave out as I crumbled. Ripping off my helmet and goggles, my agonized sobs finally broke free and echoed through the ship. So full of grief, my body shaking, I leaned forward on my hands for support, fingers digging into the metal floor. One hand reached up, taking my chained wedding ring from underneath my undershirt and I clutched it so hard a mark was left in my hand.

At some point, I had stopped crying and left my body. I didn’t even know the ship stopped. Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, the only acknowledgment of awareness I could give was a hoarse, emotionless mumble, “You should have let me go with him.” 

From there, I don’t truly remember much of anything. There’s a blur of being dragged to my feet and out of the ship, and of having wet hair and clean clothes while AZ checked me over with no memory of cleaning up or changing. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even truly remember Omega being taken. All I truly remember from the past month and a half is waves of soul-crushing pain surrounded by numbness as I attempted to lose myself in my work. I keep crying and feeling flashes of disbelief and anger. I’ve lost my appetite… and my desire for self-preservation. All this while moving on autopilot to complete my tasks and finish the mission. Find and save Omega. That is all that matters right now.

Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo are concerned for me, often pushing food on me and otherwise fussing. Up until now, there were eyes on me almost all the time, it felt like, and I hated it, but I understood why they hovered. Echo left a couple of weeks after the events to rejoin Rex, but I still hear him comm Hunter every so often to check in on me and find out how the search for Omega is going.

The days are often easier than the nights since I’ve taken on most of Tech’s tasks alongside my own. Hunter and Wrecker have tried to take some of them, wishing to lighten my load, but I adamantly refuse. I need them. I need the memory of helping with and hearing about them from him by doing them. They’ve let the situation be, but still intervene to make me sleep.

That’s when it gets unbearable.

The emptiness beside me screams, his scent got fainter with each passing day until it disappeared, remembering the quiet moments we shared in this space, and hearing his final words on a loop in the silence. Once the exhaustion finally takes me… I often watch Tech fall and wake with tears streaming down my face or stinging eyes and a heavy heart. Some nights, I think Hunter has been slipping me medicine in my food ‘cause those are the only nights I get any decent sleep.

Despite all this, I have, believe it or not, been getting better. Slowly, I began to reengage with the boys and be open with them. They stopped having to watch me as close or force me to take care of myself. Now, it’s reminders and intervention as necessary along with occasional check-ins when I seem particularly off one day. I’m still far from okay and I won’t ever be the same but, thanks to our brothers, I become a little less hollow each day.

#still not over it #been thinking about this for a while #guess how many times I cried writing this #tech x reader #tech x oc #the bad batch #tbb tech #bad batch x reader #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #tbb echo #tbb omega #star wars #bad batch imagine #tw: angst #tw: major character death #tw: grief #tw: self destruction #bad batch #bad batch s2 #bad batch fanfic #bad batch oneshot #bad batch fic #bad batch fics #badbatch fanfiction #bad batch imagines #bad batch oneshots #tech imagine #tech oneshot #tech oneshots

[radio-writes]

It's about time for your blood to spill + you should sleep + we were soulmates

(Congrats on the 300 followers btw!)

Now, The Echoes Interlace

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Blood, physical injuries to reader, ambiguous major character death(s), angst

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

"You always have looked so pretty in red, Al." You hummed as your combed your fingers through his soft hair. You pressed your fingers against his scalp, lightly massaging against his antlers.

The light static that varied in volume crackled. "Fuck you." Alastor managed to say as his head laid on your lap.

His smile was strained—present, of course, as it always was, but strained. The trail of blood from his mouth dripped from his chin, joining the warm pool under both your bodies.

"Rude." You scolded him. Your breath coming out in a hiss as Alastor dug his claws into an open wound on your leg. 

"Must you continue to hurt me? You're already dying." You glared down at him as you would at a misbehaving pet.

You leaned forward, easily removing his hand from your body without much of a struggle. He only had so much strength left after all. 

"Fuck you." Alastor repeated, static morphing his voice this time around.

"Yes, well, I get that you're mad, Al." You continued your casual tone. "But it was about time for your blood to spill, don't you think?"

You grunted as you leaned your back against the cold wall again, sighing as the tension on the wound across your stomach was lessened.

