#Possible Character Death

[moethewriter]

You are an absolutely sensational writer!! I am obsessed with all of your fics rn, so amazing!! :)

If possible, please could you write a fic with the angst prompts 6, 20 and 22, with Finnick?

If not no worries! I look forward to reading all your future work <3

Of course I can anon! This one is a long one and almost made me cry, so buckle up and I hope you enjoy! TITLE: The things we love, always sting the most WORD COUNT: 2.3k PAIRING: Finnick Odair x Reader WARNING: Possible character death, talks of killing another person, angst, poison, the whole works! TAGS: Lot's of angst, canon violence, possible poisoning, fighting, possible character death.

A/N: So this was a sad one to write my friends! I hope you enjoy, not beta read as always and I take constructive criticism as per usual! -

You were breathless as you headed towards the jungle with Katniss, Peeta, Mags and Finnick. The fight at the cornucopia had been brutal. Weapons had flown from every direction, and you had fallen into the water. You weren’t the biggest fan of being wet but there wasn’t anything you could do about that now.

You were lost in your own thoughts as you walked further. You had just watched people you had known for years fall in seconds. People you had been friends with … your district partner, Hyvar, had died. You hoped that Johanna, Wiress and Beetee were safe, somewhere they could regroup and find their way to you. You had watched people you had known for years fall in seconds. You just hoped that Johanna, Wiress and Betee had all found one another and were safe as they could be.

The sound of the cannon going off made your body shrivel, almost as if it had transported you back to your own games. You had been sixteen and forced to kill people … kill other children, and that canon was a stark reminder that it wasn’t over yet. It would never be over.

At least you had Finnick, the one person who kept you sane throughout everything. You hadn’t watched his games, your mother not allowing you to watch such senseless acts of violence, she had always been against the games. It was strange to stand side by side with him in this, but you were grateful for his presence.

Another cannon went off.

“Well I guess we're not holding hands anymore.” Finnick chuckled, a small smile spreading across his face. 

“Finnick.” You snapped, trying to shut that thought down. 

Those people were the few in this world who understood what it was like to be a Victor, a pawn for the Capitol. Some of them had been your friends. 

“You think that's funny?” Katniss questioned him, a passive look on her face. You couldn’t quite read her yet, but you knew that she wasn’t happy. 

“Every Time that cannon goes off it’s music to my ears.” Finnick said, as though that should be obvious. He was steady, not swaying, clearly in game mode. “I don’t care about any of them.”

“That’s-” You started …

But Katniss pulled a sword from its sheath.

“Good to hear.” She said, simply, face remaining unchanged. 

“No.” You said raising your hands between them, you were all supposed to be allies … fighting together in this moment. There needed to be some semblance of peace, even if it was tentative and rocky. “We may not like this, but we're allies, right? So let’s act like allies.” You felt as though you were parenting two young stubborn children.

For the first time in a long time you didn’t understand what was going through his head, what was his game here and why hadn’t he talked to you about it? You had been together since you were both eighteen, now twenty four, and while this situation wasn’t ideal … you felt as though he flipped a switch in his mind. This side of him wasn’t something you particularly liked, and you certainly didn’t want to play peacekeeper if they were going to be at each others throats.

“Right.” Finnick said. “Besides, what would Haymitch say?”

“Haymitch isn’t here.” Katniss gritted her teeth.

“Let’s keep moving.” Peeta spoke up, starting to move from his spot.

You were thankful that someone else was level headed.

You all moved deeper into the jungle, silence falling over the group. The sound of crunching leaves, and dirt being the only thing filling the air. Your games had been in a desert terrain, so you felt out of your element. You were used to sand, rocks and dunes covering the earth around you, not thick and lush jungle. At least the trees provided better cover than some rocks, though water was proving just as difficult to find.

After long hours of walking you had found a place to secure Mags so everyone could go off and find some food or water. You weren’t particularly fond of the thought of splitting up, not trusting that Katniss and Peeta would come back, and not trusting yourself alone with Finnick, you were still angry about the interactions on the beach.

You walked with Finnick in silence, eyes and ears peeled for the sound of moving animals or the possible sighting of berries. It felt awkward to be alone with him, but … you loved him, you couldn’t deny that.

“Hey.” Finnick said, grabbing your hand lightly.

“Don’t touch me.” You snapped, anger in your voice. “What the hell was that? Treating Katniss and Peeta that way? Talking about the other tributes like that? They’re our allies, Finnick, don’t fucking play coy with me here. I’m not an idiot and neither are you, maybe try harder?” You sucked in a breath, hoping to calm yourself down,

“Y/N-”

“No. Finnick I love you, I do … just try harder with them, she’s distrustful and we don’t need that.” You said, finally looking at him.. “We don’t need to talk about this right now. I just … just give me some space. I’m angry. I don’t want to be angry with you.” You told him, pinching the bridge of your nose.

The Capitol was watching, Snow was watching. You didn’t need Finnick or yourself sorting through emotional baggage or providing entertainment by fighting for the world to see.

Finnick had a persona, that was something you knew. But that wasn’t Finnick, and what you couldn’t understand is why he didn’t want to be himself. Was it the sponsors? Was it the fact that everyone could see your every move in here? You hadn’t been able to talk much before entering the arena, so you only knew the basis of what he was going to do, and the plan Haymitch had told you.

