#mcd cw

[peachypurr]

too soon?

[sunaluvs]

[ 2:18 AM ] — BAJI KEISUKE

the crimson liquid in your glass glints under the dim lighting.

you close your eyes and bring the glass to your lips, throwing your head back to drain the last of it. a sharp exhale escapes you when you bring your head back, swallowing harshly around the tangy flavour. you feel it travel down your throat, settling heavy in your gut next to your grief.

the couch in front of you is empty, and so is the bottle of alcohol in your hand.

you blink when your phone vibrates next to you. a glance down confirms who you already knew it was going to be.

chifuyu is calling you.

you stare at the screen as it continues vibrating. you don’t take your eyes off of it, not until the call gets sent to your voicemail, and the screen goes dark. then the dishevelled sight of you—unbrushed hair, red-rimmed eyes, blank expression—forces your eyes up and away.

in your mind, you’re replaying the same moments you’ve been doing for the last four months. you recall the fight that broke out with your boyfriend, the slammed doors and spitting words. you think of the calls you ignored and the texts you didn’t looked at until it was too late. you replay the damning voice of the news lady announcing an accident had taken place.

MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT AT HIGHWAY 305. TWO INJURED AND ONE DEAD.

the glaring image on the screen had seared itself into your mind’s eye. it’s taken residence behind your eyelids, forced every blink you take into becoming a visit to the graveyard; a haunting reminder of what is and what could’ve been.

a grey car, upturned and blazing on the street. the black remains of a motorcycle lying feet away from the car, decimated. familiar.

enough of it was left for you to recognize it as baji’s.

in your head, you do everything right. you don’t open the topic that took him away from you. you don’t insist on it, don’t let the fight escalate into something bigger than you could’ve contained. you don’t let him storm out. you don’t let him leave your side.

you don’t stay angry at him. you pick up his calls. you answer his texts. you tell him that you love him and you forgive him. you don’t let your anger cloud your mind and you don't let it be the last thing he remembers of you.

the phone vibrates again. in the weighted darkness, you reach down to pick up a second bottle, hands trembling in their motions. you crack it open, and take a dizzying swig, burying the memories deep beneath the soil of your regrets.

it’s another night with just you and your demons.

[wanderingcas]

dean realized he was worth more. cas's love made him realize that: he's not just a grunt, or an angry man, or a fighter. he can love. he can have a job he likes. he can cuddle a dog every morning and make breakfast. he can have a life. he realizes that -

and then they kill him.

[bijoharvelle]

how’s hope feeling today [AO3] summary: After Cas is gone, bees start to follow Dean.  pairing: dean/cas, background eileen/sam warnings/tags: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (cas), bees, grief, healing, post-series notes: inspired by @flowersforcas‘s perfect fanart & concept which you can reblog here.

Dean doesn’t notice until they’re running through a rakshaka case, months after. They’re in Montana and it’s well into January which means there shouldn’t be any bees around.

He ducks his head back from the buzz irritably, eyes narrowed. “Don’t these bitches hibernate?” he says hotly.

Sam is looking at him like maybe he’s insane. Dean expected him to just know about bees and their seasonal habits or whatever, like he always seems to just know things. Either way, Dean is pretty sure that bees aren’t supposed to be around in the winter.

The bee -- it’s one of the fuzzy kinds which he’s pretty sure means it doesn’t sting but still, there’s an instinctual kind of fear there -- just kind of dizzily floats near him for another moment before drifting off. Dean glares after it and Sam watches him do it and then they’re back to talking about how they’re gonna track the thing.

He doesn’t think about the bee until after they bunk up somewhere in Wyoming on the way back to the bunker. It’s an idle thought that enters his mind as he’s trying to sleep, wondering about the hibernation thing again. With sudden clarity so sharp it hurts, he thinks that Cas would have known. Cas would have known whether bees hibernate, what kind of bee that one was, why it might’ve been freezing its stinger off in Montana in January.

Dean smothers the gasp that rises through his chest into his pillow and forces himself to name prime numbers until he falls asleep.

*

It keeps happening.

Continue Reading on Ao3

(no tags bc MCD!)

[thestuckylibrary]

hi! so i was wondering if there's any AU where Steve or Bucky has cancer? and dies. bc i love the pain lol thanks x

try this AO3 search

[tokyotheglaive]

Hey! It's me annoying you again, sorry. But what do you think Bond would do if Q died? And if you had time, do you think you could write a prompt about it? But only if you have time! Thankss🌸🌸

You’re never annoying darling <3 and oooooh, that is horribly sad. Here we go~!

Warnings (obviously) for mutual pining, canon compliance (through SPECTRE) and MCD. This isn’t a happy ficlet.

I.

“Q’s dead.”

Two words, two syllables. Bond blinks, hesitates on his next step. He hears Moneypenny shift her weight behind him.

“And?” Bond asks.