"F—"

"Fuck me, yes yes." You cut him off. "Save your strength or you'll die out faster."

Alastor didn't mean to listen to you, but he just felt far too tired to argue otherwise.

Your hand returned to his head, damp with sweat and blood, and yet somehow still so adorably fluffy. Leave it to this guy to still look so presentable even when dying a second time around.

Your fingers scratched at one of his tufts of hair, causing it to give a slight, involuntary twitch.

"So they are ears." Your voice was soft. "I always assumed but was never really sure, you know?"

Alastor didn't respond. His red eyes continued to glare at you.

He adjusted his hands to lay over his chest. A weak attempt to slow his loss of blood. He didn't even have enough energy to press on it anymore.

"Hey, Al." You wheezed, breath slightly knocked from you. You had adjusted the way you sat so the demon could lay more comfortably on your lap. "Do you remember how we first met?"

"You told me that cheesy pick up line. How'd it go again?" Your hand paused as you tried to remember. 

A rather dashing demon slid up to you at the bar; charming, sharp smile, on full display. You've seen all sorts of sinners by now, but none so happy while rotting in hell.

You expected him to sell you drugs, or quite bluntly tell you to sleep with him. What you got instead was a very corny: 

"You must be buried treasure, because I am absolutely digging you." You let out a tired laugh, hand continuing to pet Alastor once more.

The sound of static crackling again was the only response you got. You think it meant fuck you. 

"Well you must be treasure as well, Al. Because it seems I'll be burying you tonight." You met Alastor's harsh glare with a soft smile.

"What? That absolutely was funny, you can't deny it." You defended yourself.

Alastor didn't think him dying was funny at all, actually, but he didn't exactly have any energy left to say that.

His smile was a tight, close lipped one, but you see his lips try to curl just a tiny bit in what you assumed would have been a snarl. 

"You always thought I was hilarious." Your own hand moving over the gash on your neck as if it was a mild inconvenience. You titled your head as you looked down at the demon on your lap. "What changed?"

Alastor merely glared at you.

Your eyes traveled down his body, staying on the deep wound oozing across his chest.

"That's not fair, Al." You laughed tiredly, eyes staying on his bloodied torso. "I always thought you were incredibly handsome—sinfully so really. But your attempts at killing me never changed that."

"Fuck you." The static over his voice was gone now. His tone was as spiteful, angry, and condescending as always, but much, much weaker.

Your eyes drifted back to his face. His smile was still present, but his lovely red eyes seemed more unfocused than they were a second ago.

Your hand in his hair stopped their movements. For a moment, the world was still as you wondered if your company had already left.

But it was merely for a heart beat, as a ragged breath from his lips snapped time back into motion.

You pealed your fingers from his hair, bringing them down to softly rub your knuckles down his cheek. He doesn't so much as flinch, but, you knew he would have had he been able to.

"Hey, old pal." You cooed softly. "You should sleep, you look so very tired."

His fingers on his chest twitched once, but you didn't get much of a reply anymore after that.

You sighed heavily. Your hands rested on his face as you leaned your head against the wall behind you, face craned upwards to the red sky that covered all of Hell.

Your own eyes closed, realizing just how tired and weary you yourself were.

Still, you were never one to be silent around a friend—or foe. It had always been unclear to you when it came to Alastor.

"We were soulmates, wouldn't you say so, Al?" You continued softly. "But in a funnier way, I think, where we were always meant to destroy the other."

Alastor's skin felt as it always did beneath your fingers. The stench of blood heavy as it always was around him. You felt his familiar eerie presence by you, as you always did.

And yet, you were unsure if he actually was still there. You were quite conflicted about how you were supposed to feel about that, truth be told.

"Fuck you, old friend." You sighed, eyes remaining closed, smile tiredly stretching across your own lips.

#tw: physical injuries #tw: major character death #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #vien writes #follower event #they're fine #i think #maybe #ending left intentionally ambiguous for those at the back who don't actually want to kill Al #but also for those who do so i didn't expressly put if they were saved or not #anon really saw the event and thought #im going to kill this man :)

[save-the-data]

Dead Friend Forever - DFF | S01E12

Thai Drama - 2023

Episodes | Gaga | Viki | YouTube | iQIYI | WeTV | Tencent | Catalogue

It's an ambiguous ending, cliffhanger. Survived or trapped in their own personal hell in a fate worst than death?

