#implied major character deaths

[theklancecollection]

I'm Gonna Love You (Like It's the End of the World) - GhostOfTheFoot

Word Count: 1, 280

Summary: "One last dance... Please." Lance's voice was small and watery as he looked at Keith. "For life," he moved Keith's arm so it rested on his own. "For love," he stepped even closer, leaving nothing between them, as if nothing would separate them. "For us." Keith dug his head into the nook of Lance's shoulder, holding onto that moment for as long as he could. Lance took that as a yes, and began to sing, singing an old, familiar tune, one not heard for a long time, from Earth.

Keith and Lance are about to be bombarded by Galra enemies, so they share their last dance in the Galra ship's control room.

Rating: M

[megahertzmaroon]

Fool’s Paradise /// Loop

Special thanks two my friends Carol (cowsaresushi) and hatch for helping out with this comic!

Here’s the song that partially inspired the thing.

[meruz]

i watched kore-eda's recent film Monster this past week and i truly.. cannot stop thinking about it. maybe my favorite kore-eda film yet

[ominouspuff]

GUT. PUNCHER. PLEASE. Ö

(also I see the Plo Coon WIP and I’m in the microwave)

In an instant CC-2224 sees the blue on the other clone and recognizes his enemy — knows it is CT-7567 and knows the name he took and the color of his hair.

All that is in him that is screaming — was (always?) screaming — quietens. His finger does not depress upon the trigger. His hand does not twitch towards the backup blaster on his hip.

An instant, a moment, a breath, and a single thought—

I’m no soldier.

CT-7567’s finger is as quick as he knew it would be. Between one moment and the next, Cody is free.

———

Re: Plo Coon — huehue, yess get microwaved (affectionate) (I’m very excited to show you)

[steviewashere]

Stay Away

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Implied Major Character Death, Ambiguous Ending, Canon Injuries/Gore Tags: Pre-Season 4, Season 4, Angst, Time Travel AU, Injured Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Saves Eddie Munson, Stubborn Eddie Munson, Confused Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Lives, Plot Twist That I Can't Tag Because It Would Spoil The Plot, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart For @steddieangstyaugust Day 6 Prompt: "Who did this?"

⌛️—————⌛️ The last thing Eddie’s expecting on his Saturday night is to open the trailer’s front door to see Steve Harrington with a filthy face and even worse body. He’s standing like a weeping willow, hunched into himself, holding his own elbows. His usually styled hair is a stringy, wet mop atop his head—what must’ve resulted from the heavy rainstorm that just ended a few minutes ago. Considering his usual appearances, his outfit is out of the ordinary: grey pleated pants that look similar to sweats, bare feet that are equally as filthy as his face—possibly even more, that typical brown watch of his now with a cracked face, bandages around his middle that look more like t-shirt scraps, and a denim vest with pins and patches that are identical to the ones Eddie wears on his own—in fact, it honestly looks like his, which is impossible considering it’s on his dresser. There’s dirt caked around his hairline, lips, and cheeks. Red rash that spreads on the backs of his arms, just barely visible on the sides for Eddie to spot. And then there’s blood seeping through the scraps.

He’s unsettled, to say the least.

“Wha—Harrington? What in the actual fucking hell is happening right now? Who…Who did this?” He asks, gesturing vaguely at Steve’s outline. There’s something to say, too about his face. That it’s seemingly older. Aged in all these terrible ways—not smile lines and cute crows feet. No, Steve Harrington has dark shadows under his eyes and etches between his eyebrows from furrowing them, a tight bite in his jaw, and impossible to place little white scars. Nothing of what Eddie knows of pristine, well-off, douchebag Steve Harrington from the Family Video counter.

They don’t run in circles close to each other at all. But Eddie’s heard rumors. Heard about Steve’s asshole, overbearing parents—the lengths they take for that perfect “All-American” image of the modern family. About Steve and his prissy habits: positioning strands of hair with spray and gel in the men’s restrooms around town, reapplying sprits of cologne whenever he so damn well feels like it, and plucking every little fiber off his clothes.

The Steve Harrington in front of him looks like he was dished and served by fucking Mohammad Ali. He stands with a frightful panic in his limbs that typically belongs to somebody like Wayne, a veteran soldier. And…god, he absolutely reeks. Like sewer and metal and rot.

Rot.

Eddie takes a step closer, the screen door smacking his backside, but stops abruptly when Steve flinches and his eyes gain a level of clarity that Eddie only sees in psychedelics users. He stops. Gauging. Waiting.

“Eddie,” Steve breathes. “Eddie,” he says like he’s relieved.

He leans his weight away from Steve, putting it all on his back foot. Eyes wide and surely full of apprehension. Why would somebody like Steve Harrington be relieved to see him? “That’s me,” Eddie mutters skeptically, “what do you want? Who did this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve brushes off. He takes a confident step forward, bypassing any movement Eddie makes to block him from entering the trailer. He’s standing in the center of the living room by the time Eddie actually turns around in the doorway and comes back inside. Eyes roaming around the entire room. Catching on the Garfield mug and the empty carpet below his disgusting feet and the huge water leak stain on the ceiling. Then, he looks back at Eddie. Wide eyes. Tears glazing them. A slight trembling working through all his limbs—not like he’s cold, more like a crash of adrenaline.

At a closer look, at a better look in the glow of light from the living space, Steve’s exhausted.

“You sell ketamine,” Steve states, “and you…you keep it here. In the trailer.”

“How do you”—

“This Friday, March 21st, you’re going to conduct a drug deal with the blonde girl on the cheer squad, Chrissy Cunningham. She…she meets you at your picnic table in the woods. And she’s jumpy, a very unusual thing for her. She’s startled by your presence and you’re going to be skeptical about her state of mind. You’re apprehensive about selling to her, but she insists that she’s okay. You”—

Eddie takes a striding step towards Steve, meeting him toe to socked feet on the carpet. His face hot and his eyebrows heavy above his eyes. He holds out a hand to stop Steve. “Are you fucking spying on me? What kind of prank is this? This isn’t fucking funny, man. Even coming from a clown like you.”

“I…I’m not messing around, man,” Steve quietly says. His voice takes on a timid quality. He holds onto his elbows tighter, fingernails clearly digging into his already fragile skin. The blood on his bandages is getting darker and messier, but he pays no mind to it. Eddie doesn’t really want to touch that topic either, even if he may have to help with whatever…butt ugly thing has happened.

A moment later, Steve takes a deep breath and continues, “She wanted weed from you. You weren’t sure why she’d associate with you, but you guys would fall into a quick and polite conversation. You invite her to a gig at the Hideout to watch you and the rest of Corroded Coffin play. But she…” Steve trails at that. Swallows hard, eyes going far away. His skin gaining a movie-made green tint.

“Woah,” Eddie murmurs, placing his hands carefully on Steve’s shoulders, dodging any exposed injuries he can see. He turns Steve around and begins to direct him towards the sofa—trying, with all his might, to ignore the Dio patch on the back of his vest. And to also ride-by the bright red marring on Steve’s arms, the blood prickling through the denim. He instead gingerly sits Steve down on one of the cushions, leaning him back to rest his head atop the back of the sofa. “Take it easy, Harrington. Don’t need you spilling your guts and passing out in my home.”

Steve closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. Gives a quick, short nod. But he doesn’t completely relax into his position. Still holding his arms and rigid through the rest of his body.

Eddie swallows, and in a gentler tone, asks again, “Who did this? What are you doing here?”

“You won’t believe me,” Steve murmurs, “and I don’t want to tell you.”

“Well, I sorta want to know…considering you seem to know everything about my drug deal appointments. Did somebody set you up to this? Are there goonies waiting outside to fucking jump my bones?”

He shakes his head, damp hair sticking to the fabric of the couch. Sadly, he utters, “I’m trying to keep you safe. And I don’t have a lot of time. I just need you to hear me out, okay?”

Taking in that stillness to Steve’s whole body and the graveness in his tone, Eddie finally agrees. “Okay,” he says, “but for the record, if this is your way of making friends or whatever, you’re doing a piss poor job at it.”

Some of the tension in Steve’s shoulders melts away, a snort in response to what Eddie said. But then he forces himself to be serious again. Continuing in a terribly soft, weak voice, “She ends up wanting something stronger than what you have. Because she feels like she’s losing her mind. So you postpone the deal. You go to school. You finish the day. You have your Hellfire campaign—the curse of Vecna or whatever—with Dustin, Mike, Lucas’s little sister, Erica, Gareth, Jeff, and Freak. When you’re done, you drive Chrissy back here. You make her wait in the living room. You try and find where you put the ketamine.

“You find it in your bedroom. And when you come back from your room…” Steve visibly shudders at this point in his explanation. His chest seizes with his breath and he seems to swallow a golfball. Then, “She’s going to die in here. And you’re going to get scared and you’re going to run. Because you…you didn’t know what to do. So you get in your van and then you abandon it and then you stay in this boathouse…

“Long story short, you’re going to be wanted for murder. You’ll be on the run for several days. Before you eventually…You die.”

