#& 💖💖💖 grief 💖💖💖

[starleska]

speaking of HABIT moments which give me the shivers...😳💖

[nobodymitskigabriel]

Imagining late seasons Gabriel alive living in the bunker makes me feral bc everything he tried keeping close to his chest his entire life is out in the open. The Winchesters have seen all of it, from his blatant cruelty to things that Gabriel would rather die in a hole than have anyone see. But now the Winchesters know Gabriel better than he ever wanted to be known...and they like him! Despite everything, they actually want him there! And adjusting to life in the bunker would be strange at first, but he had Cas there and he has a whole nephew he needs to get to know. Time passes and things actually start to feel normal and Gabe realizes that for the first time in what feels like forever, he's surrounded by actual friends and family who care about him for who he is 💖💖.

[deer-watcher]

"For both bonobos and chimpanzees, the bodies of the dead evoke many emotions. Even if the process often begins with trauma and confusion, typically corpses shift to a liminal status; not alive, but equally not a lump of meat. They're more intensively manipulated than hunted animals, and carried for longer. In some – if not all – cases, the eaters must know what and who they're consuming. Cannibalism is very probably a powerful means by which individuals and groups process the impact not only of killings carried out on emotional impulses, but other deaths too. In other words, it's about grieving. [...] "Shift these scenarios to Neanderthals, and add into the mix their far greater cognitive sophistication, and lives that revolved around using lithics. Suddenly it's not difficult to envision how skills in carefully taking apart hunted carcasses might be transposed into a grieving process that involved butchery and cannibalism as acts of intimacy, not violation."

Rebecca Wragg Sykes, Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art

[newbornwhumperfly]

through the frightening door...

oof, so this was an angsty one, folks. 😢😢😢 i went and made a sad prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day six: left behind -  even sadder than it already was and in the process, i penned a big part of my boy morja’s backstory, so i’m gonna tag the story crew on this one. 🥺🥺🥺

CW: Grief, death of a loved one, dehumanization, just…big sads in this one, folks.  

title insp. by the poem “my dead friends” by marie howe - “billy’s already gone through the frightening door, whatever he says, i’ll do.” 

~

Diathésimós don’t have graves. 

The fallen must pay for a grave, or their families must, and graves are, they say, costly. Plots of land which could hold a house or a slot of gardened flowers or a new statue does not need to hold a patch of dirt and a stone. The ashes are poured into the wind, as disposable as they were in life. It is rare that a family, if the dead still have one, can afford to pay for the body’s return. It is rare, indeed, for one to ask. 

That doesn't mean their deaths are not marked by those who knew them. 

There is a stone, innocuous and small, where the dead are honored. Some write names down on the stone. Others don’t bother. 

There is one marking, one stone, Morja waits to visit. Part of it might be that he doesn't have to leave until he does this thing he must not neglect. 

It’s more than just the stone, of course. It would be silly to think of that only. There are places Morja won’t see again where she would go. Where she took comfort. And not seeing these places anymore will be the drag of a knife out from where it lodged. And he will pack the spot with rags to stop it from bleeding, field medicine, how well he knows how to do that. How to plug up a wound and keep walking. Don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll fall. 

But there’s…a way only she could find something pretty in this place. Like, there was a spot by the fountain in the courtyard where a stubborn plant grew. And it would get ripped out, an eyesore, nobody intended for this little purple flower to grow between cracks in the base of that marble foundation. But the dirt underneath was strong, Morja supposes, and Roe encouraged it, is the thing. She kept nudging aside the little shiny seashells that surrounded the root - decorative, ceramic, gleaming, imported from some shop to look more perfect than real shells, no sharp edges or rough surfaces. Morja remembers what a real seashell feels like. No, he doesn’t. But his maybe-memory is rougher than the shells in this courtyard. He knows this, at least, in the way he knows when an opponent is about to strike. 

But the purple stays caught in a sunbeam, is the problem. The shaft of daylight through the pillars hits the water as it sparkles and it hits the flower too. The water from the fountain falls on the patch of land bared by Roe’s hands. Somehow, it stays and stays. Somehow, it outlives her. Everything else has, after all.

This is, of course, where Roe’s stone lies. 

Where else would Morja have put it? The dead are dead, of course they are. Gone is gone and bodies are bodies, hollow bullet casings, no powder, no spark. Useless to collect, more useless to hold onto. But Roe wanted a stone. She would have wanted a stone, probably, certainly, yes. 