“And?” Moneypenny echoes. She grips her arms tightly, manicured nails digging into her skin.

Bond turns away. There really isn’t much to be said.

II.

Bond reads the report because he’s a masochist. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t know the full details, because he’s just gotten back after his disastrous romance with Swann, because he might be sent out to neutralize this new threat--they’re all excuses when it gets right down to it. The reason, if he needs one, is something primal--something about the way the air catches in his throat as he breathes.

He reads the report. Hostage situation. 008 deployed. Extraction failure. The words jump out at him like headlines on a daily, but they don’t mean anything.

There’s no picture. Maybe it’s for the better.

III.

Bond’s in Shanghai. He’s not on an operation--in fact, he’s been grounded. It’s all bureaucracy, of course, and Bond’s meant to keep his eyes open and his mobile charged. He has a feeling M’s going to call him in the next hour or so with a new target, but that’s just his gut.

He’s tempted to call in, just to see if he’s right--he probably is--when he hesitates over the number. He’s about to call Q, but Q won’t be answering. It’s the other boy now, someone Bond doesn’t like very much. Certainly not someone who’d be inclined to chat over the phone regardless of the time difference. Q could match Bond word for word, barb for barb, but his replacement...

No matter. Bond will get adjust. He always does.

There’s something in his throat that water and wine won’t wash away.

(He’s right about Mallory. It’s all very hush-hush, even by MI6 standards. There’s a voice in Bond’s ear but it isn’t Q’s.)

IV.

Bond doesn’t do well with legitimate downtime. He had his vices in years past--drinking and gambling and fucking. He can still drink, though he doesn’t hold his liquor nearly so well, not that he’ll admit it. He can gamble with the best, but when all’s said and done? His bed is cold. Bond is cold.

It’s not that he can’t get a partner, though truly, he doesn’t have nearly the same effect on women as he did when he was younger. There are lines on his face and grey streaks in his hair. There’s no disguising how hard he’s lived. His skin’s rough, leathery and thin. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself.

He has a lot of downtime lately. M hasn’t begun to phase him out properly, but Bond knows it’s getting to be time. He was never meant to live this long, and he’s fraying at the seams. His hands shake. He’s slower, both physically and mentally. The job has taken it’s toll.

A cold man in a cold bed, alone, Bond thinks of Q.

In his mind, Q’s still young. Now that he’s dead--been dead for years, now--Bond can admit that he was beautiful. Bond remembers seeing him that first time in the National Gallery and thinking fuck that’s a lovely face.

Fuck, he’s so young.

But he’s dead, and there’s no shame left in Bond as he conjures the face to mind. He only ever saw Q without cardigan and shirt once, but Bond knows better than to trust his memory. What he sees behind his eyelids is undoubtedly idealized. He wonders what would have happened if he’d simply reached out then, if he hadn’t spurned Q’s obvious advances. He’d had ever reason not to--everyone he slept with tended to end up dead, or worse, and that was a waste of a spectacular Quartermaster--but Q had died anyway, hadn’t he?

Bond tries not to go down that rabbit hole of what-if’s and could-have-been’s, but invariably that’s where he ends up. He can start stone-cold sober or at the bottom of a bottle, but at the end of the day, there’s Q with his hopeful smile and his untamable curls, watching him.

Bond sleeps. He sleeps a lot, these days.

V.

Bond knows he’s going to die as soon as he’s hit. There’s no one to tell except his killer, the person who’s currently making off with a suitcase that Bond was meant to be delivering to his Moroccan liaison, but he knows. It’s not a shock. He’s been waiting for this for a while now.

It’s not fast, or not fast enough. He’s bleeding out from his chest. He remembers Ronson from all of those years ago. Bond still regrets leaving him in that hotel room with nothing and no one. Now that he’s here, alone and dying, he realizes how horrible it must have been. Ronson had seen him, had been this close to survival--and Bond had left. Orders.

He coughs. So much for that.

Bond’s getting lightheaded. It feels as though it’s taking an eternity. Bond’s wants to scream get on with it but he can only cough. Alone in a hotel room--what a way to go. It’s better than how Q went, surrounded by enemies intent on making him suffer. Bond’s done worse to his own targets without remorse. He doesn’t deserve this soft death.

His vision blurs. Maybe it’s punishment. Maybe this will last forever, or however long’s comparable to the damage he’s done. He thinks, ridiculously, of Q. He wasn’t responsible for that, isn’t, but still. Q was his. He wanted Q, cared for him. He would have died for him, if given the chance.

He closes his eyes, exhales. So much for that.

[kyluxcantina]

Leia watches as the man they call Kylo Ren (and the child she called Ben Solo) dies.

Please reblog with your response to the above prompt, or submit to the kylux cantina!

[kyluxcantina]

Kylo and Hux's deaths don't end with a bang, but with a whimper.

Please reblog with your response to the above prompt, or submit to the kylux cantina!