And the way Steve says that, of all things, finally sinks a stone in Eddie’s stomach. Something in that last sentence says it all.

Steve Harrington is not here for shits and giggles. He knows of something darker, stronger, and more evil than this world can comprehend. And this, in itself, is the warning of a life time. Because he knows. First hand.

“You know that…how do you know that?”

“There’s these creatures that fucking chew you up, like they did to me”—he states, while gesturing at himself—“but they get you worse. You run at them. You try and kill them. There’s too many. You die.

“I almost died, too,” he tacks on a second later. “But you’re going to die in Dustin’s arms. And he’s going to be so fucking distraught with you. And you don’t graduate high school, even though you kept claiming it was your year. And you don’t survive. You…Fuck. You’ve never survived.

“This is my last shot at stopping you. I’ve tried going to different iterations of you. Tried to get you to fucking slow your roll and look at the world in a bigger picture, but you always betray me—I mean, you always betray us. You always die. And I can’t let that happen.

“So here I am, before the storm.”

With that, Steve finally goes completely silent. Wheezing breaths through his nose, yes. But he melts into the couch. Eyes open and far away as they continue to eye that wretched water stain on the ceiling. There are tears ready to pour down his face. And sobs that threaten to crack from his still seizing chest. His cheeks are ruddy and still dirty, though a bit sunken and pasty. Like maybe it’s been a little while since he’s had a proper meal, proper sleep, a proper break.

And though this whole story sounds sort of like an excellent D&D campaign, Eddie knows it to be non-fiction, not fable. Because Steve Harrington has never been one to excel in the art of storytelling, as apparent by the fact that he nearly failed his senior English class alongside Eddie the one year they had together. Also because he can’t make a reference even if it was the thing to end all bad.

But knowing about Hellfire? Knowing the exact names of Eddie’s close friends, outside of Mike and Dustin and Lucas—who, admittedly, all talk about Steve like he’s some norse god. Him knowing the exact date and customer Eddie had planned to meet with, despite that being extremely disclosed information…Well, it’s hard to discount whatever Steve has said.

One thing sticks out to him, though.

The fact that Steve has tried and tried and tried to save Eddie. Even through his stubbornness. Even through his refusal to follow orders. Even though, considering who he is as a person, Eddie’s never thought of himself worth saving. But to Steve? The efforts he’s seemingly had to go to, make Eddie seem like some treacherous, tragic lover straight from a Shakespeare play.

Steve Harrington can’t quote Shakespeare to save his fucking life, Eddie knows this firsthand—English class, again, was very unkind to the both of them.

Fuck, Eddie finally thinks, he’s serious.

“Okay,” Eddie says slowly, absorbing, “you’re here to save me, supposedly. What should I do to help you?” He leans forward a little, looking at the front of Steve’s face, hoping that maybe he can get a little eye contact. Though, it’s sort of pointless, Steve won’t take his eyes off of that stupid stain. He isn’t judging it though, almost considering it as the monster that Wayne joked it was. “Because, I’ll be honest,” he quickly adds, “seeing you like this on my couch was not on the top of my fantasies list. This is uh…very alarming, if I may say. And I’d like it if you were not bleeding out and turning into some weird green goblin creature on my couch.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve croaks dryly. It doesn’t really land as a sarcastic joke, though. More like a pathetic little thing. An almost hopeless endeavor.

Steve finally sits up a bit. Head lolled back down. Eyes still distant and foggy and glistening. But they’re looking at Eddie now, so he’ll take that as something. He opens his mouth, the inside blood red and noticeably dry. Murmurs, “Don’t sell drugs to Chrissy Cunningham this week. Don’t ever sell her anything. Pull her aside on Friday morning and tell her that the deal is off. Make up some excuse, doesn’t matter what, I don’t care what you say. But you have to keep her away. When you’re done with the Hellfire campaign, you come straight home. No ifs, ands, or buts. You come home. And you wait for Wayne. And you enjoy your weekend, okay?” 

When he’s done, eyes imploring and wide, he reaches out for Eddie’s hands. Takes them in his own without asking. His skin is dry, sticky with something, and warm. There’s dirt caked under his fingernails. Blood on his knuckles, in the webs connecting his fingers. There’s blood and dirt all over him. And, yeah really up close, he’s about ready to drop off the face of the planet, fall into some dreamland and never wake up. Maybe, even, cry until his eyelids are red raw and sore.

He knows he can’t be the reason for Steve’s destruction, not like this, anyway.

Eddie breathes, “Yeah, okay.”

“Promise, Eds,” Steve states, straining and choked, “promise that you’ll be safe. I can’t—You can’t die on me again, please.”

Why couldn’t he just listen the first time Steve asked? He could upchuck at any minute from the desperation in Steve’s voice. He can’t deny him this.

He squeezes Steve’s hands tightly, so hard he fears he may break the bones. Fiercely, “I promise, Steve. I’ll stay safe. No drug dealing for me. You won’t need to worry.”

Another sharp, short nod. And then Steve is completely removing himself from the couch. Standing tall and looming, wincing in pain from whatever marks lay beyond those scraps of shirt on his torso. He doesn’t say anything else. Tracks Eddie’s eyes for a second longer. Then, in speeds too quick to really catch, he’s walking out the door.

The last thing Eddie sees of Steve Harrington that night is the denim vest slowly fade from his back, the rashes on his arms giving way to a more disgusting, bloody, deeper mess. The bandages disappearing, no longer existing, as if they weren’t there in the first place. Blood on his back. And his skin pale, translucent nearly.

It’s almost like…

Like the Steve Harrington that left him is dead.

⌛️—————⌛️

[allykatsart]

A candle to never be relit...

Next

Previous

This is the beginning of the end. Cut before it's time. Only appropriate for a comic of death and mourning.... But I will save my thoughts for the end.

Commission me

[dance-like-an-idiot]

tw: death, grief, sickness

whizzer is at the baseball game, and whizzer walks away. 

marvin lets out a heavy breath of relief as a pit forms in his stomach. 

a pit of regret. 

— 

marvin sees him at another game of jasons, weeks later, and whizzer doesn't make eye contact with him once. 

whizzer seems very happy, and marvin wishes he could still be happy when they meet eyes.

but they don't. 

—

whizzer is at the park with a camera nearly two months later and he seems at peace.

marvin doesn't want to break it so he picks up his speed despite a worsening stomach ache.

they're common now.

—

marvin after 1 month of not seeing whizzer gives into charlotte, cordelia, mendel, and even jason's requests. 

whizzer sits 4 seats away from marvin at the gay bar, swirling a drink and getting close with a guy.

he goes home. 

—

whizzer looks pale even under the warm sun, and its only been a week since he last saw him. 

marvin stops on the sidewalk and can't muster the courage to walk further into the park. 

they meet eyes.

—

marvin hasn't seen whizzer in two weeks since he ran from the park again and when he walks by there he is.

whizzer doesn't notice him this time, but marvin notices that his clothes don't fit like they used to.

he looks sick.

—

whizzer has been gone for a month, marvin is sure of it as he sits in the park he's visited every day this month.

marvin stands up from the bench and walks home, but his eye catches a newspaper and he pays for one. 

"gay pneumonia." huh.

—

marvin had finally found where whizzer was, and it was the last place he could have imagined.

whizzer's tombstone is boring, unmarred, and represents nothing of the person that decays beneath. 

he rips his right cuff and recites.

—

whizzer's tombstone is as pale as his face, and its only been 2 weeks since he first saw it for the first time.

marvin visits everyday to place a stone and he brings cordelia and charlotte with him when they can join.

22 stones placed.

—

marvin has been losing weight for too long now, and he runs out of breath daily, with worsening frequency.

whizzer lies under the ground in front of him, and marvin looks at the familiar stones and white king on it.

he passes out.

—

whizzer's name is one of the few things he says as marvin lays in the hospital bed, dying, he knows.

marvin wants to be buried next to whizzer, so he knows that he had always wanted to be there for his lover.

