Implied Character Death - Blog Posts

Heyyyy!!! I've got another Bad Things Happen for y'all. This one has a personal favorite ship of mine, Kidge (either platonic or romantic, depending on how you read it). There are warnings for blood, vomit, and implied character death.

Enjoy!

“Keith!”

His own name echoed in his head as he was brought out of his holding cell. For three days, he had had nothing but stale bread and coppery water given to him through a slot on the floor. Treated like an animal, this was the first time he had seen any sort of light since he had been captured.

They had been betrayed. Someone inside the Blades had sold them out; it was the only explanation. The base they had infiltrated was supposed to have been abandoned; no one should have been around for a hundred light years at least. Instead, on the other side of a sun undergoing massive solar flares, a Galra cruiser had been lying in wait.

Everyone else on his team had been killed in front of him. Their purple ichor splattered against his face and the floor, creating grisly designs. His head had been swung into the wall, causing his vision to spin and eyes to water.

Then he had been brought here as some kind of bargaining chip with the paladins of Voltron.

But that didn’t matter now.

What mattered was the petite figure hefting a glowing green bayard at the Galra soldier. Her unruly hair was mussed more than usual, the curls wrapping around the frames of her glasses. When he looked closer, her pupils were dilated to tiny pinpricks, and her teeth were bared. She looked downright feral, and Keith had never been so happy to see her.

“Get away from him!” She practically growled as her bayard was raised above her head in a challenge. Her feet were planted wide, and Keith had never seen her so angry in his life. Not even when he had accidentally tripped over the charger for her computer, unplugging it when she had been in the middle of a crucial download.

Then she had been angry.

Now… Now she was livid.

“Don’t.” He begged her. His throat was dry, and his lips were chapped, splitting and letting the blood run down down his chin. “Don’t make them angry.” He tried again, but his words trailed off into a barely audible whisper.

Her eyes narrowed, and she took a step forward. The green bayard was humming with energy. “How can you say that, Keith? Look at what they did to you!”

I can feel it. Keith thought. The ache in his head hadn’t disappeared since his beating three days ago, and some way or another, his ankle had been twisted. It was probably when he had been tossed in his cell, but there was no way for him to be sure.

“It’s what he deserves.” One of his captors sneered. “A half-blood like him? He’s less than Galra! He’s less-” He was suddenly cut off with a wet gurgle.

The front of Pidge’s weapon soared through the air and caught the man who had been speaking in the neck, the purple ichor spraying through the air. She yanked it back, and the ichor sizzled on the energy blade. The soldier lurched forward; his head tossed back so that the white of his spine was visible. More ichor sprayed from a severed artery, splashing Pidge in the purple substance.

She didn’t flinch.

No one else moved.

“I didn’t come here to negotiate.” She said, wiping the ichor from right above her eye, which only caused it to smear in a poor imitation of war paint. “You told me to come alone. I came alone. Now you’re going to release my friend and let us go on our way.”

“I don’t think I am.” The Galra who had pulled Keith from his cell said. He reached his hand down and gripped Keith by the jaw, pulling him to his feet. “It seems that I’m down a soldier, so maybe this half-breed should pay for the loss.” The soldier began to squeeze his fingers together, digging the dirty claws into his cheeks, and forcing Keith’s mouth open.

Keith’s eyes widened in considerably, his hands grappling with the Galra’s arm, trying to get the hand to release him. He ground his teeth together, feeling one in the back of his mouth crack, the white-hot pain shooting straight to the nerve, but he didn’t stop. Fresh blood was pouring from scratches in his cheeks where the soldier’s nails cut jagged lines in his skin. He pursed his lips shut so tightly that they split again.

Pidge was furious; she stepped forward, her bayard prepared to slice through this soldier’s neck as easily as it had done the last one.

“Careful.” He taunted. “If you kill me, my men will kill your friend and then you.” There was a slight strain in his voice from the effort he was putting into Keith’s jaw. “And if your friend,” he said, looking pointedly into Keith’s eyes, and squeezing his fingers together more tightly. “Doesn’t open his mouth, my men will kill you and then him.”

Violet eyes flitted to Pidge’s, just long enough to see her shake her head. There was real fear there. He glanced to the soldiers behind him who all held their weapons at the ready.

Keith reluctantly allowed his mouth to be forced the rest of the way open, knowing it was a mistake. Lightning fast, the Galra took a larger vial from his pocket, popped the lid, and poured a clear liquid into Keith’s mouth.

The first thought that popped into Keith’s head was relief that he was being given more water.

The second thought was that he had been very, very wrong.

The liquid was sour as it hit his tongue, so incredibly sour that he couldn’t help but try and spit it out. That was when a large, calloused hand was clapped over his mouth, forcing his lips shut.

Then it started to burn.

It started to burn its way through his tongue, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth.

