#even after death

[disproportionatelysculpting]

my only religion is Art, the only god I answer to is myself.

[silverhandj]

still reeling from that twitter reply from mike pondsmith when I asked if both johnny and alt would get closure and all he responded with was: one's dead, the other is million old, powerful NET demon. Sometimes you don't get closure.

[resident-gay-bitch]

a little ode to eddie munson, may he rest in peace. i know techincally it's not his death day anymore for me, but somewhere in the world it is. anyway, have this, its sad as fuck.

hurt / comfort, eddie and his mamma. 1.6k words

**

He let out a sharp breath, a pained whimper, curling in on himself on the hard ground. It was dark, wherever he was, he could tell even with his eyes closed. But it wasn’t cold, not anymore. 

Here, the air was cleaner, it had an inviting smell and warmth about it. But that didn’t change the hollow feeling Eddie felt deep in his chest. He clutched it, gripping the cotton of the shirt over his heart until his nails dug into flesh and the tips of his fingers were white. 

He didn’t have a heartbeat, not anymore. 

He was crying. Hot tears streamlined down his cheeks and into his hair, mixed with saliva and mucus. But no blood. Not anymore. 

His body didn’t ache either. The sharp needle-like teeth of the demon-bats were not slicing through his flesh and tearing out his insides anymore. He couldn’t feel the blood pooling under him and soaking into the dirt below. He couldn’t feel Dustin's warm arms wrapped around him, couldn’t hear his cries. 

It was quiet here. Desolate. Almost eerie. 

“Shh.” He heard a soft voice mutter from behind. It was familiar. It sounded like home. 

“You’re safe now.” It whispered again, and a warm hand outstretched to stroke through his curls, “You’re safe now, my baby.” 

Eddie stuttered his crying, tensing up. He was scared to look, worried he’d lost his mind and settled into a state of delusion. He slowly looked back over his shoulder to see who knelt there beside him, who lent the tender hand on his hair, who had the voice that felt like home. He wanted to see if he'd lost his mind, or if it was really who he’d hoped it was. 

She smiled at him, with a halo of curls that had more spring in them than Eddies, big bambi eyes just like his own, “Mamma?” 

She smoothed her hands over each of his cheeks and brushed away his sticky tears, “I’m here.” She whispered again, almost like a plea, “Mammas here, my brave boy.” 

Eddie sobbed, clinging to her with dear life. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gripped at the shirt on her back harder than he gripped his own just before. His tears soaked through the fabric of her collar, but she didn’t seem to mind it. She rubbed a hand over his back and scrunched the curls at the base of his neck, humming a soft lullaby Eddie hadn’t heard since he was eight. 

His heart ached. He’d missed it, her song. It was a tale of a mighty warrior who sacrificed her life to save her child, passed down through many generations of Munson women. When Eddie couldn’t sleep as a boy, she’d sit on the edge of his bed and run her trembling hands through his hair and sing it so softly until he fell asleep. 

He thought it was ironic, in a way, that she used to sing this song to him and died protecting her baby, when she stepped in front of the bullet her husband intended to shoot through Eddie’s shoulder. It was fucked up, he needed an alibi or something for some dodgy shit, and so his first thought was to put his son in the hospital for one. 

It’s like she’d been telling him the tale of her death his whole life, and it hurt to think about when he lay in bed alone at night, with nightmares keeping him up, with no mamma to sing him back to sleep.

She’d died for her little one, her little sheep like she used to call him, with the way he’d follow her around all day every day as a boy. 

Eddie supposed it was like an ode to her, when he died for his own little sheep. When he took the bullet for a boy who was too young to be going through something so horrible, when he had so much more life inside him to live. 

He never thought he’d hear the song again. He never thought he’d hear her sing it to him again, to have her arms wrapped safely around him, comforting him when he had nowhere else to go. 

He never thought he’d be so lucky. 

She kissed the top of his head, and his temple, and the place above his ear a hundred times over, and he heard when she choked on the lyrics and when there was a tremble in her tune. 

“I’ve got you, my little sheepie.” She whispered into his ear, her voice as soft as silk and comforting him in a way he’d thought he’d lost forever, “Mamma’s got you. You’re so brave. You’re so brave.” 

“I missed you.” Eddie managed to choke out, his throat hurt from crying so much, but that didn’t matter now. 

Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing except his mamma. 

“I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too, baby.” Her voice was muffled by his hair, but he heard her well enough, “I missed you every day, watching you grow up. You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. You’re such a beautiful boy, so brave, so good. I love you. I love you, Eddie.” 