Gods above, that plan. How in the hell were you going to make sure that Katniss and Peeta got out of this alive if they barely trusted you? There was so much that needed to be done in here, and you couldn’t do it alone. But Finnick was not helping in the slightest, or that’s what you felt like. ,

“Listen …” He tried.

“We should get back to Mags, there isn’t any food here … hopefully they found some water or something.” You sent him a small hopeful look, before turning back towards where you came from.

–

Peeta almost dying was not something that you had accounted for. The forcefield had shot him back out of nowhere, and the amount of time you had all spent desperately trying to help him breathe again had been agony. 

This game felt far worse than anything you had gone through before. It was clear that something was off about the whole arena, you just weren’t sure what it was yet. 

“Do you hear that?” Finnick whispered, looking towards the trees. 

You hadn’t, but you immediately jumped into action and grabbed your sword. You were always on high alert, and you weren’t going to let anything touch anyone here. 

“I’ll go check it out and meet you guys back here, later.” You said, moving to stand. You needed some time to breathe, and protecting everyone was the main priority. In your mind this was a win-win situation. 

“You can’t go alone.” Finnick, protested standing to go with you.

You held up your hand to stop him. “Finn, stay here … protect Mags and everyone else. I can handle myself.” You told him.

You weren’t sure what was out there, no one was, but you had your chosen weapon and a spiteful rage deep within you. You were sure you could handle what was to come.

“Y/N-” He tried to protest again.

“They need protection. I’ll be fine.” You told him, heading off towards the woods on your own. 

You kept low as you crept through the jungle, looking for what could have alerted Finnick. Your eyes barely adjusted to the darkness that surrounded you, a stark contrast to the bright lights of the fire you had been in front of just moments ago. You kept walking, caution lacing every move you made. 

The jungle felt far too quiet as you made your way towards a clearing, how far had you gone from camp? Nothing around you seemed familiar anymore and you weren’t sure why … What the hell was going on?

“Shit!” You felt a small sting in your leg, and looked down … had something stung you? 

You felt dizzy as you braced yourself against a large tree trunk, you couldn’t feel your hands … you couldn’t feel anything?

Your eyes dropped slowly as your body slumped down towards the ground and darkness finally took over

–

“I say, we take them out next.”

“We can’t just do that … they could prove useful … I mean have you seen them with a sword?”

You awoke with a start, heart racing as you looked around … where was Finnick? You moved through the moss and spotted them all around a fire.

“They are useless to everything … the rebellion. Kill them and we get ourselves out of here. They are collateral damage.””

You felt your heart stop …that was Finnick’s voice … and he had to be talking about you, there was no one else you could think of.

“Y/N!”

“That’s smart.”

Peeta? What was going on?

“Good then when they fall asleep tonight that’s when we strike, they won’t know what hit them.”

Finnick’s smirk sent chills down your spine, how could he be doing this? How could he even think about betraying you … didn’t he love you?

“Y/N!”

–

Your eyes fluttered open and you let out a loud scream, throwing yourself away from the blonde man in front of you. Your body was hot, everything around you felt like fire and despite what people thought … you weren’t going down without a fight. Not against anyone, even Finnick. 

“Y/N?! What’s going on? We searched for you all night …we lost Mags … there was fog …” Finnick rambled, his eyes wild and bewildered at the sight of you. He looked like had been crying. 

You knew he was trying to distract you … he had to be. There was no other explanation after what you had seen. He was trying to manipulate you with the use of Mags and the pathetic way he stood. 

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Finnick Odair.” You spat, holding out your sword, stretching it forward as far as you could. “But I heard what you were talking about all night, and I am not going down without a fight, you think I’m going to sit here and talk about bullshit then you’re so wrong.” Your hands were shaking, your whole body trembled in fear.

Your head hurt, and your body felt light … something had happened in the forest and you weren’t sure what did … but there was no way you were losing your life to someone you thought you loved, and who you thought loved you.

“Y/N? What the hell is going on? What happened in those woods?” Finnick questioned, a look of concern filling his face.

“Like I’d tell you anything!” You snapped, raising the sword a little higher. “You proved last night that you didn't love or care about me! You just want me dead!” You cried, tears falling from your eyes

“What?! Of course I love you! We came to find you, you had been gone for an hour! I was worried. Finnick cried, his own tears falling down his cheeks. “We only just got to you because last night we were chased by swarming monkeys and almost died due to poisonous fog?! How could you have heard anything we said, you were miles away! We searched high nd low!!” Finnick cried, trying to reach his hands out to you.

“Any closer and I’ll put this sword through your heart.” Your own heart was racing, unsure of what to believe anymore … you felt dazed and confused and disorientated, nothing felt real anymore. 

“Don’t you trust me?” Finnick whispered, heartbreak lacing every word that he spoke.

“I don’t know.” You sobbed.

Your body felt like it was on fire, every inch you moved was agony … you were going to die in here whether it was by Finnick or something else taking you out. You weren’t going to make it to the rebellion.

Loud sobs echoed through the forest as you dropped to your knees, body finally giving out on you.