#Drama: Dead Friend Forever #Horror #Thriller #เพื่อน ตาย DFF #Dead Friend Forever - DFF #Fuiaz Thanawat #JJay Patiphan #Ta Nannkon #Copper Phuriwat #Jet Jetsadakorn #Bump Pawat #Mio Athens #Barcode Tinnasit #Us Nittorn #Thai BL #BL GIFS #Thai Drama - 2023 #Drama: 2023 #tw: Drug Use #tw: Major Character Death #tw: Suicide #Final Episode

[gracie7209]

Fine Again

A Joel Miller Oneshot

Pairing: Joel x platonic-f!Reader, Joel x Tess

Word Count: 3k

Rating: Mature. Nothing explicit, but deals with some difficult themes.

Warnings: Major major trigger warnings. Please see the A/N at the bottom for more descriptions. I don’t want to give anything away, but if you’re worried about the content, they’re posted below. No Ellie au, some things are canon compliant, other things are definitely not. Drugs (pills) and drinking, coping mechanisms, heavy angst, depression, SI, suicide, brief descriptions of going into labor, not in detail. PTSD, flashbacks, Additional Trigger warnings are posted below. Reader POV. This idea came to me today and I literally just wrote it and briefly looked over everything, so all mistakes are mine!

**PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!**

Summary: Joel and Tess meet you on their journey West to find Tommy. Letting you tag along and eventually finding him, you all get the chance to settle in Jackson. Joel battles with depression.

A/N: This, came out of fucking nowhere to be honest. Was listening to a new (to me) song and this demanded to be written. No idea why, and I never thought that this would be the first thing I would ever write for Joel, but here we are. Again, please see warnings below for possible triggers. I honestly live for your comments, questions, reblogs, likes etc Thank You for reading!

**Tagging those I think might be interested. Please let me know if you’d rather not be tagged**

Main Masterlist | Alternate Ending

You had thought you were making progress with him. Getting him out of the house to have dinner and being around everyone again. That night he didn’t want to. Halfway begged you not to make him leave, but you knew he couldn’t go on living isolated away from everyone.

You had promised him. You promised him that he would be fine. All he had to do was eat dinner, and you would bring him home. Easy enough right?

But when Maria walked in, you saw him practically shut down. The impending birth of Tommy’s child reminding him of the loss of his own… You had hoped that he would make it through dinner and that you could both leave, taking him home to let him get some sleep.

After finishing your plate, Joel had hardly even touched his, but you look to see if he’s ready and he gives you a stiff nod. But, before you get a chance to leave, there’s an ugly scream of intense pain and Joel is drained of all color. Maria’s labor starts and she is breathing harshly, quickly, little gasps to help stave off the pain, but all Joel can hear is Sarah…. His hands start to rattle as his head moves from side to side. When everyone rushes over to Maria, yourself included, Joel doesn’t move. You look back at him, and see him clearly struggling to keep it together….

Sarah had died in his arms. Even Tess. She had died in his arms after a group of raiders jumped their patrol group a few months after arriving in Jackson. Tess had gotten a shot off, but she had already been hit. Joel didn’t get to say goodbye as she never regained consciousness after falling from her horse. Joel had picked her up, tried to stop the bleeding. Feeling for her pulse until it eventually dwindled to nothing, and she was gone.

No, he couldn’t handle anyone else dying in his arms… so you made sure Tommy had everything covered, helped walk him and Maria out, but when you went back for Joel he was already gone.

–

Finding him at this particular cabin wasn't a shock to you. Although he said he would never go back here after Tess, he would disappear randomly for a day or two, looking haggard and rough when he came back and you just knew. He never told anyone else about this place. It was his own private escape. To try to grieve his losses in solitude. Where he could let out whatever demons ravaged his mind, and you left it alone, hoping he would eventually benefit from it in some way.

You think the reality of it instead was that the almost constant isolation fostered his depression. Allowing him to further distance himself from the rest of you.

You tried. You had really tried with him. He would begrudgingly accept your help. Your kind disposition would even get a smile out of him sometimes. You would cook for him, help him get cleaned up, help him around his home and just try to visit with him. When he refused to talk, you would do the talking and he would just listen. Or you hoped he had.