It was like his tongue was on fire. He could feel a cough forming itself in the back of his throat, causing his eyes to water as he just prayed that the hand would disappear, disappear and let him spit it out. Against his will, he felt some of it trickle its way down his throat, burning red hot all the way.

Then, the hand was gone, and he was being shoved to the ground, his knees buckling underneath him against his will. Instantly, the liquid was out of his mouth and on the ground, only now it was dark red against the floor. Desperately, he coughed, sending more droplets of red through the air.

Despite the fact that he was on the ground, his arm stretched out for balance; the room was spinning around him. Up was down, down was left, right was backward, and Pidge… Pidge was right in front of him.

Her bayard was right in front of his eyes, giving him something to focus on other than the burning hot in his mouth and his throat. That glowing green that blacked out the rest of his vision, but he knew that green. That green was safe.

Not for long though.

He felt his gut roil and desperately pushed her to the side to empty his stomach on the ground beside her.

It was tinged with blood.

Distantly, he felt her small familiar hands on his shoulders, and he heard her voice saying… something. He thought he heard his name in all the sounds, but he couldn’t be sure.

Not when he was shaking from just the effort of keeping himself up.

Not when he tried to breathe and almost couldn’t.

Not when the room was still spinning out of control, and he was there to watch it.

His stomach lurched again, clenching uncomfortably as he heaved and nothing but red spittle came out. Small hands gripped his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, but he couldn’t… couldn’t…

The world was going dark at the edges of his vision, but he was trying to keep his eyes on the green, that glowing green.

It was the last thing he saw.

The brush textures, lighting, and color tone have my whole heart! 💗

Echo with pspsps

Where there’s Echo, Fives isn’t far behind

Thanks for playing!

Snip-it of a oneshot I’ve been working on.

Currently ~ 1600 words.

Impasse (WIP)

Summary: Draco goes back to the Manor, even though he knows he shouldn't.

It was a cool Thursday morning.

If you could call it morning yet, maybe a more apt description was cool Wednesday night, though as gravel crunched beneath Draco's boots, with the early spring wind nipping at his exposed skin, and only the moonlight, a weak Lumos, and foggy half remembered directions to guide him, the particulars seemed unimportant. Either way it had still been cold enough for Draco to be thankful of his spilt second decision to grab one of his nicer winter cloaks — A distinction which had been granted to it solely for the fact that it's only needed mending charms once or twice, compared to the three or four times that seemed to be growing more and more common amongst articles in his wardrobe these days — before he had headed out the door of his cramped little flat hidden away in his own personal slice of hell in Knockturn Alley.

This was undoubtedly a terrible idea, impulsive, and stupid. Though its not as if any of that has ever stopped him before.

It won't stop him now, either. Even as every instinct in his body screams at him to turn heel, do what he's best at and run. Run far, far away, from Wiltshire, from his gaudy little flat with the temperamental pipes and obnoxiously loud neighbours, from London, farther and farther until nobody can put a face to his name, or a name to his face. Until he's just an unrecognizable body in a sea of people who would forget he was ever there by sunrise. Maybe he'd never stop running, he could chase the moon as it chases the sun.

Pausing only momentarily in places like this, where its quiet and cool, frozen in a perpetual state of in between. Places where he could force certainty out of the simple fact that there is none.

The thoughts are nothing more but an idle indulgence, brushed away as quickly as they form by the breeze. A distraction that crumples under the weight of reality as the Manor comes into sight, hulking like its nothing more than man made stain on the otherwise picturesque horizon. It doesn't seem real, not anymore, as if it were something out of the shattered remnants of a nightmare, or a warped memory best left forgotten.

It seems so long ago now that the Manor was bright, filled to the brim with wonder and luxury. People dancing and twirling in lavish, ornate clothes through its chambers and halls, laughing, drinking, socializing, and gracing a young Draco with hundreds of stories and tales all teeming with whimsy, delight, riches, and power. His parents, murmuring promises of his future into his ear in between bouts of bigoted tripe.

As Draco approached the Manor now though — his head hung like a man heading for the gallows, a poor attempt to obscure it from his view — it was only an obelisk of misery. Each chunk of stone, every brick, and bit of wood, nothing more than a testament to every little mistake he, or his family, had ever made. A physical reminder of every decision, every choice, destined to rot, to transform and warp into a far more accurate depiction of the Malfoy line then the gold and the silk and the bright laughter ever was.

He shouldn't have come back. He doesn't have the right to come back, not anymore. But he had to, because beneath the omnipresent urge to run, beneath the guilt that barred down on his shoulders during the day, and whispered him into states of unrest at night, was the desperate, prowling, angry, need for closure.

So Draco keeps walking.