“I love you too.” He cried, pulling back just enough to look at her again, because he was missing the sight of her smile already. It had been so long since he really got to look at her. It had been too long. 

She looked exactly the same as she did that day, when he lost her, only this time she seemed healthier. There were no worry lines tattooed on her face, no cuts or swelling bruises, no bags under her eyes. 

Oh, her eyes. They really did look just like his. Wayne used to tell him all the time, every time Eddie would look in his reflection with a sombre mood, playing with the ends of his hair and wishing it might be hers instead. It was one of his favourite things about them as a boy, that they matched. That they’d always match. 

The longer he had without her, the more he doubted how similar they actually were. The more he looked at his own empty reflection, the less he saw her in his own eyes. 

He sobbed, a happy cry with a wet smile as he drew a line over her cheekbone with the tip of his pale finger. He traced it over the bride of her nose and her eyebrows, dusted it over her lashes. They really were the same, big brown, soul bearing eyes. Only this time they were bright. The tears in them were not tainted with worry or fear, they were glistening, even in the dark, dripping down her face and leaving a shimmer like stardust. They were happy, and hurt, and overwhelmed, and loving. 

Eddie had never seen his mother cry like this before. If he ever saw her cry as a boy, it was after his father had hurt her, and they’d burn down the gashes and bruises on her cheeks and chill Eddie to the bone. 

He never thought he’d be relieved to see his mother cry, until now, when these tears told him everything he’d ever wanted to know. 

That she was safe, rested, no longer scared of her own existence and worried sick about being able to put food on her son's plate. 

He couldn’t believe he had his mamma again. 

“I’m so selfish.” She said, sweeping his bangs back out of his eyes and laughing. It was the sweetest song he’d ever heard, to hear her laugh again. To know that he could have her laugh again, to know he could make her laugh with his terrible jokes and stupid mannerisms. 

“I should be grieving. I should be cursing the world for taking you out of it so soon. I gave my life so you could have a brighter one, so you could go on and make something of yourself. I should hate that you’re here, crying on my shoulder, only twenty one and taken from that world so brutally.” She sniffled and shook her head, her voice rang in his ears and steadied the thud in his head, “But I’m so selfish. I’ve waited too long to hold my baby again. Look at you- oh, just look at you. I’ve missed you so much.” 

He clung onto her again, holding her tight and making himself small in her hold, crawling into her lap like he did as a boy. 

“I’ve got you now.” She kissed his brow and cradled him close to her chest, “Nothing will ever hurt you again, my baby. I’ll look after you.” 

Eddie pressed himself tighter in her hold, furrowed his brow as more tears spilled. He wrapped a strand of her soft hair around one of his fingers and held it there, just like he’d been wanting to do for the past thirteen years. 

“I’ll look after you too, mamma.” He whispered to her. 

She sniffled and laughed softly, “We can look after each other.” 

He closed his eyes and let her rock them there on the floor. She hummed her song to him, gently scratching his scalp and playing with the unmannered curls of his hair. 

He was eight again, back in her arms, clinging onto her with all the life in his body, listening to her broken sobs as she sang the sweet lullaby and promised he’d be safe. Only this time Eddie was the one who was dying. He was the one who’s blood had been shed to save someone he cared about more than himself. 

But it was okay, because he had her again. She could keep him safe now, she could hold his hand and brush his hair and sing him to sleep when the dreams won't let him. And he can do all the same for her. 

He didn’t feel so hollow anymore. 

In fact, he’d never felt so alive. 

**

now avalible on ao3 :)

happy crying <333

[ruporas]

kiss of the divine

[prideprejudce]

people will always blame alicent and rhaenyra or even daemon for sparking the start of the civil war but at the end of the day it will always come back to viserys and his cowardly decisions. as soon as he allowed himself to be bullied to remarry and to have more kids again, he officially sewed the seeds together for future conflict after his death no matter who he married. like if he had married laena instead of alicent and had sons with her, would the outcome have been so different? do you think rhaenys and corlys would have stood on the sidelines and watched their grandson get passed over? especially after rhaenyra had illegitimate sons that weren't even laenors? that they wouldn't have petitioned their own dance? the snake will always eat its own tail for power, and viserys doomed rhaenyra to her death with his own

[the-most-sublime-fool]

Then, too, at sea—to use a homely but expressive phrase—you miss a man so much. A dozen men are shut up together in a little bark, upon the wide, wide sea, and for months and months see no forms and hear no voices but their own, and one is taken suddenly from among them, and they miss him at every turn. It is like losing a limb. There are no new faces or new scenes to fill up the gap. There is always an empty berth in the forecastle, and one man wanting when the small night watch is mustered. There is one less to take up the wheel, and one less to lay out with you upon the yard. You miss his form, and the sound of his voice, for habit had made them almost necessary to you, and each of your senses feels the loss.