Finnick was over to you in seconds, not caring if you fought him off with knives or threats of violence. He pulled you to his chest and you trembled against him, sweat lacing your brows.

“It’s okay … It’s okay. I got you.” Finnick whispered, rocking you both. “God Y/N I can’t lose you in here, I can’t. I lost Mags already, you have to fight whatever happens. You have to know that I love you.” He sobbed, holding you as close as possible. 

“I can’t” You thrashed desperately trying to pull away from him, out of fear or something else, you didn’t know. “I can’t!” 

“Please.” Finnick begged, keeping his grip on you.

You stopped fighting in that moment, letting yourself fall against him, your body felt numb and you didn’t think you had it in you to keep going. 

“Y/N?”

The sky seemed bluer in that moment as you looked towards it, it was gorgeous as the sun shone through the trees. Finnick’s face filled your vision and you felt a warmth overtake you … you were safe … you had to be … he didn’t really want to kill you did he?

“I love you.” Finnick said, voice hoarse as his hand traced the edges of your face. “Please stay.”

“I love you.”  You told him.

The jungle was quiet again, too quiet despite the long eventful night and the only thing that could be heard was the sound of cannon fire in the air.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

TW: medical, medical gaslighting, possible character death

"Do something!" A yells panickedly to anyone nearby, clutching B's limp hand.

"A, you need to calm down. Both of you need to calm down," the nearest nurse snaps.

"Calm down?! What do you mean they need to calm down?! They passed out! How much calmer do you want them to be?!"

[rainintheevening]

31. “Don’t worry about me.” for Steve and Bucky! <3

Been awhile since I did one of these. Feel really rusty. Here, beloved, have a late birthday present.

WWII. Here be angst. Open ending.

31. "Don't worry about me."

Snow battered against the other side of the glass, cold puffs of air coming sharply in at the corners of the sash. Beneath Bucky's fingers the windowsill started to creak, and he hastily let go.

He held himself quite still, hardly daring to breathe, staring blankly out at the storm. A jagged lump sat in the back of his throat, aching, raw.

He wanted to cry, to shout, he wanted to punch something, he wanted to take everyone of those HYDRA agents and beat their brains in. Right now, he could do it and he wouldn't even blink.

From behind him came a soft rustle, a murmur, "Buck?"

The wave of hot rage stilled, retreated, leaving only cold fear to pool in his chest. He turned quickly, strode two steps to the bedside. Sank to his knees.

"I'm right here, Steve. Right here."

He reached to press his cold fingers against Steve’s warm cheek. Too warm? He wasn't sure. He didn't know anymore.

He used to be able to tell Steve’s temperature within five degrees by touch alone. Now, it was all different, Steve was different, and that was supposed to be good! That difference was supposed to save him! And now... now nothing could.

Steve’s one working eye cracked open, a dark slit.

"Bucky?"

Bucky leaned forward, into the line of view of that single eye, and it widened enough for him to glimpse that warm blue. "Hey, pal. You hangin' in there?"

"Buck."

One corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, and then his eye closed, and he seemed to fall a little, fingers slipping on an icy ledge above a dark canyon with no bottom.

Something in Bucky's stomach lurched after him, but there was nothing for Bucky to grab.

Steve’s hands lay quite still at his sides. His chest rose and fell, erratic and slow.

Bucky had wiped away all the blood he could, taking the enormous risk of lighting a fire to melt water and heat the tiny, one-room cabin. He'd used up every bandage he could, and torn up his own shirt and undershirt for more. He'd dribbled a little cool water into Steve’s mouth, but his friend had turned his head away.

Now he brushed his thumb lightly over Steve's dry lips, bit his own together hard. How long did they have? An hour? Probably more, seeing how Steve had survived this long.

He stayed kneeling by Steve’s side, touching his brother's face, the bandages that covered where a large portion of his skull should have been. Rested his hand on the muscled chest that had replaced the thin one. Let his hand fall to grip Steve’s, and linked their fingers.

Should he leave, hike out into the snowstorm on the off chance some of the others might still be near? They'd been scattered by the ambush, and he wasn't even sure who had made it out of that death trap alive. Perhaps none of them had.

He glanced down to where he had applied the tourniquets, one above the ankle, the other high up on Steve's thigh.

Should he have done that—tried to stem the bleeding? Maybe it would have been more merciful not to, to make it go quick, to end this. Wouldn't it? Even now, he still had his revolver. He knew exactly where to put bullets, how to make it fast.

Bucky gulped back a wave of nausea. No, hell no! He couldn't, he couldn't, no matter how 'merciful' it might be. He'd spent well over a decade preserving Steve’s life, how could he stop now?

What would Steve want? Was he suffering? He didn’t seem to be in pain. Did he know how horrific his injuries were? Did he know he was dying?

"Buck."

He lifted his head sharply, blinked back hot tears. Steve’s eye was still closed.

"Yeah, I'm here, Steve." He pressed a wet kiss to the back of Steve’s hand.

There was no answer.

The only thing Steve had said since he first surfaced to consciousness was Bucky's name, like a reflex, as enduring and un-erasable as breathing or pulse.

Cold, exhausted, broken in his spirit in a way he had never been before, Bucky slumped against the bed, cutching Steve’s hand against his chest, and gave himself up to tears.