[ohwell-itsme-but-danganronpa]

Antag & Protag Duos Canon Divergent AU

it's Miu in the locker next to Shuichi so they're the circumstantial friends

and Kaede with Kokichi are almost the classic lead + support except you can't tell which is which (they're both leads and Miu and Shuichi are both antags, gay people win)

I mean, Miu and Shuichi friendship is so chaotic, he could let go and say what he thinks more often, he'd be more rude. Progressively leaning more into the antag role

And their talents combined used for meddling

And working with someone who's being straightforward and friends with her would be better for Miu's state of mind

She was something along of frenemies with Kokichi, but here she's besties with Shuichi and she's in on the planning, equal on the team, so she won't backstab him

And then there's Kaede and she doesn't have Shuichi at her side, hiding behind her extroverted self during introductions and already creating the illusion of leadership and community being built around her. No, she's with Kokichi

And that affects people's first impressions of her

Those two argue a lot, not really fighting but if she wants to do something one way he insists on doing it the other, it isn't even about the leader role, each simply thinks they know better and can't move forward until they reach a consensus and every so often one will tell the other to leave them alone but "you're stuck with me, no way I'm leaving you to your own devices, somebody would end up dead if that happened"

The funny thing is they're right when they say that, it's a joke for them… they don't even know

Protag Kokichi go brrr He's always working, doesn't need to hide it and sneak at night

"Don't strong-arm everyone to work with you, work with me, I am as feral about it as you are, also I don't trust you further than I can throw you (and I couldn't even pick you up) so I am going to keep an eye on you, alrighty?" glowing eyes Kaede: equally glowing eyes and clenched fists "We're going to catch the mastermind"

They're like wild hogs to me (I don't know what I am saying) [this sentence pops up in my head every once in a while and it's so true, the real oumatsu dynamic]

Kaede to Kokichi: you're the most suspicious person I've ever meet, my headache, there's something deeply wrong with you, my peace of mind depends on knowing your whereabouts, if anything were to happen to you, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself

They don't need to trust each other to be the best of friends, it's actually better this way, that's the whole reason they're each other's closest allies in fact

And maybe it does happen, maybe she does lead everyone as a protag to make the decision not to vote after he dies with Shuichi, having agreed to go along with the plan our antags made

Maybe she's grieving and sobbing and self-loathing because when they split up in their plan to figure out antags scheme she chose to pursue Miu for… selfish reasons that make her feel so gross with herself now that he's dead and she doesn't know he agreed to it and that they all betted on her anger to get them this outcome

But I dunno so don't ask me [

[edupunkn00b]

One Last Time Around

Photo CC 4.0

Written for the @extremetimedchallengeexchange. Prompt: Platonic Sides in a human AU. Found family, dystopia, happy moments in a not-so-happy situation a plus. No fluff, no crack, no romance.

WC: 2414 - Rated: T - CW: Major Character Death implied off-screen, dystopia & post-apocalyptic -

“Is that a bicycle?”

Patton’s sudden question pulled the group from their thoughts and they stopped their trek through the underbrush. Six pairs of eyes followed the boy’s excited pointing. Remus was closest and gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “Not quite, buddy,” he grinned. His cheeks ached at the movement and his voice was scratchy. How long had they been walking? “That’s an old ferris wheel.”

“Really?” Patton wiggled, jostling his hoodie and momentarily hiding the bright yellow warning light on the fever chip at the back of his neck. He turned to look back at Logan. “Like the one Fern rode at the county fair?”

Ever the teacher, Logan crouched down and smiled at the boy like he was a star pupil. “Yes, Pat. Precisely.” Fingers twitching on his shoulder straps, Remus just knew it took everything Logan had to not whip the book out of his pack right there.

The remnants of that morning’s rain still dripping from the trees was a powerful deterrent.

“Can we get closer?” he asked, eyes now trained on Virge.

He already had his tracker out. He frowned, pulling his hood lower and shielding the screen from glare as he peered down at the splashes of color. “There’s no-one around,” he said after tapping at the screen. “Some warm spots… way too small for people. Racoons, probably.” Virge looked up at Janus’ sharp inhale and shook his head, both sets of eyes snagging on Patton’s bandaged hand. “Triple checked. None of ‘em have fevers.”

When Virge’s scanner pinged, they’d dropped to the ground, hoods pulled down and masks up. Virge was the only one who’d moved, pulling out the scanner and muting the quiet alert, intent on the screen. He made a cutting motion with his hand and they stayed down, barely breathing. Waiting.

It had taken more than an hour for a sick baby’s wails to announce the family’s proximity. They’d stayed under cover as the family passed less than a hundred yards from their hiding spot.

Not everyone waited before shooting like Lucas and Janus did.

Thank fuck for the old weather beacons still in orbit. The damn things would outlast them all. And with nobody left in mission control, there was no-one to turn off Virge’s credentials—genuine or borrowed—and stop him from drinking up all the data those satellites still rained down with every pass.

Returning Janus’ curt nod, Virge shrugged and powered down the device before stowing it away in his pocket. “It’s clean. That infected family we saw yesterday didn’t come from here.”

Hope dancing in his eyes as he grinned at each of them in turn, Patton bounced on his toes. “So we can?”

Lucas’ thumb brushed over the safety on his M70 and looked to Janus.

Binoculars raised, Janus peered between the trees. “There’s a parking lot…” The team held their collective breathe. At best, a full parking lot meant the fair would be full of the dead. At worst…

“Deserted,” he said at last. “It looks like they hadn’t quite finished setting up. There’s stuff on pallets in the back lot. Maybe something useful, even.” After one more look, he lowered the binoculars, a glint in his eyes. “It’s safer than the City,” he said, seeking Ro’s gaze.

Ro was staring at the back of Patton’s neck and when he looked up, his eyes were wet. “Yeah,” he said, and cleared his throat, a smile plastered over his face. “Books are great,” he added with a bow to Logan. “But you should see it for yourself.”

~

The sun hadn’t yet breached the highest trees by the time they reached the edge of the fairgrounds. What was left of them, at least. Scraggly ragweed had grown up through the cracks in the asphalt, most of it not even taller than Patton. He was cautious before touching any, inspecting the flowers first to be sure it wasn’t hogweed.

His cries had been what had made them find him. It was early days, back when they thought the only ones left were the immune. Back before the mutations hit. There’d still been birdsong back then.

He and Ro had been the ones to find the little boy. Hands and mouth raw from trying to eat the flowers, he’d sat crying in the middle of a patch of the towering weeds. Older than he looked even back then, the “throwaway” monitoring chip they stuck on infants hung loose on his forehead. All the hospitals must have gone to shit before his parents could get him in to have it properly removed after his first birthday.

Patton had sat there, just fucking bawling. Alone. But instead of recoiling from them, tall scruffy strangers, the little boy had reached for them, that now familiar hope in his big teary eyes.

Remus had kept just enough sense to check the back of the kid’s neck for a fever chip. Its bright green glow bounced off the faded note duct-taped to his dirty sweater.

His name is Patton. Please take care of him when I’m gone. Bless you. - Lynne

“Wow…” Patton stood beneath the ferris wheel, staring at the sunlight glinting of the top car. The wheel was huge, a good three or four hundred feet up in the air. It had been made of solid durasteel, too. Not a speck of rust anywhere on it and the rotors, sealed to keep out dust and shit had done a good job of keeping out the weeds.

Remus whistled. This county had had serious money. Back when magic numbers in a digital bank statement meant anything, anyway.

“We clear,” Virge reported, coming back from checking the perimeter with Lucas. “There’s no-one for miles.”

“And there’s a generator,” Lucas said, coming back from checking the perimeter. “Solar,” he added, unable or unwilling to suppress a grin. “Betcha last watch Lo and Virge can get it working.”

“That’s a loser’s bet,” Remus laughed, pointing to the tool belt already clipped to Virge’s belt. “You’ve already had a crack at it, haven’t you?”

“I will admit,” Logan murmured. “It would be gratifying to charge my tablet.”

Patton’s bright eyes followed the conversation, stitching together what else they might get to work with a little juice.

“Go for it. Ro, you take Pat around to explore.” Patton grinned and grabbed Ro’s hand and took off down the row of carnival games before he could say another word.

“I’ll go with them,” Lucas said before catching up.

“Okay, while you two see if you can get those generators going,” he nodded to Logan and Virge, “Me and Jay’ll see supplies there might be. Meet back in one hour.”

“Or sooner,” Logan said, eyes following Patton down the row of games.

“Or sooner,” he agreed. “Electric lights would be a good signal you did it.”

Janus waited until they’d disappeared on the other side of the trailers before finally voicing what they’d all seen that morning. “How long?”

Remus let his eyes close and swallowed back the growing lump in his throat before taking a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then opened them, heading toward the stacks of pallets wrapped in frayed plasti wrap. “Depends on the variant,” he said as they walked. “The kid dodged whatever got his mother, and he’s still below one-oh-two, but everyone I saw had been bad enough for the ER, it’s not necessarily—”

“How long, Dr. Prince?” Janus asked again.

Stopping, Remus sighed. “If he goes red…” He shook his head. “A day? Two?”

Janus’ jaw twitched, but he nodded. “Understood.”

~

The first two pallets turned out to hold nothing but folding chairs and more fencing. On the third, though, he and Jay hit the jackpot.

“Thank fuck for sodium benzoate!” Remus muttered, turning over a sealed package of ‘beef’ jerky.

Janus chuckled, shoving handfuls of powdered milk packets for some fancy ass ice cream maker into an empty duffle bag. Powdered Gatorade went next. “Wasn’t that stuff supposed to be bad for you, Doc?”

“Starvation’s worse,” he said, grabbing all four cases before tugging Janus’ sleeve. “Hey, look at the bottom layer.”

