#post explosion

[zimt-deathnote]

Some post-explosion sketches from the weekend. I will fully and unashamedly use this new found power of having 3D references of their flat, to just paint over and it looks nice, until I throw up.

----- My other socials Commission Info Let's drink some Ko-Fi! 🍵

[noctisvel]

𓂃𓈒𓏸 Selene & Thing dynamic / headcanons 𓏸𓈒𓂃

(post-explosion | canon-adjacent | quiet horror |

✦ ──────────── ✦

• selene never asks why thing prefers her company. she assumes he likes stillness. he sits near her shadows, never inside them, like he knows better.

• thing is careful with her in a way he isn’t with others. no sudden taps. no sharp pulls. his touch is deliberate, hesitant, as if he’s afraid of being recognized.

• selene feels something she can’t name when he’s nearby. not comfort. familiarity. the same feeling as standing in a place where something important once happened and realizing you cried there but not remembering why.

• thing reacts to selene before she speaks. before she moves. sometimes before she decides. he adjusts lights. intercepts doors. positions himself between her and danger without being asked.

• once, selene says softly, half-amused, “you’re very good at anticipating.” thing freezes. then resumes what he was doing, slower.

• her shadows do not recoil from him. they treat him like a fixture. something that has always belonged to the space around her.

• thing does not remember isaac. there are no thoughts. no images. no names. but instinct lingers in the wrong places.

• he recognizes selene’s silences. the way she goes still when she’s afraid. the way she weighs choices instead of feelings.

• when selene hesitates over something, thing responds and comforts her

• sometimes thing hides his palm when selene notices blood or damage nearby. like shame without context.

• selene never asks where thing came from. she learned, long ago, that some origins are wounds.

•once, she almost asks, “did i know you before” the question dies on her tongue. she decides she doesn’t need the answer.

✦ ──────────── ✦

[aceofwhump]

Murdoch Mysteries 5x04 "War on Terror"

[wildflowerwillow]

imagine this:

mello hits his head HARD when the explosion happens. it knocks him out cold for the next couple of weeks, until he wakes up on a couch in someone’s apartment and can’t remember how he got there. when matt walks into the room, mello doesn’t remember who he is; he frantically panics thinking he’s been kidnapped or drugged. matt tells him what happened, and mello has a fun blown meltdown, tears and all.

he’s changed a lot, his personality is different from what it used to be. he used to be extroverted, calm, and simply content. now he’s deranged, chaotic, messy. he’s emotional and impatient. he’s forgetful.

but he faintly remembers life at wammy’s. there was a kid… white hair..? a successor mission…?

but what does all of it mean?

when he sees himself in the mirror he’s livid. even though it’s hard to remember what he used to look like, he knows this isn’t how it’s always been. there’s an ache in his heart, but he can’t quite figure out why.

the news broadcasts over the following months ignite a reminder. oh yeah, he’s supposed to be chasing after kira. the world wide known murderer.

on the day of his death he has an odd feeling. he knows a something terrible will happen, but doesn’t listen to it. even though he doesn’t remember matt from his childhood, he still grieves for him and cries until his lungs are sore. he took such great care of him while he recovered, and this was the ending he got?

the moment his heart slows, he rests his head on the steering wheel and lets it happen. once burned by fire, now eaten and engulfed in it.

nobody was there to remember him after death anyways.

[therobotmonster]

Welcome, those lured by the siren song of the Melinoë Labs!

Have a seat, thanks to innovations in wave form relapse the Director is seeing you concurrently. 

First, Melinoë Labs has a twitter, (@melinoelabs) which distributes essential safety bullitens and public awareness materials. 

In addition to the latest from Melinoë, please take a moment to slink through the backscroll, and don’t hestiate to throw a reblog in the direction of the retrowave apocalypse or the the talking dinosaurs. 

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Another one for Trope Tuesday! Same guy but different trope!

When they’re so hurt and weary they can barely hold their hand up, in this case, to drink or even touch their rescuer… Goodness.

Michiel Huisman from the movie “The Ottoman Lieutenant”, so much whump by the end of this movie, you are not prepared.. 

[queen-of-prophecy]

@the-smallest-star

The issue of not being able to see the timeline of the twins was becoming obvious. Especially when the news informed Vine of what had happened.