How would he live without Steve? How could the world even continue to turn without that warm, shining light of Steve’s presence in it? All those times before, when Steve had wandered off the edge, had nearly been pulled under, and Bucky had begged him to come back, had fought off Death itself with a stick. He'd come to think Steve was always going to make it, always going to recover.

"Please, God, please!" he choked out between sobs.

He'd prayed for Steve before, and Steve had always made it through the night. He'd prayed sometimes, in the early days of his torture after Azzano, begging Someone to come and save him. And someone had.

"He needs to live. He's so good, he's my friend, he deserves to live."

But what was the point now? Steve had literally had his brains blown out, he'd lost big chunks of his legs, he had shrapnel in his stomach. There was no medicine, no doctor that could put Steve back together now.

"I don't want to kill him, I can't!" Bucky choked out. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry, I can't. I couldn't live with that."

He caught his breath, swallowed back a sob, and lifted his wet face. A glance at the chair by the fireplace, where his revolver lay.

He had more than one bullet.

"Bucky."

He whipped his head around to glance at Steve, hot shame pouring over him.

How could he think that? Steve would be so disappointed, he'd be horrified.

Steve’s hand twitched a little in Bucky's, and Bucky cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Yeah, I'm here, pal. With you. To the end–" He couldn't finish.

Time ceased to carry it's old meanings, there was only the space between breaths, the whisper of his name that got quieter with each reiteration.

At some point he got up to pile more wood on the fire, and stand, staring at the revolver for too long.

"Buck?"

He could barely hear it, but he turned away, moved back to the bed. This time he moved around it, and gingerly sat on the dusty mattress, stripped off his coat, shivered slightly as the air hit his bare skin.

Carefully he stretched out beside Steve, turned toward his friend, pressing close, trying to be tender, to be gentle, as he spread his coat over both of them. He pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, so big now.

"Listen, Steve, listen to me. Please. I'm here, and I'll stay until you don't need me anymore, that's a promise."

The tears had passed, and he could say this steadily now, dry-eyed.

"You can go. Okay? Go whenever you're ready. I know Aunt Sarah would love to see you again, and your dad. I know they're both so proud of you. Not half as proud as I am, but still really proud."

"Buck."

It was barely a breath.

All that enhanced body that had saved Steve’s life so many times in this crazy war, and now it meant he died slow, fighting a losing battle to fix itself, to mend parts that were no longer there.

"Don't worry about me," Bucky whispered, mouth close to Steve's ear. "I'll be fine. You can go, okay? Don't worry about me."

A long silence.

He smelled sweat and blood and smoke. A cold draught curled under the coat, but Steve was still warm against his chest and side. The fire crackled quietly, somewhere the roof was leaking in a steady drip-drip-drip-drip.

"Buuuuck."

Long, drawn out on a sigh, but oddly warm, an aching suggestion of a smile edging it with love.

Bucky didn't lift his head, he just closed his eyes, and held Steve as close as he could.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm with you to the end of the line."

Snow pattered quietly against the glass, piling up on the outer sill.

[iriel3000]

Hold On, I Still Need You

Whumptober Day 14: “Just hold on.”

CLINT WHUMP, NATASHA WHUMP, very whumpy, possible character death, maybe

Summary: Clint scrambles to get to an injured Natasha after an explosion. Unable to send extraction or aid, Maria Hill listens helplessly.

AN: part of a story. I'm not sure if I'm using Maria or Steve yet. that's why he is in header, but she is in the fic. This is only a 2nd rough draft(one hour writing sprint plus one proof) more will be added before I post to ao3 after whumptober is over.

“Widow, get out of the building!”

“Two more rooms, then we’re clear.”

“I don’t give a fuck. The north end has been breached. They'll hit the tripwires. Get out, now.”

“Almost done.”

“Nat, even if you find them, you’re too far…”

An explosion rocked the area, knocking Clint on his ass. He leapt up and rushed to the ledge of the rooftop about a kilometer away from his partner.

“Widow, respond!”

Nothing.

Barton jumped onto the fire escape and tore down the wobbly stairs.

“Answer me, goddamnit!” He raced down a back alleyway, avoiding the chaos of people screaming and pouring into the streets.

“Clint.”

tbc

Find the updated story here.......Hold On, I Still Need You

[teacupcollector]

Art Of Misdirection Part 3 Sneak Peak

Ghost stays silent. Not because Soap is right, but because he is unable to come up with an answer. Technically yes she was. He didn't want it to be that way, but she dug her grave and now she had to lie in it, and that is exactly what he said.

"She dug the grave for herself and she had to lie in it! It was sacrifice the few to save the lives of the many! You need to understand that I made a logical choice! You need to separate your emotions from situations like this or it will get you killed!" Ghost sees Soap change stance.

He knew that Soap was going to punch him in the face the moment he stepped outside the tent. He knew he deserved it, but just because he deserved it doesn't mean he was going to let it happen. Before any action could take place Gaz steps out of the tent. A/N: Hello my loves. It has been a long time since I have updated. i am sorry for my long time away. I promise I will be getting back to writing soon. For now. Enjoy "The Art Of Misdirection Part 3" Sneak Peak. It isn't done yet, but I think this is a decent chunk. I have bever done sneak peeks before, so I hope you enjoy!