They stared together case after case of bottled water. “Plastic’s bad for a lotta stuff. It’s good for us right now, though.”

Before Janus could answer, warped music doppled out of a nearby speaker, quickly balancing out into a jaunty melody. They looked back at the fair. A merry-go-round had started up and LEDs in a rainbow of colors twinkled from every structure.

“Holy fuck, they did it!” Remus muttered, shaking his head. “C’mon, we’ll let the others load up, too, But first…” 

They both stilled when the faint sound of Patton’s excited cheers carried over the music. “But first him.”

“Yeah.”

~

They managed to get Patton to slow down long enough to have some Gatorade and a few bites of food before he was back on his feet, pulling Lucas and Janus toward the carnival games. “I’m not hungry,” he said, smiling up at them. “Please? I saw a game with big rifles just like yours! Let’s try it!”

Lucas ruffled his hair and nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Those games are rigged but I’ll teach you how to aim around it.”

When they returned about an hour later, Patton walked a little slower and he didn’t fight Remus’ suggestion to take a break before leading Ro off to a Test Your Strength game. The others sat quietly and listened to his peals of laughter each time Ro’s hits sent the little ball up to the top.

The mirror maze was next, and Logan and Virge pointed out all the little tricks for finding his way through. The trio emerged, victorious, with Logan and Virge swinging Patton back and forth like they’d done back when he was tiny.

“Will you ride the Ferris Wheel with me?” he asked, holding out a hand to Remus.

“You two are the logical pairing,” Logan said, quieter than he usually was in Teacher mode.

Patton nodded, turning and pointing at the cars. “Logan explained how it has to stay balanced. We’re just right to be in the same car.” 

“Each of you will need to join them in alternating cars,” Logan said when they’d reached the loading area. “Ah, I will man the controls, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s okay to be scared of heights,” Patton said, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

Logan’s eyes widened before he smiled and cupped Patton’s cheek. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

With an answering giggle, he patted the back of his hand and nodded.

“Well, that means me and Jay in one car, right?” Virge said, looking around the group.

“Yes,” Logan nodded. “And Lucas and Roman will balance it all out.”

“Which color car do you want to ride in?” Remus asked, giving Patton’s hand a little squeeze.  

“The blue one!” he said, pointing. 

“Blue it is,” Logan replied and worked the controls. He opened the door to the first car to stop, nodding to Virge and Janus. 

They ruffled Patton’s hair as passed. “See you in a bit, Kid,” Virge murmured and climbed in.

Logan let a few empty cars slowly trail past before loading in Ro and Lucas. Lucas rubbed his head and Ro bent to hug him. “I’ve never been on a Ferris Wheel, either, you know.”

“Really?” Patton asked, eyes big.

“Really,” Ro whispered. His adam’s apple bobbed, but he kept his smile.

With a little laugh, Patton shooed him into a car.

Finally, the blue car stopped and Logan opened the door. “All aboard,” he said. “Tell me about everything you see up there.”

“I will!” Patton grinned and clambered inside.

Logan’s hand tightened on the handle and Remus’ boots stuttered on the platform. Blood roared in his ears and he swallowed hard, lips curled up into his best smile.

Half-obscured by the back of his hoodie, Patton’s fever chip glowed red.

“All aboard,” Logan said again, quieter.

Remus cleared his throat and pushed on a smile. “Hey, make room for me,” he laughed into the mostly empty car.

Giggling at his joke, Patton scooted a bit over on the bench. His choice had been lucky. Most of the cars had benches on either side, requiring two riders to sit face-to face. The blue car held a single swiveling bench so the riders could sit side-by-side.

As their car began the lift, a little laugh spilled from his lips. “I can see the river from here!” he said. “Oh! And look at all those flowers on the other side!”

They took in the sights, the music fading as they got closer to the wheel’s zenith. Patton pointed out every detail, smile bright, even as his voice faded and he shook his head. 

“Hey, Buddy, you okay?” Remus squeezed his hand. It was so hot.

“I’m okay,” he said, still grinning though he shivered. Remus pulled a blanket from his pack and wrapped it around Patton’s shoulders.

“Better?” Remus asked.

“Better. But you feel cold,” he said, touching Remus’ hand. “You sure you don’t need it?”

“I’m good, Buddy,” Remus said, passing Patton a canteen. “Drink a little, yeah?”

Dutifully, Patton sipped at the water, then handed it back when the wheel began to descend. “Everything’s so pretty up here!” he said before waving to Roman and Lucas when their car slipped into view. 

Slowly they came back down, but before Logan opened their car, Patton asked, loud enough for all to hear. “Can we go again?”

“Try and stop me!” Lucas called back. Ro and Virge gave thumbs up and Janus said something too quiet to hear. His smile was all the answer Patton needed.  

“The wheel is in good condition,” Logan responded, looking to Remus for his answer. "It is more than adequate for several more rounds."

“As many times as you want, Buddy,” he said, wrapping his arm around him. The boy curled into the hold, clapping his hands twice before letting them fall to his lap.

“Thank you, Logan!” Patton called back through the open windows as the wheel began to move again. Feet swaying with the movement of the car, he grinned and held Remus hand, sliding close again. “Thank you, Virge!” he called. “Thank you Jay and Lucas and Roman!” Finally, he turned his sweet little face up to Remus. Patton leaned heavily against shoulder, cheeks bright red with fever. “Thank you so much, Re. This is the best day ever!”

[pollyna]

When it happens, Mav is old enough that Bradley stopped calling him an old timer because he's now one, too. He's old enough to have been a widower for too many years, a father once again, and a granpa. He isn't thinking about anything in particular when he lays down for his afternoon nap, if not that the blanket smells particularly like Tom today, and he can't stop from nuzzling against the material for a little longer. Sleep comes candidly as the feelings of a pair of strong arms picking him up from the couch and hugging him against his chest, a kiss on his forehead, and "Hey, sweetheart. You did feel asleep on the couch again. Love you, Pete," with the sound of all his friends laughing coming from the kitchen. He can pick Goose and Carole's in the middle of Slider and Wood's. Pete smiles, sleepy, "afternoon naps are the worst, and I'm weak. Love you too, Tom." He answers before letting the warmth of his husband lull him to sleep.

[blaisenova]

what's up gamers, sorry for disappearing for a while there. life's been kicking my ass lately LMAO

to all the people who've sent in requests, i'm working on them!! as for why they're taking so long, see above.

been writing some stuff on and off for a bit, and i'm sure my fellow writers know how it is. when inspiration for something hits, you just kinda shit it out and then move on. i try to put a little more effort into my requests LOL. but i love killer and i also love hurting him, so this is what came out of that. yippee!!

this one goes out to all the people with complicated romantic lives!!!!!!! i see you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

so, take this piece of shit to tide you over. thank you guys for your patience <3

content is below the cut due to length and sensitive subjects. as always, it can be found on ao3 in the reblogs if that's your cup of tea.

cw/tw: major character death (offscreen, but a main point), implied/referenced toxic relationship, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, an all around shitty situationship

Grains of dust fell between his fingers and into his joints, making them crackle when he gripped the faded red scarf in his hands. It was so like when his brother had died, and there was something poetic about that thought, and that poetry was the highest insult the multiverse could have asked him to endure. Nevertheless, there was a distinct lack of snow, and, though his surroundings were deeply familiar – the cool toned darkness of the castle’s atmosphere, broken only by the warm, orange glow of the castle’s mounted lanterns – they would never be as familiar as limbo.

Dust piled beneath his knees, scraping against the bone and leaving it raw, but all Killer could do was press his forehead into the pile before him and hold his breath to prevent it from dispelling; to be as close as possible without disturbing the remains.

When a voice rang out from the shadows, he didn’t startle; its presence had been imminent from the start. It held the same chilled, deep tones of the castle, broken only by the warm dredges of poorly concealed laughter behind its words. Despite himself, Killer found that the tension in his bones melted away at the sound.

“So, you finally killed him.”

It wasn’t a question. There was no surprise.

Voice hoarse, Killer laughed, and the dust darted away from his breath and stuck to the liquid determination that marred his cheeks. “He was hurting me.”

Beside him, someone knelt. Fingers, dark with viscous negativity, ran through the particles and pressed it together testingly. The other hummed, then shook the dust from his hands, as if it were something dirty. Killer shouldn’t have felt so offended at the thought.

“Well, obviously,” Nightmare responded, voice flat with disinterest. “It’s about time that you did something about it.”

Clutching the scarf to his chest, Killer’s soul wobbled unsteadily, and he wheezed. “Do you think– Will– He’ll… He’ll be better when he comes back, right?”

At that, came Nightmare’s laughter – warm, comforting, and Killer hated himself at the feeling – and a hand came to rest against his back. Fingers danced what might have been soothing circles over the fabric of his jacket, coaxing out small noises of misery that Killer hadn’t realised he was holding back. “He’s not like you, Killer,” Nightmare hummed. “He won’t come back.”