—a sailor's diary entry, on losing a shipmate, ca. 1834 (from Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana Jr.)

[clouvu]

Nothing in the world belongs to me But my love, mine, all mine

[kaysdenofchaos]

cough so i read that future rise comic

and thinking back on the battle scars au, i always wanted it to be canon compliant with just some adjustments and well

haha ill go see myself out now

[scatterbrainedbot]

cass, a professional: order of badass donbot, extra dramatic entrance!

me, nodding, banned from most kitchens: leo drama and angst, heard chef!

(shoutout to @somerandomdudelmao for yet again making feel emotions i cannot fully explain)

[inamindfarfaraway]

It's so funny that Cass worked past her suicidal ideation by actually dying, allowing herself to be murdered, and then being brought back, so she could be like "Hmm. Disappointing" and move on with her life satisfied. All for the sake of being the most badass she could possibly be. Like. On one hand, she achieved her goal and did indeed get more badass afterward. But on the other hand. Therapy exists. She probably didn't need to do that.

[lygma-nygma]

Being a batfam fan is funny because people will make a post like “here’s my headcanon-“ and it’s just something that’s directly canon to the story then post about major canon events and get everything wrong.

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

Imagine Astarion with ears so sensitive that he's never willingly allowed anyone to touch them except for you. Imagine laying next to him in your bed, facing him, lifting your hand up slowly for that first touch. His eyes on yours, the rapidity of the breath he doesn't need to take, but still does reflexively. Seeing that he's nervous, but that he's trusting you, feeling his shaking hand come to rest on your waist. The audible sound he makes- half a moan, half a gasp- when you finally brush your thumb over the soft skin at the tip of his ear.

You trace the long shell of his ear and watch his pretty eyes, deep red like velvet in the moonlight, flutter shut. He says your name softly, as close as you've ever heard him to prayer. You pinch his earlobe gently, and his hips roll forward involuntarily, the jut of his hipbone pressing against your thigh as he makes himself still. Heat flares low in your belly, but you tamp it down as quickly as possible- likewise, Astarion makes himself still against you. This isn't sex and won't become sex, you'd promised each other (though that's not to say that you won't explore this thoroughly during one of your hours-long lovemaking sessions. He is all about experimentation these days, after all).

You lay there, touching him in his most vulnerable place, with reverence and grace and occasionally disbelief that you could be here at all with this beautiful, horrible, ridiculous and wonderful man, that you could be trusted so completely. You take in his every shuddering breath, the flexing of his fingers in your shirt, the softness of his mouth when he presses his lips to yours and tells you he loves you. If you have your way, if he has his, if somehow your utterly insane lives hold together for a year or a decade or ten, it will always be like this.

[symphonyofsilence]

What drives me even more insane about this scene is how you'd expect Gojo to imagine High school era! Geto in the crowd. Or at least not the cult leader, worst of all the curse users Geto Suguru. But no, it's the cult leader Geto. It's Geto as Gojo last remembered him. As Geto last was. Whatever choices Geto made, wherever his choices led him and them, however he was, whoever he was, traumas and messed up ideas and bad choices and ill reputations and scorns and all. Gojo wanted Geto Suguru there. Not any ideal version. Not any "what if" version. Not any "at some point in time before things went downhill" version. Not any "when your hands weren't stained with innocent blood" version. He knew very well what he wanted. And he wanted it all the same. He wanted Geto Suguru. However he was. He just wanted him to be there. He just wanted him to be.

And he didn't want him to help him, he didn't want him to fight with him even if they were strongest together and always fought together for a while. He just wanted him to be there in the crowd and cheer him on. He just wanted him to stand there and give him one of his sweet, heartwarming smiles that shaped his eyes into crescent moons. He just wanted him to be. Then even if Gojo had died in the end anyway, he would have been satisfied. It would have been worth it. Only if Geto was there.

[hellomayu]

in the end, i couldn't save you

[everchased]

at least it'll be wonderful while it lasts.

(a little post-game downtime discussion, when they have the time and space to talk about these things. also in my canon, scratch gets to stay. :/)

[dreagine]

Erm