[soundwavessparkmate]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49865785

The fanfic is back & it's on fire again! :)

[nexusofdomains]

A few months ago I participated in an informal (systemless) roleplay campaign over email/video call with various members of my primary writing group. This campaign, "Stranger's Quest" (it's on hiatus) is so rudimentary that there's no health system. The only player character deaths were planned between myself and the game master*. One of these two deaths was of Aira, an anthropomorphic Arctic wolf from my setting, Nexus. She died a warrior's death, slaying a bear-like monster before succumbing to her wounds. The other death was of a villain PC in the same session.

I had my doubts, but Aira’s death was all well and good until last week, when I began the development of a short story featuring an organization Aira helped found.

Please reblog for sample size

*The gm of "Stranger's Quest" is a neat dude my writing group has nicknamed "Sir Ben" because of his interest in chivalry. He and I are both weapon and armor nerds.

[coffeeangelinabox]

Febuwhump #13: You weren't supposed to get hurt

Caretaker crouches over Whumpee's still form. "Whumpee?" He whispers, then screams it as she shakes him like a ragdoll. "WHUMPEE!"

Whumpee's head flops back and forth like a ragdoll's and he slumps, still bleeding, into Caretaker's arms.

"No," Caretaker murmurs, "no, no, no."

Rain mingles with the tears on his face. He can still feel Whumpee's heartbeat - just - fluttering against his own like a panicked bird. It's too weak, too frantic, and they are miles from help. The best Caretaker can hope for is this, to ensure that Whumpee knows he's not alone.

He barely glances up at the squishing sound of a footstep, but when Whumper simply continues to stare down at them, huddled in the mud, he can't help but glare upward. Whumper merely smiles at the devastation writ large on Caretaker's face.

He looks down at them for a moment longer, enjoying his position of power, then crouches on the other side of Whumpee. Caretaker pulls him deeper into his arms, but he's tall and heavy (dead weight) and he can't move far. Whumper reaches out and touches the side of Whumpee's neck lightly, taking his pulse. He clicks his tongue in mock sympathy.

"Why?" Caretaker rasps.

"Well, I imagine because of the knife you pulled out of his guts. People aren't meant to have their insides become their outsides, you know."

Caretaker growls and Whumper has no doubt that if he didn't have Whumpee in his arms, breathing his last against Caretaker's jugular, he would leap at him. In such a situation, Whumper might even be afraid. Mama Bears have nothing on Caretaker when his protective instincts are roused.

"But why?" he insists, and his voice catches, a prelude to tears that Whumper has every intention of enjoying when they finally spill. "I did everything that you asked. I-"

He doesn't finish, he doesn't have to. Whumper knows. And Caretaker is telling the truth. With Whumpee on the online, he had been absolutely, perfectly, beautifully obedient, no matter how he hated the order. That had been almost as lovely as the tears yet to come.

"I did everything you wanted," he whispers again, sounding as agonised as if it's his innards flayed and serrated by the vicious blade still lying in the muck. "We had a bargain. You promised. He wasn't supposed to get hurt."

[deimostes]

thing i keep thinking about

part 2

[moonlit-tulip]

It's often noted, in discussions of the Death Note anime, that it's much weaker than the manga in its rendition of post-timeskip events partly for pacing reasons: the pre-timeskip parts of the anime adapt ~6.5 manga-volumes in 25 episodes, while the post-timeskip parts adapt ~5.5 in 12 episodes, so a lot more important detail-work is lost and the whole thing ends up feeling kind of perfunctory.

Much less often noted as far as I've seen, but nonetheless also true, is that the Death Note anime removes some important characterization-nuance from Light, starting right near the beginning, whose presence elevates the manga to be substantially better than the anime even before the time-skip.

In particular: the Death Note manga is, at its core, a tragedy in classic "character who has everything falls into ruin due to a fatal personal flaw" style. Light is a brilliant student who, in the future ahead of him, has the potential to do practically whatever he wants. He's driven to ruin by the fatal flaw of unwillingness to admit, either to others or to himself, when he's made a mistake. This flaw is an essential piece of his characterization, in the manga. And the anime pretty much entirely skips over it.

As portrayed in the manga, Light's decision to become Kira—which ultimately leads to his downfall—is made in the following way. First, he finds the Death Note, and is led by morbid curiosity to write a name in it, killing someone. Then, still not really believing it, he kills a second person too. At which point it hits him that he's killed two people. And at that point, after a viscerally-horrified breakdown about what he's done, the inability to admit mistakes kicks in, and he proceeds to rewrite his own value-system such that it yields the result that killing those people was actually okay, and in fact morally good. Because the alternative would be for him to acknowledge himself as having made a terrible mistake, and that, more than anything else, is something he's unwilling to do if he can see any other option at all. And then, having convinced himself that those two murders were good, he proceeds to reason that, if they were good, then doing more like them is good; and thus he becomes Kira, leading eventually, far down the line, to his ruin. The anime, by contrast, substantially deemphasizes this flaw of his, portraying him as much more calmly put-together through that series of events and thus making him come across as having been tempted in becoming-Kira-ward directions all along.