You would sleep on his couch when the nights would get really bad. He would mix the booze with whatever pills he could find to make himself forget, if even for a moment. You would wake up to his nightmares. His calls, always to Sarah. “Please baby girl, Please. Please, we gotta get you up. Sarah! Sarah!”-- and you would slowly put a hand to his shoulder. Applying pressure as you sat next to him. Peacefully trying to pull him from the memories that plagued him. His bloodshot eyes filled with tears, would always look to you, he would grab onto your arm and you would pull his head into your lap. Stroking through his messy curls until a less fitful sleep would find him.

You would eventually pull yourself from his grip and go back to the couch, content to rest there until it started all over again.

When he was sober, which wasn’t often, he was restless. Body shaking in withdrawal, until he could get even a sip to help calm his frayed nerve endings. The end of the world had taken so much from so many. And Joel was no exception.

–

But this time he doesn’t come back, even the next morning. You felt in your bones that he needed someone if it wasn’t too late already. So, you eventually decide to just go and saddle up your horse to find him yourself.

And find him you do….. in the one place that he and Tess had found and shown you, about a week before Tess was killed.

It was secluded and well hidden. Only having found it on patrol one day when they decided to venture further than their usual patrol route. Things had been sparse then. Lucky for the community as a whole, no raiders or clickers, but the boredom of those patrols made for long and tedious days. After finding this little gem, Tess and Joel had shown it to you and planned to take it up with Tommy and try to make it a new patrol stop, a place to rest and regroup as it was quite a bit further out than the current route.

But before they had a chance to bring it to Tommy, Tess was killed and Joel refused to go back. It was never brought up again.

–

You find him early in the afternoon…. Passed out drunk on the broken couch in the living area, but he was breathing so you felt relief at that, at the very least.

You waited until he finally woke up on his own, hours later. You doubt he’d eaten and sadly, you think that his intention had been to just drink himself to death out here.

When he finally wakes, he’s crying. Inconsolable. You hold him….. he keeps repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry……” over and over again. To who? You don’t know. To you? No…. To Tess? To Sarah?

You didn’t know much about his little girl, but you didn’t need to know the details to understand the weight of that kind of loss. And having been around Tess and Joel together for a few months beforehand, you had understood the gist of what Tess had been to him–

–She was familiar, and she was warm. She kept him steady, level headed, and with a somewhat clear path in mind. And without her, he had been lost. Without Tommy or Tess he had no real direction. Tommy was there, but not in the way Joel needed. Tommy had made his own life out here and Joel knew he couldn’t interfere, but it left him feeling alone.

–

Now, his stare was blank and he wouldn’t look at you for a long time. When he finally comes around again, at the very least to acknowledge your presence, he tells you he feels like shit, that he was hungry and thirsty so you feed him what little you had brought along with you.

After a bit, he seems better. There’s a little color back in his cheeks and he was even asking about Tommy and Maria now, and the baby…. You had left to find him before the baby had even been born, but you assured him that everything was going to be fine.

You felt relieved that he seemed to be doing ok, all things considered.

And when you offered to take him back, he, albeit reluctantly, agreed. He tells you to go ahead and pack up, that he just needed to grab a few things. He had already dressed and put his boots on, so you go ahead and go outside to situate the horses.

A few minutes go by and Joel has yet to come outside. Fitting the last of the supplies in your sack, you pull the straps tight, securing everything to your horse. You start making your way back to the cabin when you hear a gunshot ring out that spooks the horses with its proximity and your heart drops. Almost instantly you take off…. Running inside, taking the steps two at a time... he's not inside. Running out back, you yell for him. “JOELLLL JOEELLLL!!!!”

Where the fuck did he go? What the fuck did he do? “Joel! JOEL!!!!!!”

Slightly off from the back porch, you follow a tiny path that leads into the woods… god he couldn’t have gone far….. it had only been maybe five minutes tops since you had gone outside, leaving Joel in the cabin.

Looking left and right as you go along, you’re panicking. Thinking the absolute worst, until finally you stop.

Your feet refuse to move you forward, your heart is in your throat as you choke on a sob.

You find him sitting underneath a tree, his back to you against the trunk.