At that, came Killer’s laughter – warm, comforting, and Killer hated himself at the feeling – and he curled further into the dust as it continued to try and run away. “Oh,” he breathed. Then, again, “oh. That’s– That’s not what I wanted.”

There was a beat of silence, and Killer breathed in the judgement in the lack of words. “Then,” Nightmare finally drawled, steady in a way Killer could not be, “what did you want?”

A sound was pulled from his chest at the question, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I just wanted it to stop hurting,” he hissed. “I… I didn’t want to lose him forever.”

With another hum, Nightmare’s fingers pressed more firmly into Killer’s back, drawing him out of wheezing breaths he hadn’t realised he’d been taking. “Why not, if he was hurting you?”

“Because I loved him,” Killer spat; immediately; bitterly. Then, through a lump in his throat, “love. Because I love him.”

For a moment, Nightmare’s steady ministrations faltered, as if the admission surprised him, though Killer was certain he must have known; must have felt it even through every other emotion that had led them here. Just as soon as he began to miss the touch, though, they started up again, and, once more, he choked on a sob as his soul spasmed against his chest. Each breath was suffocating and filled with dust, coating his bones from the inside out and sticking to him in a way that made him feel sick.

“I didn’t want this,” Killer repeated, like a plea. “What did I do wrong?”

It ran deeper than a slash across the chest and bones crumbling between his fingers, blood painting his sweater bright red. It must have. It must have been more than the final blow.

“I– I fucked up somehow,” he wheezed. “If I just knew how, I… I could have done better. Should have done better. Then, maybe…”

“There’s no point in trying to fix it now,” Nightmare chided, with a subtle gentleness that Killer might not have recognised if not for the tenderness of the hand that pressed between his shoulder blades reassuringly. “You’re agonising over your relationship with a corpse. It cannot hear your apologies.” A beat. “Although, perhaps, it wouldn’t matter even if it could.”

Sockets squeezing shut, Killer bit back a wail. His knuckles ached from the force with which he clung to the scarf, and the soreness extended to his chest, right where his soul sat. “I hurt him,” he said. “He’s gone.” 

All at once, he sat up, and Nightmare’s hand darted away in surprise, cyan socket wide. Dust speckled the dark streaks across Killer’s cheeks and clung to the bone where he’d feverishly pressed his skull against the pile, as if it might feel his touch and spring back to life. Dull, pale eyelights trembled in his sockets, and the expression of pity before him was blurry and unclear, though, something about that was a mercy. 

At the thought, Killer scrubbed at his sockets furiously, trying to deny himself the grace he didn’t deserve. The moment his vision cleared, however, it was blurred again by tears. Idly, he found himself thankful for the threadbare cloth in his hands, without which his fingers would have found their way to his soul and tried to pry the feelings out themselves; another mercy he refused to indulge.

“He’s gone,” Killer repeated. “I was in love with him. And, now, he’s gone, and it’s my fault. I hurt him.”

Through fuzzy vision, Killer watched Nightmare bare his teeth; it could have been a snarl, or maybe a grimace. “You’ll live.”

“I don’t want to live,” he wailed, unable to stop himself. He blinked, and tar-like tears smeared down his cheeks. They dropped down to his chin, then fell into his lap, and a choked sound of anguish left him as he realised the scarf was stained with them. The damage was done, though, and he sobbed louder as he pressed the cloth to his face. His words were muffled through the barrier, “I loved him. I loved him. Why did I hurt him? Why did he hurt me?”

“The multiverse is cruel,” Nightmare said, “and we are but inhabitants of it, carefully crafted to perpetuate its cruelty. You asked too much when you sought out happiness.”

“Then,” he breathed, pulling himself together long enough to speak, “what was I supposed to do?”

“You shouldn’t have fallen in love,” came the answer, simply. “Certainly, not you. Certainly, not with someone like him.”

His breath faltered once more, and something giddy made his soul tremble. A soft rattling emanated throughout his bones, nausea making some deep, magic based part of him broil and burn. He made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and held the scarf over his eyes as if going blind to the situation would make it disappear. “Maybe I deserve everything he ever did.”

With a huff that might have been laughter, Nightmare hummed, “Maybe you do.” He gestured to the messy pile of dust – the thin fabric of the scarf easily showing the shifting shadows – and Killer shuddered at the reminder. “And, maybe he did, too.”

At the notion, Killer’s shoulders sagged, and, tiredly, he shook his head. “Not him,” he whispered, reverent. “Never him.”

Again, came that laugh, and there was something frustrated in its bitter tones. “Oh, what a pedestal you’ve placed him on,” he drawled.

“Why don’t you care?” Killer spat, and anger sparked alongside despair like a match to gasoline. All of the exhaustion from before was driven away, and fevered fury took its place. His soul spasmed painfully as he finally yanked the scarf back down to face reality head on, staring Nightmare in the eye with a strange sort of determination to condemn himself. “He was yours, just as I am. Why don’t you care that he’s gone? Why don’t you care what I did to him?”

Refusing the vitriol that he’d been met with, Nightmare’s tone remained carefully even. “And, forget what he did to you?” His head tilted to the side curiously, and he regarded Killer’s crime with indifference. “You’re hardly being fair. It’s not as if you haven’t killed others for much less. It’s not as if he’s not just as replaceable as you.”

Tiredness returned, like a weight in his bones or a fist around his soul, making him wilt. Unconsciously, he leaned towards his king, and Nightmare mercifully closed the distance between them, allowing Killer’s skull to rest against his shoulder. Shame burned alongside misery as he found miniscule comfort in the familiar worthlessness. “No. He was different. He tried,” he mumbled. Then, insistently, “He tried, and he loved me. Who else has ever done that? For me? I don’t deserve it.”

“And, yet, it wasn’t enough,” Nightmare replied, and Killer couldn’t help but cringe at the callousness.

“Well, it should have been,” he persisted. “It should have been enough for me.”

“And, yet,” he repeated, “it wasn’t.”

Scoffing, Killer shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest. He hoped that he looked as small as he felt. “Gee, thanks, Nightmare,” he murmured. “Like I wasn’t already feeling like a piece of shit.” Then, with another scoff and marked bitterness, “I mean– Shit, it’s not even like I was asking for very much, right? Or– Or, I was, I guess, but it shouldn’t be so hard… right? How many people are there in the multiverse that have perfectly healthy relationships? Where they feel like people? Why not me?”

He ran a hand over his skull with an exasperated laugh, pressing his forehead against his knees. “I mean, I know why not. I’m not a person, but is it so much to ask that someone pretends? That… That I don’t fuck everything up without even trying? That I don’t deserve to be hurt?” he hissed, sharply. “That I don’t earn mistreatment simply by being?”

Thick, black rivulets of determination fell from his sockets, and Killer raised his head once more, meeting the chilling cyan of Nightmare’s gaze and feeling an awful lot like he was asking for answers he didn’t really want. “He was trying, Night. I know he was. I saw it,” he insisted, though his words grew soft as his shoulders slumped forward again. “What does it say about me that even when someone is trying not to hurt me, I make them do it anyway? Without even meaning to?” 

He cringed, the tips of his fingers pressing into his bone with a satisfying sting. “And, then, I hurt them back. God, like I don’t deserve it when they do it, right? Like– Like they did?” His gaze went back to the pile of dust. “Like he did? I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t, but I did it anyway, knowing it would hurt, because I’m so selfish that I wanted it to stop hurting me. Like it would ever stop hurting, even if he was gone.”

Finally, Killer fell silent, with a shrug that he could only hope would communicate everything he could no longer force past the lump in his throat and the way his soul wobbled painfully in front of his chest, fighting to make him feel all of the emotions he’d crushed down and bottled up for so long. His sockets burned unpleasantly, but he didn’t dare blink, afraid that the motion would start up a sickening sort of sobbing that he wouldn’t be able to stop until he passed out or died. An unfitting way to go for someone like him; it would hurt, but not enough; never enough, when wallowing in his own self-pity.

When he looked up, he was met with the scrutinising glare of Nightmare’s eyelight, and he felt himself unconsciously straighten, as if that would make him appear any less pathetic.

“Do you know what I think?” Nightmare began, haltingly. “I think… you’re reading too much into the actions of someone who was just as broken as you. Regardless of his intentions, he hurt you, and, now, you’ve hurt him. And, the worst part?” he hummed, almost pleasantly. “It was entirely inevitable. You shouldn’t have fallen in love, Killer.”

Not trusting himself enough to speak, all he could do was nod.

“Pick up the dust of your ruined relationship,” Nightmare continued, and he gently knocked Killer’s skull away from his shoulder as he urged him towards the scattered pile. “Store it away somewhere that you won’t forget; close to your heart, but not in it. Then, move on. There’s nothing more you can do now but that.”

Shaking eyelights, darting from the dust to the tattered scarf gripped between his fingers, stared down at the macabre display of an end that was, in many ways, poetry; poetry of insult. He swallowed his agony. “Will that make it stop hurting?”