Similarly, in the anime, when Light leaks a bunch of information to L about his identity by using non-public information acquired via police channels, he declares that actually this was deliberate as a means of baiting L out so he can kill him, and the anime presents this declaration pretty uncritically. The manga, by contrast, presents it as an extension of that same character-flaw: Light is unwilling to admit to having actually just straightforwardly messed up, and therefore makes up a new plan to view himself to have been following-all-along, thus leading him to take more risks in his game against L going forward and thus, once again, helping him along the path to ruin.

Et cetera.

Compared with the manga, then, the anime's version of Light's characterization ends up less interesting. And, moreover, it introduces a plot hole, when the Yotsuba arc comes around! It makes it much less clear why an amnesiac Light would be so straightforwardly aligned against Kira. In the manga, this is pretty clear: a Light who never killed anyone wouldn't have rewritten his values to consider killing people to be good, and therefore would look at Kira as straightforwardly evil. And, in fact, his amnesiac self has trouble taking the possibility of his having been Kira previously, even as the evidence starts building up, because becoming Kira would be a mistake according to his value-system of the moment, and this leaves him having a very hard time contemplating the possibility of its having in fact happened! Whereas the anime, by deemphasizing Light's big flaw, makes his amnesiac-self's differences from the way he is for most of the story up to that point come across as much more out-of-nowhere, much less narratively well-founded.

So, overall, the people who talk about the Death Note manga as superior to the anime specifically post-timeskip strike me as somewhat understating things. The manga is superior to the anime pre-timeskip, too, via that extra layer of characterization and a resulting improvement both in character-interestingness and in plot-coherence. And thus I consider the manga to be very much the definitive version of Death Note from start to finish, despite the anime's relatively-higher popularity.

[cak3iscake]

"Basically what happens is, Grace and Max are right about to win. They're right about to do it. And then, there's a groaning. In the floorboards. Suddenly, the staircase gives out beneath Grace and Max, and they fall through the floors. They fall stories. Pieces of wood shove through their chests, and they both are killed."

"But keep this in mind, nothing truly dies in the Waylon house. Grace and Max become ghosts, and they're off doing whatever, but they're no longer involved in the tournament."

So.. that Pit Stop in Hatchetfield tag team deathmatch huh.

[andstuffsketches]

Maybe not Impulse, But I think she would date Cissie

a glimpse into a possible future....

[aingeal98]

More Jason and Cass thoughts (sorry but also not sorry) but if I was magically given full control over DC and could write what I'd want obviously I'd make Cass Batman but I've been thinking of what sort of reaction and role Jason would have in response. I think I'd write his version of "Congrats on the new job!" as a test, involving the Joker and civilians and gangs and Red Hood and a ton of explosives. Bruce failed me, and now he's given up. You're his successor, let's see how you handle this dilemma that freaked him out so badly he threw a batarang into my throat rather than let me avenge my own death in front of him.

So obviously Cass will overcome the traps and the puzzles. That's the fun part to show how competent both of them are and sprinkle in little character moments as we go. But then we reach the emotional crux of the matter, probably laid out as some sort of saw trap because it's Jason. Here I am, a victim of murder. You say nobody dies tonight but I did, and I want the man who did it dead. Not only did Batman fail to avenge me but he failed to stop the Joker from going on to create even more victims. What right do you have to stop me from getting justice for myself? What right does this man have to life after what he's taken from me and from countless others? I'm not trying to kill a random stranger, I'm specifically demanding justice for my own death that I never got while I was gone.

There are two ways this could go. The straightforward route if I knew my time on this run was limited would probably be a pyrrhic victory like the ones Cass's og series was so fond of. Just like Bruce in utrh, she acts on instinct and saves the Joker (and Jason this time) . A win technically, but she fails the test. Jason is once again vindicated but with nothing to show for it. The story ends with Cass sending the Joker back to jail and going back to the batcave, where the old Robin costume looms judgementally, highlighting her failure. It would be the most fitting end given their character molds, all tragedy and conviction and unstoppable force meets immovable object etc.

However... I think the option I prefer would be a little different. Cass levelling with Jason, a killer talking to a murder victim. She has no right to stop Jason from getting justice, she has no love for the Joker but she knows any death she allows to happen like this would devastate her, just like that death row inmate long ago she tried to break out but ended up letting go once the family of the victim talked to her and demanded justice. I think... In this specific situation, she'd just be honest. Morally she has no right sure. Personally she just really really doesn't want anyone to die. Give her one chance, please. Let her try it her way. Not demanding, not lecturing or insisting, just... Please. Don't do this. Let me try another way.

And then what? Jason asks.

In the end a deal is struck. Cass will take the Joker and lock him up, ensuring he never harms anyone again while also trying to rehabilitate him. But the second she fails and he gets free, Jason kills him and she won't stand in his way. It's the kind of deal that leaves both of them mildly disgusted and dissatisfied with themselves, neither of them naturally creatures of compromise when it comes to this specific topic. But Cass is willing to do anything to avoid death and Jason did not expect the new Bat to be so... Flexible? Kind of? Of course maybe she won't actually hold up her end of the deal and when the Joker gets loose she'll try and stop Jason from killing him and he'll get his miserable vindication, but right now this is something strange and new and he's mildly confused and curious about where it will go. He doesn't believe in her ability to contain the Joker forever but he's willing to let her try because her reaction to that future failure interests him. She's given him a sword of damocles to hang above her head and he didn't ask for it or expect it. It's the type of power he never thought the Bat would just... Hand to him.