This blind spot was becoming increasingly more concerning. Because this time it was involving her favorites.

Ignoring most protocols and security issues, Vine came. She had a smaller container this time, a medical supply kit with all the quick-fixes for Patch's scrapes and injuries, painkillers for the long term, and a quick-made order for new prosthetic legs. She couldn't help her pizzazz on these things, and made them a shiny gold.

"Patch darling-" She sighed, looking over him with sympathy. "-I'm older than mankind. You really oughtn't make a lady as old as me worry like you do."

[kathrynharinger]

The five stages of grief.

LOCATION: The Lost Word loft apartment above.

MENTIONED: @romanmcnulty @fenderbryne

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

Kathryn sat alone in the dimly lit loft apartment that sat above the Lost Word. It was her sanctuary of solitude which now felt more suffocating, as if the walls were closing in around her. The events of that night replayed in her mind like a haunting melody, each note a sharp pang of pain. The car bomb that had taken Roman away at the snap of her fingers one minute of life was going right and the next...it was hell on earth. It was true; the devil walked among them. That same fire that'd taken Roman away had also left its mark on her body. Her arms and back bore the scars of the explosion, a constant reminder of the tragedy that had shattered her world. Thankfully, the bandages stopped her from picking at the ugliness of them.

Denial washed over her like a cold wave, numbing her senses and clouding her thoughts. It'd been there since she got home. The house seemed cold, lonely, and he'd never even stepped foot in here. She couldn't fathom that Roman was truly gone, that the man she'd began to really like was now nothing more than a memory. She clung to the hope that this was all some cruel mistake, that at any moment now he would burst through the door with that lopsided grin and cocky remark that few people could pull off. But reality was unyielding, refusing to bend to her wishes.

Anger quickly surged within her, a burning fire that consumed her from the inside out. Her parents, Roman, Fender — the list went on of people that she had lost or was slowly losing. She slammed her fist onto the table, cursing the cruel twists of this life that constantly stolen happiness from her life. Like they were waiting for a light to finally die within her. Why him? Why them? The questions echoed in her mind late into the night when sleep evaded a relentless barrage that had no answers. Her anger wasn't just directed at the faceless perpetrators; it was directed at the universe itself, for robbing her of the future she always dreamed of having, and the second she got a taste, it was ripped away.

Bargaining followed, a desperate plea to whatever higher power might be listening. "Take me instead," she whispered into the silence, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was the coward's way out, she told herself, that bargaining would get her nowhere in life unless it was a deal out of con artistry with Fender. But at the moment, in the right now, she'd have given anything to turn back time, to rewrite the tragic ending that had unfolded before her eyes. In her mind, she replayed scenarios where she could have done something differently, where she could have saved him. But the past remained unchanged, a cruel testament to the futility of bargaining with the inevitable. She couldn't have done anything differently, no matter how many times she told herself otherwise. A girl who finally found a man who could see her for something more, not for monetary gain or as a trophy on his arm.

Depression had been there since the moment her knees collided with the pavement, and it'd settled like a heavy shroud, enveloping her in a suffocating embrace. The weight of her grief pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe while her hand gripped onto the dining room table, knuckles turning white from the force. The once-vibrant colors of her apartment now seemed dull and lifeless, mirroring the emptiness she felt within. She withdrew from the world outside. Her active social life was on its way to becoming a distant memory. The pain was a constant companion, an unwelcome guest that refused to leave. If and when Fender came home, she'd withdraw to her room as she had done so many nights since; trying to fight the urge to give up. Part was because of Roman, the other was because of the fire that'd marred her body. She felt ugly.

The final stage she was a long way off from.

Acceptance, the final stage of grief, was a distant horizon that seemed impossible to reach. And while Roman's absence was a reality, she could no longer deny, no matter how much she kept pushing forward and trying to fight — she wasn't there yet. Because it was a truth she could no longer fight against. She was waiting for that moment of clarity, when the fog finally cleared and she could begin to piece together the fragments of her struth,hattered heart. Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew that accepting his death didn't mean forgetting him or letting the way he'd died lay. But there was one realisation that did settle down within her this night, finding a way to honor his memory, to carry his spirit with her as she moved forward.

And that meant finding the person who killed him.