Without looking up, Killer could feel the way that Nightmare regarded him, somewhere between disdain and pity. “No,” he said. “But, it’s a start.”

Another dust filled urn on the mantel, each gathering a thin layer of grime that dulls the shine of their golden casket with time. This one would remain golden for a while, like the last, marred by nothing but fingerprints from when he would take it from its place and hold it in his arms. But, eventually, it, too, would lose its beckoning lustre, and its tarnish would mean healing.

Another dust filled urn on the mantel, and here’s to many more.

[boomgubbins]

Collection of Fanasy Au’s

[ali-kitkat]

i did it y'all!! here's that little one shot i promised. it's also cross posted on ao3 here

And If I Only Could I'd Make A Deal With God

Marinette was in Damian’s apartment, sorting through his personal belongings. His family had insisted that she do it, to see if there was anything she wanted to keep. To remember him by, they said. It was a daunting task, one she barely felt up to but she still accepted nonetheless. 

She was going through the motions as she filled box after box. She barely looked at his things as she packed them away, not wanting to let herself break down as his family was sitting right outside in the living room of the apartment. 

It was as she began sorting through his clothing that she found it. A dark forest green sweater, it was soft to the touch, well made and well loved. She remembered the first time she’d seen that sweater, the first time she borrowed it. Damian was notorious for never letting anyone borrow any of his things.

It was the middle of December, they were walking back to Damian’s apartment after another one of their dates, when it had started to rain. The rain itself was chilling and unexpected and by the time they arrived they were both soaked head to toe. 

Damian had ushered her in, running to grab some towels to dry off the excess water that was dripping off both of them. He had steered her towards a bathroom, instructing her to shower before she caught a cold. She had protested in the beginning, stating that since it was his apartment that he should shower first and that she also didn’t have anything to change into either. 

He had remedied the lack of clothing quickly, darting out of the bathroom and returning with a small bundle of clothing and reassuring her that he wasn’t nearly as cold as she was. She tried to argue that she wasn’t that cold but given the fact that she was still shivering he clearly didn’t believe her and promptly left the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a click. 

The hot water was a blessing compared to the coldness that had seeped into her bones. She finished her shower, already spending more than enough time under the water. When she emerged Damian was in the kitchen, stirring a pot atop the stove. He was dressed in a dark forest green sweater and black sweatpants, looking much warmer than she felt, even with the help of a hot shower. 

It must have been obvious that she was still cold because Damian had taken off his sweater, leaving him in just a tank top, and pulled it over her head. The sweater itself was large on her. Her arms barely fit three quarters of the sleeves while the rest hung off her frame in a similar style as some of her dresses, ending right before the knees. The sweater was warm and her shivering lessened.

Truth be told, it was Damian’s actions that warmed her rather than the sweater, though the sweater itself was a plus. She could feel her face heat up and Damian simply smiled at her, as if he were aware of his affect on her. She had murmured her thanks before hiding her face in her hands and he let out a small chuckle. 

Damian directed her towards the sofa, which was laden with pillows and blankets. Some looked out of place as if he had rushed out and bought them recently. She smiled at the thought, it had been mentioned in a previous conversation they had, more of an offhand comment than an actual discussion. The care he put into paying attention to her words was almost enough to make her cry. No one had ever listened like that to her before, but Damian clearly had and put effort into making his space more open to her was almost like a confession. 

Damian circled around the sofa with two mugs in hand, one of them adorned with whipped cream and sprinkles. Another tally in his favor as he clearly took note of how she preferred her hot chocolate. He had handed her the mugs and settled down next to her, collecting his mug from her afterwards. They had picked a movie out to watch something light hearted but still bearable to watch.

They had laid down on the sofa after the movie finished. Marinette curled up against Damian and several blankets piled on top of them. The warmth surrounding her combined with Damian’s hands in her hair were lulling her to sleep. She was still awake when she heard him whisper in her ear, ‘I love you’

It was the first time Damian had not only said it to her but also had shown her that he did indeed love her. 

“I miss you, Damian,” Marinette croaked as her knees buckled and she collapsed. Loud ugly sobs wrenched their way out of her throat. She curled up around the sweater on the floor grieving the man she loved.

[berrysquared]

Just a nightmare

[niafromheaven]

For all my Emilute shippers...

I'm not sorry.

[porkcracker]

Greeting and welcome,

this little story is my part of the Reverse Mini Bang 2024 from @tf-bigbang. For anyone who doesn't know what that means, you sign up and get assigned to a piece of art and then write about it. You can read this story also on my AO3 here.

To see the comic my story is based on, check the end of it. The credit for it goes to @transformer-hardlyknowher.

As well as a shout-out to inconvenientfish on Discord for beta reading this story.

And with that, I hope you enjoy reading!

The battle over the Allspark and the Space Bridge was challenging and a matter of spark for all involved. The end seemingly clear for each faction. And still the end is not what they expected at all, rather it might be the start to something much bigger. If only the Trine did not have more important problems. Frag the rest, only Trine matters.

Consequences

The battle had been strenuous, but with the future of all mecha on earth, there had been not one spark who hadn't fought with everything at their disposal. At the centre of it all, the metal cube veined with gentle glowing blue that was the deciding point in their entire species future.

Decepticons were throwing themselves in the way of the yellow scout as he sprinted and then drove towards the space bridge guarded by humans, being tackled out of the way by Autobots in return. The Allspark changed servos once, and then it dropped as Prime crashed to the ground in tandem with Skywarp as her thrusters were hit by her trinemate.

In any other situation, Starscream would have wasted no time to berate Novastorm for hitting their own trinemate in such a crucial moment, but as it was, there were far more important matters to attend to. Up to this point, Starscream had been able to avoid excessive injury, something that came in handy as the Allspark hit the ground behind him and tumble past him. Millennia of reoccurring pain made it easy for him to bear the agony echoing through his trine bond with Skywarp, pushing it aside in favour of crouching down quickly before taking off in a sprint.

There was a strange feeling to the Allspark that made it unexpectedly distracting to carry it. It seemed as if there was a spark beat pulsing through the glowing veins that was undetectable to any onlooker, a warmth and a coldness at the same time. It made his digits tingle in a way that urged Starscream to shake out his servos. There was the short moment of curiosity, if it had felt like this for everyone that had carried the Allspark before him, but it was cut short rather painfully.

A pained and enraged hiss left the Seeker, as the heavy mass of a familiar frame dropped onto his wings and back. The Allspark slipped from his servo without fanfare, and the sudden loss of the feeling lead to a desonance Starscream was quick to ignore, quickly getting on his pedes once more and wasting no time to fire at the quickly departing form of what had once been the leader of the Decepticons. Once the leader, now a filthy traitor, it had been vindication to be proven correct in claiming to be the rightful - better - leader of the Decepticons. While it would have been pleasing to have his shot hit, and an advantage in the fight as well, Starscream was well aware of Novastorm's approach and as such there was little surprise for him as she dropped onto Megatron in a mirrored attempt to retrieve the Allspark. It also meant he had to stop his shooting, for the high possibility of hitting Novastorm in the position she was in, but that was only a small worry.

They were, after all, not the only Decepticons on the battlefield...and he was not the only Decepticon fuelled by deep rage and hate.

Truly, there had been seldomly something that had brought him more joy than then the utter betrayal Soundwave had felt when Megatron had turned his back and become the Prime's lapdog instead. Perhaps he would have been more empathetic, if the Host had not been a witness to his treatment at their master's servo, but as it stood it was a pleasure to see him suffer at Megatron's servo instead. It was not the pain he himself had suffered, but it was perhaps a worse fate for the Host.

Nevertheless, as much as Starscream enjoyed Soundwave's pain in this matter, he could not deny that this had also caused them to work together better than ever, fuelled by the same distaste for the same mech, they had become a rather formidable team.

Starscream hurried to use the opening Soundwave created with his supersonic ability and threw himself at Megatron as well. With Novastorm attempting to restrain his helm, Starscream focused on wrenching the Allspark from his grip, nearly losing his halt as Megatron fell to the ground it was easy to overplay it with victorious words.

"Decepticons, bear witness to the fall of Megatron!", it was with these words, even if they were most likely drowned out by Soundwave's ability, that Starscream doubled his effort.

Truly, even if the rest of the Decepticons would not hear it, it would be enough for Starscream, if Megatron heard it and remembered who had been the one to win in the end. Alas, it was a fruitless endeavour, with a last gathering of his strength Megatron pushed himself up and the Seekers clinging to him to the ground and pulled his arm back.

It felt as if the battlefield was suddenly slowing in time as Megatron's arm moved forwards once more, the Allspark leaving his servo and moving towards the space bridge. Starscream's optics widened, there was no doubt that the Allspark would pass Soundwave.

And if it did and entered the space bridge? Everything would be for nothing.