The conflict ends with neither of them fully winning or losing. They both don't really know what to feel about this.

The thing is, the second Cass let's Jason kill the Joker she's hanging up the mantle. She's staking the Bat on this, because it's always go big or go home with her when it comes to saving others, even someone like the Joker. In this magical universe where I have unlimited power, Cass would lock the Joker in a secret bunker and have Leslie Thompkins talk to him daily, mostly because I think her pacifism speeches and debates in the comics would make a fun contrast to the Joker's evil sadism. (But what about his rights? Doesn't he deserve a trial and to be held in a regular prison? I'm going to be honest I think Cass would be very comfortable bending the rules on this specific situation. Morally questionable but I'd have fun with it. She's going to let Leslie treat Joker like her personal pet project to save his soul because yes she wants him to change but also she's got a city to save every night so go crazy Leslie, have fun.)

And the Batman series would continue with Cass as the lead, new challenges and new antagonists and every twenty issues or so for the first hundred we'll cut back to the Joker briefly if his chats with Leslie can help highlight some thematic element of the current arc. But bit by bit he'd slowly fade away onto oblivion, maybe getting referenced every hundred issues or so until eventually no one remembers or cares about him because there's so much else going on. Meanwhile Jason's got a good thing going as Red Hood, primarily based in Park Row and a tentative ally on the occasion when their vigilante work aligns. Unlike Joker he's a much more frequent character in the comics, and after say 10 years (this is my magical fantasy universe Cass's batman run is going to last for a very long time alright) when people think of DC characters they think of Red Hood long before they think of the Joker.

Is any of this realistic? Right now of course not. It's why I'd go with the pyrrhic victory if I actually got the chance, because it would be the best way to tell the story in the larger context of the Bat narrative. But it's my fantasy DC editor and writer daydream and I'm going to dream big. They're never going to be normal happy siblings, their personal demons will never fully let them be free and the looming possibility of losing everything they currently have narrative wise if Bruce comes back as Batman will always be there. But it's maybe the closest to peace they'll ever get. Unsatisfying and tame compromise that probably violates several laws and ethical codes but whatever. Cass has never read the Geneva convention and Jason's not going to shed tears over the Joker. Let him die relevancy wise if not physically.

[aroaceleovaldez]

re: [this post] / [this post] and thinking about the "usually depicted with unnatural or semi-unnatural eye colors" club

[firewasabeast]

here's some completely self-indulgent smut. it's not good, but who cares, right? tags: implied mcd (based off of spoilers), grief, cockwarming and a blowjob as a form of comfort.

His funeral was tomorrow.

Buck was pretty sure the only time he’d spent not crying over the last four days was when he’d tire himself out and fall asleep.

Tommy was always by his side. Day and night, he was only ever out of arms reach long enough to go to the bathroom or get them some food that he’d force Buck to eat.

Their big, romantic, happy reunion had quickly been clouded over by the news.

Buck felt his whole world crumble around him. A reminder that nothing he loves ever stays. It always gets ripped away somehow.

So he clung to Tommy. He clung more than he’s ever clung to anyone or anything before. And he hoped. He hoped Tommy wouldn’t run for the door. He hoped that, when he closed his eyes, Tommy would be there when he opened them again.

And he always was.

To wipe every tear. To wrap his arms around him. To reassure him. To tell him he’s gonna be okay. To feed him. To help him in the shower. To get him dressed.

Buck was in love.

There was no doubt in his mind.

He couldn’t say it. Not right now. Not when… when everything was wrong and the ground underneath him had never been more unsteady. But he’d say it soon. He wouldn’t let the opportunity pass him by this time.

And one day, he’d return the favor. He’d hold Tommy, and wipe his tears, and reassure him, and make sure he ate and showered.

He’d told him as much too. Two nights earlier, wrapped up in Tommy’s arms, he’d whispered, “I’m sorry I- I’m so needy right now. I- I can’t help it.”

Tommy had responded by pulling him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Don’t ever apologize for needing me, Evan. I love taking care of you.”

“You always take care of me,” Buck replied. “I know you’re sad too.”

“It’s different. I know that. Taking care of you helps me. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m here.”

Buck sniffed, and Tommy stroked his thumb over Buck’s cheek to wipe away a tear. “I’ll h- hold you, whenever you need it.”

“Baby,” Tommy murmured, reaching back to where Buck’s hand gripped at his waist. He gave it a squeeze. “You’re holding me right now.”

Now, lying in bed the day before the funeral, listening to Tommy read a book on grief that Margaret had recommended in a text, Buck needed… something. Something more than what had sufficed over the past few days. His body was starting to feel antsy, like bugs were crawling all under his skin. His legs ached in a way they hadn’t in years. His brain was spinning in circles, with Tommy’s words repeating again and again.

“I love taking care of you.”

“Taking care of you helps me.”

Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m here.”

“Baby.”