All you can see from where you stand is his slumped form leaning off to the side. Tess’s gun in his hand, his arm laying slack against the ground….

You’re crying now, you know you’re shouting “JOEL! JOEL OH MY GOD!”…but you can’t hear anything past the high pitched ringing in your ears. “Joel…?? Joel, What did you do? …please God, please… no no, no, no, no…..”

Pulse pounding, you take a step closer, then another, and another. Until you’re finally close enough that you can touch his hand with your booted foot. You turn and squat down, unable to look at anything but the ground below your feet. You tentatively take the gun from his hand as it sits loosely in his barely there grip. Tossing it to the side without a glance. Your hand moves up his arm, resting your fingers delicately against his chest, lightly touching his coat… you’re not sure you have it in you to do this. You can’t look at his face. Worried, knowing what you’ll see there. The tears cascading down your cheeks fall onto his coat, the heavy drops darken the brown material as your fingers now grip it so tightly, your knuckles turn white.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be fucking happening. Why? Why would he do this? To Tommy? To you?

You lean down to put your head against his chest. Breathing him in. He still smells the same despite the alcohol. You’d never really paid it any mind before, but you can’t fathom never smelling this again. Never being near him again. In the months, almost a year now that you’ve known him, he’d become a kind of safety net for you. He helped take care of you. But after Tess, he never recovered. That loss, on top of what you had only barely learned about his daughter, Sarah, and the aftermath of that loss….. It ultimately became too much for him.

When your knees practically give out after having held you up for so long, you allow yourself to crumble, knees digging into the cold, wet dirt. You brace your hand on the ground to your right, and it’s then that the stark reality hits you square in your chest and you finally break, looking at the source of the now cold, almost sticky substance now coating your palm and fingers.

–

After meeting Joel and Tess back in KC, they allowed you to tag along, for what reason you will never know. It took a little time, but Tess warmed to you the quickest. You were helpful, pulled your weight and you were kind. Joel eventually thawed. His cold grumpy demeanor never exactly went away, but he acknowledged you, and when things settled down after finding Tommy in Jackson, he even included you in plans and new patrol routes. He hassled you over stupid things sometimes. Those were your favorite moments. When it seemed like he was coming out of his shell. They never lasted long, those moments. Always fleeting glimpses of a Joel that had been buried beneath his grief and anger.

You felt at the very least, accepted by the odd pair. What they were to each other wasn’t normal by any means, but after everything? What the fuck was normal anyway? It was enough for them, so it was enough for you.

After Tess, Joel had tried to push you away. He was an asshole, rude, and downright mean sometimes. But, ever the persistent one, you pressed on. Not letting him shut you out completely. Unfortunately, it was never enough. You had hoped that he could go on to feel some semblance of peace, even after everything. Lord knows, in spite of what he felt were the horrible things he had done to survive, what he had to do to keep Tommy safe, Tess safe, you safe… He was a good man underneath and he deserved peace.

Looking at him now, his eyes are closed. It was clean, the blood streaking down the side of his face to the ground below. You put your hand on his other cheek. Stroking your thumb lightly over his graying scruff, the foot of your many jokes about his age that never failed to get a rise out of him.

The pain you feel is so intense at the grief of knowing that this would be the last time you would see it. That this was the last time you would know his face this way; peaceful…. The irony makes your stomach drop and you feel nauseous.

Swallowing it down, you lean forward and press a barely there kiss to his forehead.

“It’s ok, it’s ok…. You’re with them now. Rest, Joel. It’s ok.”

–

Taglist: @boliv-jenta @just-here-for-the-moment @harriedandharassed @hnt-escape @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @rhoorl @tanzthompson @littlemisspascal @queridopascal-main @queridopascal @something-tofightfor @foli-vora @bitchwitch1981 @dashavau @imaswellkid @quica-quica-quica @sunnysidekit @autumnleaves1991-blog @mymo-n @wildemaven @readingiskeepingmegoing @pastelnap @jb2856 @pimosworld @spookyxsam @luciferiorbxtch @alwaysdjarin @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

A/N: Major Character Death, depression and anxiety, panic attacks, and suicide. This was a hard one for me to write, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’ve wanted to write for Joel for a while and never in my wildest ideas, did I ever think I would write something like this. It’s unreal to me how this came about, but anyway.