It hurt, but the Leader of the Decepticons pushed himself up and forwards, towards the space bridge, he was not the fastest Seeker for nothing. The rapid built of speed was anything, but pleasant, but it all paled in the light of the stakes. When the world seemed to regain normal speed once more, everything happened at once, Starscream had just a moment to note in the back of his processor that Soundwave was turning his helm to watch as he passed him, his digit tips brushing the surface of the Allspark, and he could feel the familiar pull of the space bridge.

Then everything lit up in white-hot pain.

Starscream's relationship to dying had been ever-changing. In a time that felt lives away, back on Cybertron, before the war, before losing one of the most important mecha in his life he had not thought about death much, there had been no reason for him to do so. But then he had lost his partner and death had been the only thing on his processor. The responsibility for his death and the wish that it had been him instead, a wish that had never been granted.

Then the war had started and Starscream had thought himself above death, something that had not been changed by the enemy, but instead by his own leader. It had built a vicious cycle of abuse and revenge that over millions of years had made Starscream fear death and then accept it. There had been no doubt to him that one day he would die at the servos of Megatron, if he did not kill him first, a sentiment that had not changed after Megatron had left and had become an Autobot lackey instead.

But for all the times Starscream had thought he would die or had thought about how he would die, he had never imagined dying for something other than himself, which while one might argue it was the case indeed, there was no denying that the Allspark was far more than just for himself. With the Allspark gone, and the space bridge destroyed, they were all doomed to a fate on earth with no escape. While there was the common assumption of one's life flashing before their optics upon death, Starscream could not claim the same for himself.

There was only pain.

Every cable, every plate, every last piece of his frame lit up in pain before falling numb in the face of the agony centred in his wings and cockpit, or was it his spark? He couldn't tell, any rational thought drowned out by the pain numbing his frame, before that too faded into nothingness.

The battlefield had come to an abrupt halt, as if suddenly frozen. All optics were directed towards the smoking crater that had only nanokliks ago held both the last hope for their species and their last hope to return to their home, both gone, wiped out in an explosion that had rattled the ground and the armour on everyone's frame. EM fields flared with terror, hopelessness, grim determination and pain, there was no longer a way to leave earth. But that was not the only thing that had changed in the drop of an eye.

Watching the dark smoke rising from what had only seconds ago been the space bridge back to Cybertron, red optics wide and intake slightly open, Megatron stood frozen. Were someone to stand beside him at this moment, the strength of the once Warlord's EM field would have most certainly been enough to force them to take a few steps away at least. But as it stood, his allies were not within reach. Perhaps for the better for more than one reason.

Millennia upon millennia had made Megatron a battle experienced warrior far outreaching any gladiatorial fight he had fought before and the logical part of his processor was well aware that it was perhaps the better choice to destroy the space bridge lest any of the Decepticons followed after it to Cybertron. He had after all been a close witness and the leading force in the faction's stubbornness before this, and as such was well aware that there was little that would stop his most stubborn warriors - his once most stubborn warriors, there were still times he spoke and thought of the Decepticons as his, a habit he had yet to fully break.

There was a part of him that was not fully willing to let go yet. Not for reasons some may have thought, no rather Megatron caught himself in the quiet hours of the day regarding the Decepticons as his to master, his to own. Perhaps another reason he had to join Optimus. He had no doubt that he had strayed far from his original goals, something he did not regret in all cases, but this one was one in which he did so.

Had he not rebelled in the first place, as to enable all Cybertronians to life their lives as they wanted with no one to call themself the master of another mecha's life? And yet it was a role he had settled himself in so easily and comfortably at the cost of not only his own ideals and goals, but the misery of his faction and now at the cost of never being a witness to the Cybertron he had done this for.

Perhaps the eternal payment for the destruction he had brought to the planet in his quest to better it. But no matter what the logical part of his processor said, the thing at the forefront of his processor was the abject horror of being stuck on this planet so far away from their home that it was a certain doom to remain here for the rest of his life.

With all his focus on the smoking crater, Megatron paid little attention to the yellow Seeker not all that far behind him, but in return Novastorm did little to pay active attention to the once Deception leader either. She had only managed to sort through her internal alarms and cleared her HUD of warning messages dying it red, in time to watch the fatal shot hit, and the space bridge explode as she had sat up. The shock at seeing the only way back to Cybertron blow up made her freeze, wings dropping in disbelieve, making her wince automatically at the pain flaring through her system at the abrupt movement of her injured wings.

But her focus did not stay directed towards the crater of the space bridge all that long, or rather not on the part of the crater that had once been the space bridge. Familiar purple lightning whizzed past her faceplate and her optics automatically trailed it, only for her expression to shift from shock to abject horror.

Scrambling to get to her pede, Novastorm did not even manage a full step before falling to the ground once more. In the horror of the moment she had forgotten that the damage that had grounded her in the first place had been a shot out thruster, and as such the sudden weight of her frame on it had sent burning pain through her frame. However, the pain of her battered frame and shot out thruster paled in comparison to the black hole in her spark. What had previously not fully registered came in full force now. It felt like someone had ripped out her spark and cut out a third of it, leaving it incomplete and instable in the face of a suddenly cut trine bond.

Her whole frame and processor were taken over by pure agony, the pain of her crash fully overshadowed by this new kind of pain filling her frame. Novastorm once more attempted to rise to her pede, ignoring the pain flaring in her pede, but once more she found herself crumbling to the ground, leaving her unable to walk or stand a prolonged time. Horror and agony burned bright in her field, only overshadowed by the pain in it, a little less than a hundred meters, and she was incapable of reaching them. There was a rattling noise she noted in the back of her processor, but did not even fully realise was coming from the shaking of her own frame, as yellow digits dented black plaiting as her arms wrapped around herself in a hug. Of course, all Seekers were aware of the risk from the day they were able to comprehend the meaning of trine and even more so once they had found a trine, but there was nothing that could have prepared Novastorm for the full agony it would be.

It was suddenly far more understandable why this pain was said to drive Seekers into lifelong depressions, or even simply kill a lone left Seeker. With the sudden loss with of one of her trine bonds, Novastorm buried herself in the one that she had left, reaching out and being equally reached for, clinging to each other in the bond to reassure that at least this one was still there and not simply cut in the blink of optic like it had never been there in the first place. It was horrifying to know that from one moment to the other any proof of their trine bond had simply been whisked away into the nothingness of the black hole in her spark and still she knew if she opened her chassis right this second, there would be no physical damage to prove.

With her focus turned inside and towards her bond, Novastorm did not even notice the way her derma was quivering or the way her vision was blurring as optical fluid gathered in her optics until it simply spilled over and ran down her faceplate in big tears. There was no sound, no sobbing, no sniffling, only the reflection of the setting sun in the increasing wetness of her faceplate, as more and more tears spilled from her optics, until they had crossed her full faceplate and dripped to the floor and unto her arms. It was only then that she noticed the outward change and with a muted pained whimper quickly wiped her faceplate with shaking servo's, before simply burying her faceplate in her servo's.

Whereas Novastorm and Starscream had reached the Space Bridge, Skywarp had been stopped in her tracks by Prime, the moment she had collided with the earth, she had triggered her transformation just in time to meet the bigger mech helm on. The crash had been anything, but pain free, but it was easy for her to ignore the pain with the amount of signals shooting through her circuit. The pain signals the last of her worries at the moment, still in the end it didn’t prevent her from being disoriented by a fist to the faceplate. Her view momentarily darkening as she stumbled back, servos shooting up to hold her faceplate, she expected more attacks to follow, but none did.

By the time she regained her view, her optics widened in shock as she realised just why this had been the case. The Prime had used her moment of disorientation to make his way quickly towards the edge of the canyon, his weapon aimed at something Skywarp did not immediately realise. It was as he shot, her helm turning to follow the visible laser streak, that she understood.

The Prime had doomed them. It filled the usually rather cheerful Seeker with raging hate. They had fought millions of years, brought sacrifice after sacrifice to move towards a Cybertron that they could one day call theirs and that would thrive and Prime simply decided for all of them that they would never return, stuck on this dirt ball filled with disgusting fleshlings. But the rage was catapulted to the back in mere milliseconds, for the Space Bridge was not the only thing destroyed by the Prime. Undoubtedly there was only one other mecha on this battlefield that felt the same rage, pain, desperation and shock than her.

It was like slow motion that she watched Starscream reach for the Allspark before the whole area lighted up in a big explosion, leaving nothing but a charred crate in its wake. But what did it matter, if they could no longer return home, there was no longer any kind of hope of their species continuing on after this war would be over, no, the only thing that mattered was the blinding pain that ripped her spark apart as a connection she had thought to be lifelong flickered and then vanished leaving an empty space that surely would reflect in her spark as a piece having been simply carved out. There was no way that this pain was not physical. What felt like an eternity of her simply standing there like frozen, must have been a few seconds to any witness before her frame was suddenly gone with the crackle of purple lightning.