The air gets thicker the closer he gets, so heavy with spent magic that it's almost smothering. Around him the bright forest he remembered from his childhood gradually shifts into something half dead, wild, and gnarled. Magical plants seem to have mostly reclaimed the grounds, winding up the bars of the rusting ornate fence that guards the curving drive leading up to the Manor, as if Draco's presence alone had frozen them in the middle of a mad scrabble over it, pushing uneasily against the reinforced wards surrounding the grounds like they were desperate to find a way out. The vines of a plant he once would've been able to recognize at a passing glance had grown so thick he could hardly see through it to the other side.

Keeping his hand as steady as he's able, which isn't as much as he would've liked, he draws his wand higher, preparing to have to brute force his way through the plants, when they slither away from his Lumos, as if sensing their impending fate. "Wonderful. Just— Lovely." Draco murmurs with disgust, watching with a suppressed grimace as the plants slither into the shadows and underbrush. In a bid to steel his nerves he inhales sharply as he turns his attention back to the gate. In the Manor's prime, it would easily open at the presence of any Malfoy, requiring nothing more than a glance and the want for it to do so, but with the wards the Ministry slammed on the place after— Well, everything. He wasn't entirely sure if any of his family's wards were stilled up, let-alone keyed to him.

Even so, still has to try.

Curling his fingers tighter around his wand, he reaches out with his magic, tentatively pressing against the wards. It was an odd sensation, like sticking his hand into a bowl of treacle only to be met with the texture of oil. The feeling of resistance crawled its way up his arm, but never fully stopped him. Time slowed to a drip, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the only accurate measure of it was the speed of which his heart thudded anxiously between the pit of his stomach, and the top of his throat. This really was a stupid idea, he should have never entertained it. Who did he think he was? Trying to bypass Ministry sanctioned wards with the grace of a child knocking over a vase. If he was lucky nothing would happen, and he could just return to his shitty, drafty, far too small flat, and fruitlessly try to forget this ever happened. Though what was far, far more likely to happen would be that the nearest Auror would Apparate over, see that Draco Malfoy was surely up to no good, and haphazardly toss him into the most over crowded cell in Azkaban. If they were feeling merciful. Slowing his breathing in an attempt to keep it steady, he pushed onwards, searching for the faintest hint of old magic.

All at once the forest seemed to snap back into place around him in time with the sharp yank to his core. A familiar cold, sinking sensation washes over him — like the Manor itself is scrutinizing his entire being like a bug trapped beneath a glass — and the gate slowly opens with a piercing creak that disrupts the stillness of the night. What little plants were still clinging to the gate's intricate ironwork snapped and tore as their stalks were forced in the wrong direction. The protests of the gate tapper off as it stops, open just enough for Draco to squeeze through, though just barely, as it snags on some of his fastens, and almost causes him to loose a button in the process.

For a undeterminable time afterwards, Draco just stands there. The reality of what he had just done joining the chaotic fray of his choices that weighed down his body and wore groves into the bones, with very much the same air as a smug Kneazel basking in the sun. Preemptively taunting him for his stupidity. Every muscle in his body was primed to flee— At first, he told himself, it was simply in case an Auror did show up. But as time dawdled onwards and that seemed less and less likely, he was once again forced to confront his own cowardice. 

Returning to the other side of the fence beckoned to him like a Siren's call. It would be so easy to just leave, sum this up to the lapse in his own judgement that it surely was. Go home, his mind coaxed, there's no need of this, it lied, you don't have to say goodbye yet, there's always tomorrow. 

Or the day after, or next week, or month, or year.

Or never.

No. 

No.

Draco inhaled sharply, the action making the top of his throat sting from the chill, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, which he had closed at some unpinpointable time. It was a rather childish action, one that surely would've gotten him snapped at when he was younger, though presently he couldn't find it in himself to care, he just pressed harder until he could see stars fizzle in and out of existence, and the darkness behind his eyelids was flooded with static. This isn't what he would have wanted — Foolish, stubborn, man that he was, with his incorrigible bleeding heart that Draco had treasured so dearly. The very same that lead him to always be the hero, even until the end — for Draco to cling so tightly to his memory, replay every stolen moment, every word, every kiss, every soft lazy morning, as few and far in between as they were, to Harry.

What little of him Draco got to have, to the promise of more, had either of them been granted the chance.

That's what forces Draco to move, one unsteady step after the other. 

He owes it to Harry as much, if not more, than he owes it to himself, to finally get to say goodbye. 

Trying my hand with some digital stuff, with some angsty genocide route sans.

(I feel like with how much Papyrus laughs at least one of the echo flowers would have caught it.)

Some very VERY rough sketches from when I was designing Khalids mother

Rip her in that last one

I now have a hc that since Khalid wasn't there the shadow thieves asked her where he was (perhaps under a false pretense of living if she tells them), of course they’d find him one way or another but less work ya know, but she refuses to tell them