**For anyone struggling with depression and anxiety, or with thoughts of suicide, please please, reach out to someone. Anyone. The world is a better place with you in it. I will never pretend to know exactly what you’re going through, but I will gladly be an ear to listen at any time.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x platonic!reader #tlou fanfiction #TLOU #joel miller tlou #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfic #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x tess #tw: major character death

[perfect-suau-rejuvinated]

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#steven #perfectsuaurejuvinated #steven universe #comic #part 2: bluebird #bluebird azurite #perfectstevenaurejuvinated #tw: blood #blood #tw: major character death #major character death

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Regret

TW: Major Character Death! So under the cut it goes...

For Febuwhump 2024: Day 13 "You Weren't Supposed To Get Hurt"

It was the smell that jolted Jeff out of his shocked numbness. The artificial sweet/sour of antiseptic fighting a losing battle against the scent of human misery – why had he never noticed it before now? He was sure hospitals had never smelt so bad when the boys had been born, even when he had dragged them into the ER for various childish mishaps it hadn’t been like this.

Maybe it was just this hospital, he thought as he followed his mother through the corridors, dodging and squeezing past gurneys whizzing up and down corridors, slipping in puddles and spots of liquids he didn’t want to identify. After all, this was the only major hospital operational after a massive earthquake. The only surgical facility for miles of destroyed highways and obstructed roadways, and expected to serve hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people.

Including, the few media still operational in the area were solemnly and repeatedly reporting, an International Rescue Operative.

Jeff notes distantly the looks he and his mother were getting as they made their way through the hospital; The awed recognition, and chasing that swiftly away, the looks of pity. He pinches is leg, hard, hoping that this is all a dream, some kind of nightmare. Even if he wakes in back in the Oort Cloud, alone and waiting to die, it would be better than what he is about to walk into.

He follows the purple of his mother through the final door. The room is white, with one bed – in these larger circumstances it’s a mark of honour, few would be so lucky, it smells cleaner here, but there are sour notes of sweat and blood coming from the twin walls of blue begrimed with grey concrete dust, brown mud, and startlingly scarlet blood.

That they were all allowed in here, and in such a state …

It’s not a good sign.

The body on the bed is unnaturally still, the chest moving in sync with the bellows of the machine orchestrating the breathing, the dancing ‘blip’ of the pulse monitor. It is the chorography and orchestration of life, yet it is obscenely grotesque … artificial.

And tubes. So many tubes. Tubes draining in, tubes draining out, tubes looping around through machinery and back to the body from which they had come. Tubes for breathing, tubes for fluids, tubes for medications. Whatever the collapsing building had spared, the doctors had brutalised in turn.

Quiet words from the doctor on duty, a babble medical jargon that Jeff had somehow learned to understand over the years. The meaning is simple. The machines, this situation, it is not hope.

It is a chance to say good bye, final words spoken in the presence of a soul already slipping through the broken bars of its cage.

Quiet words from his mother, and the blue obediently files from the room, subdued and sombre. Four. After this day there will only be four …

… until there are three …

A gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him to chair beside the bed, soft words, and then the purple that was his mother left the room.

Jeff stared at the face, eyes closed, skin grey, the horror of the tube inserted in the throat just at the edge of his field of vision.

This wasn’t fair.

It’s not fair! The old saying about how a parent should never outlive their child rang through his head, and he suddenly understood how his mother had felt for all those years.

There was no doubt this time, no miraculous return from the dead. No resurrection.

No hope.

He tentatively reached out, touched the still hand – still warm, for now – gently cradling it, he slid the chair down the bedside until he could raise it to his face, kiss the knuckles.

He turned back to regard the face. “I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t thought the words would come, didn’t think he could have spoken, but now they rose unbidden. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was never meant to be like this. It was supposed to save lives. No one was supposed to get hurt. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

When the medical staff came back in, summed by the machines alarmed by the absence of the parameters they were guardians of, they found a father sat by the bedside, sobbing quietly as he muttered “I’m sorry,” “You weren’t supposed to get hurt”, and “I love you.”

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday13 #thunderbirds are go #jeff tracy #tw: major character death #fanfic #my fanfic