It is past the alcove with the missing statue where Roe perched, sweat-drenched from long training, or bleeding from a hit, tucked into the space once filled by the bust of a marble head. The space has stayed hollow, still, and on a dark night like this, Morja could imagine, if he were to try, that the black lines of her body melted into the hole in the wall. That maybe she were there, long-limbed and tiny, clambering up in there to nap. 

He told her so often not to. 

What if she got caught?

Her bright, black eyes would shine and she would say that until the statue took her place, this was her spot. 

Hers. Like she’d laid claim to it. So stupid. Nothing was theirs, she could never understand that. 

Past the alcove, still empty, Morja’s quiet steps go past the vine full of berries he was never brave enough to eat. Never disobedient enough. Of course. She got hit for taking the berries and she got more careful at taking them. Those berries weren’t hers to take, just because she watered the vines. 

The rows of women (goddesses, Morja was told) tall and imposing and cool to the touch, their eyes looking down to keep watch on the garden, on its dwellers, and Morja would shiver sometimes when he was younger, passing by them, because what if they saw him misbehave? What if their marble fingers pointed at him in accusation? 

Roe looked up and tilted her head, one foot angled like the goddess with a bow and an arrow, elbow crooked just so, Roe so good with her aim, as good a shot as Morja, even so young. Her palms swipe sweat off, passing over the flat expanse of her torso, tugging at the close-fitting training shirt, and twisting it to match the ripples in the fabric. 

It will wrinkle, Morja fretted quietly.

Do you think I could pull off a look like that? Roe asked, 

The marble’s paint is fresh and gleaming, blue cloth draped elegantly over one shoulder, baring the breast beneath the other, her body small and yet powerful, royal, gold glinting on the folds of her skirt and the twists of her sandals. 

I don’t think we could ever wear anything that…nice, Morja had answered. 

Of course she could have. That’s what he should have said. He didn’t want to raise her hopes. He didn’t- she would have looked royal and powerful as Athena. 

The huntress looks down at Morja, out when he should not be, and he doesn't shiver anymore. He doesn’t quail before imaginary eyes as he kneels at the base of the fountain, the moon shining silver on the purple petals. Other hands have pushed the shells aside since- since the stone was placed behind the blossom. The crude shape of an animal drawn with a shaky hand, white paint on a black rock, traces the outline of tiny hooves, spindly legs, the body of a deer. 

Morja doesn’t know who drew it. It’s beautiful. And he cannot take this stone. This is- it’s tradition and he has to respect it. It would feel wrong to move this stone as stones are not to be moved. 

But he looks at it for a long time. Kneeling on the cold stone, the mist of the water landing on him and wetting his face, taking the role of the tears he cannot shed. The stone and the flower blur before his eyes but that’s just because he’s tired. He’s so tired. 

Maybe…maybe the alcove did belong to her, in a way. She was the one who used it. Maybe the fruit on the vine was hers to sit under, to eat from, unafraid. Maybe this flower was hers because she’s the only one who gave a damn about it. 

Morja doesn’t want to leave the stone. The flower. The alcove and the statue. Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave this stone. What should I do? Who will- nobody will tell me to go. Nobody will, they never will, how can I go when I’m going on my own, when nobody has sent me? How can I leave this behind? How can I leave her behind?

But…she isn’t here. And Morja can’t be, either. Can he? He can’t take this stone. And he can’t stay and watch over it. 

Morja stands, every muscle in his legs protesting, sharp and tingling, at rising. It hurts as much to stand up from kneeling as it does to kneel. But he stands anyway. Leaves the stone under the fountain, behind the flower. 

Roe has gone. 

It is time for him to leave the stone and go as well.

~

oof, i hope y'all enjoyed this important piece of juicy tragic backstory, this glimpse behind the curtain. 😢😢😢💔💔💔

taglist: @haro-whumps @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @whumpthisway

@i-eat-worlds @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @wolfeyedwitch @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whumpster-draganies @lave-whump @whump-me-all-night-long

@suspicious-whumping-egg @tears-and-lillies @kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @stoic-whumpee

have a very merry whumpas y'all! 💖💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[goldenflowers]

me when i first got into bg3: hey what if i made a bard who's like. relatively normal and doesn't have any big trauma, they're mostly just really nerdy and insecure and have stage fright. and it's ironic because they're a bard. like raine whispers! that'd be fun!

me a few days later, completely consumed by the game and more invested in my own OC than i've ever been in my life: hey actually what if this bard's entire personality was a carefully planned performance and he secretly hated himself and his life soooo much. what if they spent half their life desperately pursuing fame that they never even wanted. what if he was doing that because he had azuma yukishiro/leo valdez style angst about how he "killed his dad" (survived a horrible tragic accident he couldn't possibly have predicted but his guilt complex is way too strong to realize that), and he convinced himself he had to be Perfect to atone for it. what if there were no gods or devils tormenting them but they were still just not even remotely normal or well-adjusted. haha wouldn't that be soooo fun :)

me: ...also uhhh, what if he flirted with astarion because vampires are sexy. and kissed gale because wizards are even sexier. <3

[wantbytaemin]

i’d literally be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love. and tbh? i’d be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him (Orpheus obviously) underground.