When Skywarp took form again, a violent flinch shook her frame, wings flared unevenly and in contrast to the usual elegance Seekers carried themselves with in the day-to-day life, but the purple Seeker could not have cared less as bright red optics stared at the ground before her. Starscream had been a constant of life for a very, very long time, there had been more than one fight inside the trine and more often than not they found themselves arguing, but they had been trine.

Trine was more than any non Seeker would ever understand, it was something that had prevailed from the moment the first Seekers had wandered Cybertron. Trine was more than family, trine was more than a silly relationship, trine was a commitment for eternity. No matter how often they argued and fought and disagreed, there was a bond deeper than any love between them and now Skywarp was looking down at the destroyed frame of her trine leader and the pain that had previously been near paralysing reached a new height.

There were no words, no gesture, that could express the agony filling every atom making up her frame, it was like Primus or Unicron or whoever was out there was peeling her apart atom by atom and scrapping out any bit that had ever been Starscream with a blade.

It was by then that Novastorm seemed to have woken from her stupor and buried into their bond, and Skywarp was glad for it. It was that movement in the bond, that little bit of life in the consuming darkness that forcefully reminded her where she was and why she was here, not that she paid any more attention to it than she had prior. No, for all she cared everyone, Autobot and Decepticon could frag right off, what did they matter in the face of this damage they had done. The only things that counted right now were Novastorm and Starscream.

Extending her bond towards Novastorm, Skywarp attempted to express as much comfort as she could while being consumed by the same pain and agony that was consuming her yellow trinemate. In the end, there was not much they could do besides share their pain, for neither of them had much energy to comfort the other with positive emotions at the current time. Later, mayhap when they were alone and had done their duty, they could grieve and comfort each other, but right this moment it was simply impossible. It was then that her legs simply gave in, a tremble running through them, before Skywarp crumbled to her knees next to the frame of her trine leader. His frame was for all purposes beat up, but not as bad as he had been beaten before.

The white had been charred with black and his optics were offline, his cockpit was smashed, and his wings were melted at the edges, but Skywarp had seen him in worse states before. Had felt the pain echo in her own frame through the bond as grey servos inflicted more and more pain, followed by prolonged stays in the medbay or not, if Starscream managed to scurry himself away or Megatron decided he did not deserve it. It was with these thoughts, memories of an even worse crumpled frame filling her processor that her servo let go of her thighs, the armour crumbled under the strength of her straining grip and instead reached for the frame of her trine leader.

Logically, Skywarp knew that Starscream was dead, there was no way to replicate a broken bond and there was no doubt in her mind that there was no comparable thing to the pain they were feeling that could be anything other than a broken bond, but nonetheless a small perhaps childish part of her hoped that if she was to simply shake Starscream he would online his optics again and glare up at her before hissing at her to get the frag out of his berthroom and how dare she wake him up like he had done so often before he had been calmed with a nice cube of Energon. The scene playing back in her processor was so… domestic in retrospect that Skywarp could not help herself but curse herself for never appreciating the grumpy aft Starscream had been whenever he had been caught up in an experiment of his own and had fallen asleep on a datapad. Back at the moment she had only ever been annoyed and so had Starscream been and more often than not the result had been an argument that had reached on for the entire morning.

It was only at the feel of a new stab of devastation in the bond that was left that Skywarp realised that her clawed servos had closed around Starscream’s arm and shoulder and were shaking him. Red optics slowly filled with unspilled tears as the Skywarp slowly stop shaking Starscream, forcing herself to do so.

After what had felt like several minutes and had in truth only been a few seconds, Megatron’s focus had shifted from his musings to the world around him once more, fully expecting an attack from an enraged Starscream or Soundwave, but it was as his optics landed on the view only a few meters away from the crate that his thoughts screeched to a stop and his optics widened in abject horror. There was his SI- his once SIC’s frame, and Skwarp was kneeling next to it with a look on her faceplate that Megatron had never seen there before. The way she was shaking Starscream was the second thing that clues the once warlord in to what was happening, and it was enough to make his vents momentarily stop. There was no denying that Megatron had beaten and degraded Starscream on more than one occasion, bending his armour, breaking his struts, watching as his Energon leaked over his frame and had coloured his armour and the floor he had been lying on in a bright pink. There had been far too many times when he had done so in the view of all and everyone, but never had Skywarp reacted like this.

The pain, the shock, the way she seemed so desperate as she shook Starscream was enough to make him assume that Starscream was either dying or dead already. A part of Megatron wished to walk over and reassure himself of the fact, offer comfort to the purple Seeker in the wake of what undoubtedly was an agonising pain, but he was under no illusion that he would not be welcome, not as an Autobot and not as a leader either. And if Megatron was honest with himself, another thought he could not let Optimus hear about, another equally big part, if not bigger, did not want to do so. Said part was filled with satisfaction and pleased fulfilment at the traitorous Seeker finally dying.

There had been many times when the Seeker had been in his grasp, optics filled with pain and pleading, and Megatron had wanted to do nothing more than to disregard the pleading and the whimpering and simply tighten his grasp, until the Seeker’s optics darkened, but to do so then would have robbed him of an at times, rather competent SIC and the loyalty of the remaining Seekers as well, so he had never done so, but the wish to see the white, blue and red Seeker in pain had grown over the millennia and there was little pity for the way he had ended. To a certain degree, Megatron was disgusted with himself for how he thought about Starscream, but he was also aware that if he had not kept the Seeker in check the traitorous electro viper would have killed him instead, and there was no doubt that Starscream would not have had the mercy that Megatron had shown to him again and again.

Starscream against what many liked to rumour, and there were many rumours, had no noble upbringing, no fancy connections, nothing like that. The first memory the young Seeker had was the dirty streets.

How he got there he would never fully know and quite frankly at this point he no longer cared, he had carved himself a place in this world, and he had done so by himself. Science had been his first passion and love, stealing and pirating any data he could get on it to teach himself had been hard, but it had made his life brighter, and then he had managed to achieve what he had considered near impossible back then. An application to the Academy of Science with the alt mode conveniently left off, it had been good enough for a scholarship and by the time he had arrived, and they had realised they had let a Seeker into their precious Academy, it had been too late. A trick the professors and fellow students never let Starscream forget, how he wasn’t supposed to be there, but he hadn’t been alone.

There had been another flyer, a shuttle, brilliant and compassionate and caring. Starscream had quickly found his first true friend in him, and their partnership had been a close one until the fateful expedition that had changed Starscream’s life once more. He remembered the coldness, the way his wings had ached, and his fuel lines had hurt, and the white had become all composing. He had circled the whole planet nearly twice by the time his fuel was so low he only barely made it back to Cybertron and still there had been no sign of his partner. Not only that, but he had lost consciousness upon arriving back on Cybertron and when he came online again he had been accused of murder and no one listened when he begged for a search party, for help to search, Primus to let him go alone.

But no one listened.

Stripped of his place at the academy, his achievements and worst of all, knowing his partner was still somewhere out there alone, this was the first time Starscream truly thought about dying. He had begged for Primus to change their places, for his own death, if it meant Skyfire would be alive and well, but it had never come to fruition. There had been little left for Starscream that had mattered at all to him until he had heard of the start of a rebellion. There had been little consideration needed for him to join those that rebelled against those that had left his friend to die, and Starscream as such threw himself into the cause, quickly gaining the leaders' attention. Rising through the ranks hadn’t been all that complicated, and in the process of doing so he had found trinemates as well, Novastorm and Skywarp.

And for a time he had been almost happy, and then his relationship to Megatron had begun to deteriorate and a vicious cycle of scheming, punishment and more scheming had begun that had once more brought Starscream closer to death. All this played in front of Starscream like a film, it was near enough to make the Seeker scoff at the idea that it was truly true that one saw their life before them when dying and there was no doubt he was dying. He knew he had been in agony and now there was nothing, it felt like he was floating in a vast nothingness…no. Not nothingness, he was floating in the universe, dotted all around him were stars and planets, galaxies and black holes, it was quite beautiful. Is it not? The question made Starscream tense and his wings flare, that had not been him, he was sure of it, but what had it been then? Was he not dead after all? Had he been captured by the Autobots? But before he could get more agitated, a fond chuckle echoed through every atom of this scenario and his frame was filled by a soft numbness.

There was movement. The universe was fading, but the feeling was not, and then his optics onlined suddenly.

Bright blue optics stared up and tear filled red optics stared back. “....Starscream?”, it was more a disbelieving whisper than a true question and as Starscream opened his intake to answer he balked on the inside as something not him answered. “Yes, we are.”. It was in horror that the Seeker realised that he still felt numb, and the view was like watching a film instead of truly witnessing himself. His frame moved without any command of him, and ice-cold fear that was quickly dosed with more numbness and calmness filled him as the Seeker realised he was as much in control of his frame as a copilot watching a pilot fly.

A soft comfort and reassurance was projected at him calming him, if he wanted or not, wordlessly promising him to be taken care of and that all would be well. It was time that the Allspark had a chance to act, this Seeker was a prime example on how badly this war was impacting the bots participating. They would fix it.