“I love taking care of you.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

Buck had stopped paying attention to the things Tommy was saying a few minutes ago. His head rested on Tommy’s chest, hearing that steady thump, thump, thump, and his wet eyes kept drifting down to Tommy’s waistband. The shirt he was wearing was already pulled up a bit, Buck’s hand settled over his stomach.

Slowly, he began to move his fingers. Not very much at first. Just enough to drift down to the edge of the waistband.

Tommy's breath hitched slightly, pausing briefly before he went back to reading.

Buck waited a few seconds. Then he nudged his pinky under the elastic.

“Evan, I don’t-”

Buck turned his head to look up at Tommy. “Please,” he pleaded. “My head’s going crazy. I- I just need something. I- please. Need it. Need you. I-”

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, quick to fold when Buck asked for anything. “It’s okay, Evan. You want me to keep reading?”

More tears welled up in Buck’s eyes, but for a different reason this time. He didn’t even have to tell Tommy what he was needing. Tommy just knew.

Tommy always knew.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Yes, I- I’ll listen.”

“I’m fine either way,” Tommy reassured him. “It’s a good book.”

Buck moved around to straddle Tommy’s thighs, and Tommy lifted himself up just enough for Buck to pull his sweatpants down under his ass.

Tommy spread his legs then, and Buck laid between them, flat on his stomach.

With one hand holding the book open, Tommy tangled his other in Buck’s hair. Not pulling or tugging, just resting there. “Take what you need, Evan,” he said softly, leaning back against the pillows.

Even when he wasn’t hard, Tommy was big, so Buck took a deep breath and relaxed his jaw before taking half of him into his mouth.

He sighed contentedly, laying his head down against Tommy’s groin, a hand on each hip.

Once he knew Buck was settled, Tommy continued to read.

He read two chapters before resting the book against his chest to steal a glance at Buck.

Buck held Tommy’s cock in his mouth, body still and eyes closed. A small puddle of drool dripping off Buck’s mouth and onto Tommy’s pubes.

It was the most relaxed Tommy had seen him since they’d gotten the news.

He’d never forget that moment. They were at the hospital, expecting to hear good news.

Instead, a doctor came out with a somber look on his face.

And before he could even finish saying he was sorry, Buck was falling into Tommy’s arms as he sobbed.

Tommy moved the book to the nightstand. He scratched at Buck’s scalp, unsure if he was asleep or not.

A slight problem started to occur, however, as Buck began to suck ever so slightly at Tommy’s cock. His tongue making tiny back and forth motions.

Tommy bit at his lip, trying the best he could to not get hard.

It didn’t seem to be working.

Blearily, Buck blinked his eyes open, peering up at Tommy with sleepy eyes.

“Sorry,” Tommy whispered, running his hand through Buck’s curls. “Didn’t mean to.”

Buck pulled off of Tommy’s cock with a pop, his eyes darkening as he stared up at him. “Will you come down my throat?”

Tommy took a deep breath, his cock twitching with the thought. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I do,” Buck replied. “But do you?”

“It’s not about me, Evan.”

Buck’s lip twitched up ever so slightly. “Kinda is a little bit though.”

Tommy smiled back at him. “If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

Buck nodded, “I’m okay,” he said, a bashfulness to him that Tommy had never seen before. “I need it, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, okay.”

Buck took Tommy back in his mouth, this time taking all of him. He gripped his hips as he swallowed him down, nails digging into Tommy’s flesh.

“Fuck,” Tommy muttered, tensing up to keep himself still as Buck bobbed up and down. The vibrations from his moans, along with the fact Buck had been holding him in his mouth for nearly half an hour, had Tommy nearing the edge much faster than normal.

“Evan,” he gasped, giving Buck a few seconds warning in case he changed his mind, “close.”

Buck only went down further, humming as Tommy’s cock hit the back of his throat.

With a low groan, Tommy came, pulsing into Buck’s mouth. Buck swallowed every drop, continuing to suck until Tommy hissed, his legs folding around Buck’s back.

Buck pulled up and off of him, wiping the spit from the sides of his mouth before tucking Tommy back into his sweatpants.

“What do you need?” Tommy asked, panting still, as Buck crawled back up the bed. He practically burrowed himself into Tommy’s side.

“Nothing,” Buck replied with a raspy voice. Tommy made a mental note to get him some water soon. “Just h- hold me, please.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around Buck, pulling him closer so his head was back on his chest. Buck hitched his leg in between Tommy’s, nearly laying directly on top of him. “Tommy?”

Tommy ran a hand up and down Buck’s back soothingly, “Yeah, Baby?”

“I really miss him.”

“I know, Evan.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for being here.”

Tommy held onto Buck even tighter, leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Of course, Evan.”

[endless-nightshift]

There's something so sad to me about the fact Lan Xichen goes from happily encouraging Lan Wangji to befriend Wei Wuxian to Considering Wei Wuxian to be Lan Wangjis 'only mistake'

Like... Imaging getting a miracle second chance not only at life but to have be loved by the man you've always admired only to find out that his family detests you because during the worst time in your life, physically and mentally you didn't take into account the idea that a man who'd always treated with cool acquaintance at best, active distaste at worst actually cared about you and that his constant reproach and effort get you do give up the one method you have to protect yourself while everyone was literally actually out for your head was honestly because he was badly wording his concern and not because he hated you and the methods you used to survive.