[souenkun]

It's my birthday today, and I'm now as old as kita shinsuke in the timeskip! 🥳

[broken-hearted-lovers]

you're losing me - late may/ early june 2023

it came around as i had the same lyric from taylor's song stuck in my head. slowly, it became a letter from the person who leaves to the other, the letter and explanation i never got in my own experience. it's also what i consider my first poem in the actual sense of the word - the first to feel like one, the first i read anyone.

[marsbotz]

new ghast update making me think abt my mc lore again…. oooouuuuhhh

[bitterflames]

inhuman immortals learning what it is to love and lose something for the first time in their existence and being Fucked Up About It For All Of Time 🥰💕

[starleska]

i don't know, all my f/o choices this year seem to indicate that my subconscious really wants me to live with some fancy freak in a castle 😳

[persephonesfill]

steve meeting a young tony rotten with grief after december 16, 1991 and thinking "oh. he's like me."

[harrylights]

.

[hwatermelon]

i hope seonghwa is doing okay 🥺🥺🥺 it's so hard to lose someone

[dramaticpeony]

I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.

C.S. Lewis

David is thorny at the beginning. And I like the idea that he knows that. That he realizes, in the months that follow his father's death, that his grief has made him unnecessarily cruel. Especially towards people he loves. People like Asher. People like Milo. People like Marie and the Talbots and Gregory.

And it's annoying because he can't stop it. Whereas before he was too grief striken to to notice, now he has enough perspective to see that the way he talks to people has changed.

[Is it because he is the Alpha?]

And he knows that it hinders his ability to lead, because he may not have experience as an alpha, but he has seen how others were around his father. They were open, and honest and willing to be vulnerable.

And when he enters a room everyone tenses up. There must be things he is missing because his own pack members won't open up to him. Because he cannot just stop being so guarded and prickly.

He must've met angel at that sweetspot of his journey through grief. Where the hurt is still there,but has become more habitual and there is willingness to try living again.

Angel doesn't care much for his thorns. Which is good, because he cannot bring himself to trim them yet.

And they don't expect things of him: like leadership or guidance.

He's a hot dude, and his foul mood just makes him funny. Not uncomfortable to be around. Not an authority to suck up to or second guess.

And that's refreshing. That's new.

Here is something that the calamity hasn't touched. Here is something outside of it, or maybe it is the eye of the storm.

But of course that would be too simple.

Because they get closer. And he craves their presence but he still is David. He still says things in a somewhat cruel way sometimes. He doesn't say sweet things without prodding.

And it all comes to head when his own mate, in their own home, says that they didn't tell him about their pet cat for fear of upseting him.

And that just gives him pause for a while. Because it confirms what he already suspected; his loved ones wouldn't seek him out if they needed his help.

That's a failure, as an Alpha, as a mate, as a friend.

I think he spirals for a while. Old insecurities rise to the surface. He is a man of few words which means, of course that he is listened to when he speaks only the bare essentials. But it also means that he cannot (or has lost the ability to) express more complicated feelings that would require lengthy and heartfelt sentences.

So when his mate admits to being scared of storms, and he tries and succeeds to calm them, it's a paradigm shift. He can say things how he feels them now. Without being too mean.

He has less thorns on him and the ones left are dulled.

The rest follows. Milo talks to him about the bullying. He catches up with Tank. He invites Asher for Halloween. And yes, his handelling of things isn't always perfect ,but he is handling them. In more words than he used to. With more of himself than he used to give.

And the pack senses that.

It's like the final piece of the puzzle that would solidify his footing as Alpha.

Better yet; his progress is not lost after the inversion. He can still open up when he needs to or wants to. Like with the anniversary of Gabes death in the hoody thief video.

I know it's been said before but he's come so far from the frustating guy we meet in the first couple of videos.

I love him so much!!!

[le-velo-pour-dru]

HAPPY 3RD BIRTHDAY TO ONE OF MY FAVORITE SHOWS EVER, JULIE AND THE PHANTOMS!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥳💜