#Crow's crying in grief | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thebiscuitlabryinth · 2 months ago

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The air in the Vanilla Kingdom is crisp and slightly thin from the high altitude, a far cry from the heavy dustiness that Healer is accustomed to from the village. Sadly, any refreshment he could have gotten from it is thrown off by the underlying sugary staleness.

The young batch of adventurers forge onwards in front of him, their chatter shaking the strange silence that blankets what Healer had assumed to be a populated kingdom. Plain Yogurt sticks close to his right, casually relaying descriptions of the battered and time-worn buildings they pass to him. It isn’t really necessary, because Healer can get an understanding of the area through the tap of his staff and the tiles beneath his feet, and he doesn’t have much interest in the visual details anyway. Still, Healer doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop, endeared by the sweet sentiment behind his dedicated descriptions.

Flanking his left is a wary Black Raisin with a raisin crow or two, from the sounds of it. It is not ideal for her and Plain Yogurt to be on this venture together, but Healer appreciates both of their company regardless. At the very least, they seem to be ignoring each other for the most part, the typical tension between them mostly unnoticeable.

It is just as well, because Healer has enough to worry about as it is: the stale air, the silence slinking around them, the unsteady tiles shifting beneath the weight of his staff.

He hates to admit it, but it is all horribly unnerving.

Healer can understand his discomfort at the unexpected state of the kingdom, but he does not understand the twist of despair in his gut, something eerily close to grief. Everything feels wrong, and while that should be unsurprising coming from a place you expected to be inhabited, the wrongness Healer feels almost comes from a place of familiarity rather than expectation. Like it feels wrong because he knows it usually does not feel like this.

That is impossible, though, because Healer has never been here before. So he keeps that feeling tucked close to himself, following the sound of the group’s footsteps and Plain Yogurt’s elaborate commentary.

It does not take very long for them to agree that the Vanilla Kingdom seems to be abandoned, even more so than their own little village. There isn’t a trace of another Cookie anywhere, and the further into the kingdom they go, the more true that conclusion seems to be.

“This state of disrepair could be because nobody is around to maintain everything.” Wizard suggests as the young adventurers debate the cause, a contemplative lilt to his voice. “Perhaps the Cookies who once lived here fled from Dark Enchantress Cookie during the Dark Flour War?”

Dark Enchantress. Healer has heard the name before, but it has never hit him square in the chest like it does now, leaving him winded. Pain bursts behind his bandaged eyes, blurry memories of desperation and devastation ripping through him like a blade, dripping ice down his spine. It is all completely incomprehensible, ill-fitting with the reality of the village life he knows and upsetting because of it.

“Dark Enchantress– the things she’s done. The crimes she’s committed!” The gasp comes unthinkingly from his throat, and he suddenly knows with a startling certainty what Dark Enchantress has done. He shouldn’t. It is impossible, for someone to suddenly know things out of nothing, and yet–

The newfound power dwelling in Healer’s staff reaches weakly for him, drapes over him, cool and crisp like the high altitude air. It is meant to be soothing, Healer thinks, but a part of him recoils violently from it, because it must be the cause of these strange flashes of knowledge that do not belong to him. His hand jerks around his staff, as if he isn’t sure whether to throw it away or cling to it like a lifeline, before he stubbornly tightens his grip and plants it in the ground, trying to catch his bearings.

A hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him steady, and Plain Yogurt’s voice swoops in close behind. “Hey, are you okay? That was quite the reaction.” He asks, his words sounding heavy in a way that Healer assumes is awkward, even though Plain Yogurt doesn’t seem to get awkward often. “...Do you know Dark Enchantress or something?”

It is an innocent, almost casual question beneath its layers of concern, but it might be the worst thing Healer could have heard at that moment. It feels like it cleaves straight through his brain, peeling back his consciousness like an orange and dredging up ancient pain from the depths of his subconscious, so strong it is like it has been fermenting all this time. It crawls through his dough, and he is hit with the scent of burnt dough and ruin, of ozone and jam, of wilting lilies–

Healer’s gasp of breath catches wetly in his throat, sounding slightly strangled.

“Healer!” Black Raisin calls, and he can feel her pressing in on his other side, hands hovering over him but not quite touching, not quite as bold in her invasion of his personal space as Plain Yogurt is. Her concern immediately turns to anger, and she addresses Plain Yogurt sharply behind Healer’s head. “Don’t ask such a stupid question! Why do you insist on upsetting him over nothing?”

“I was trying to check on him!” Plain Yogurt argues, his hand on Healer’s shoulder tightening from his steady comfort. “If I knew it would make him worse, I wouldn’t have asked him that, obviously.”

“It is very easy to say that, isn’t it?” Black Raisin shoots back, and Healer can practically feel Plain Yogurt bristle beside him. He wishes they hadn’t started arguing at all, but at least it grounds him from the churning confusion of his unreliable mind, helping him recover his wits with something else to focus on.

“Black Raisin, please don’t make accusations like that.” Healer cuts in gently, the tone only slightly unsteady as he gets his breath under control. He lifts his free hand to pat her arm in consolation, closing the gap that she had been hesitant to bridge herself. “Plain Yogurt is right. He was only trying to help, and he had no way of knowing the question would be sensitive.” He pauses, then admits a little sheepishly, “Even I am not sure why I reacted so strongly.”

Black Raisin seems to hesitate for a moment, before sighing, her tone softening. “Are you alright now, at least?”

“I am, I promise you.” Healer insists with a little quirk of a smile, and it isn’t quite a lie, but it isn’t a truth either. He raises a hand to pat the hand on his shoulder too, tilting his head towards Plain Yogurt. “Both of you. Thank you for the concern, but we should catch up with our new friends before we lose them, shouldn’t we?”

Black Raisin makes a reluctant but ultimately agreeing noise, Plain Yogurt squeezes his shoulder once before his hand falls away, and that is that.

Healer is a bit relieved that the batch of young adventurers hadn’t noticed his severe reaction, distracted as they were with patching up some holes in their way forward, because he really has no explanation for it. He isn’t sure if he wants an explanation either. He tries to push past it instead, dismissing his own mixed emotions as they continue on.

Unfortunately, that is a lot easier said than done. It is like a lock has been unlatched, allowing memories that belong to someone else to seep in through the cracks, even as muddled and unclear as they are. Healer’s feet move as if they know this path, as if they have walked it a hundred times before, and it unsettles him more than if he kept tripping up.

Swarmed by his own creeping discomfort, Healer can barely pay attention to Plain Yogurt’s descriptions, let alone anything else. Plain Yogurt must notice his scattered attention, because he has always been oddly good at reading Healer, but he doesn’t seem offended. He just continues to talk, and Healer clings to his voice like an anchor even though he doesn’t quite process every word.

With the descriptions he does catch, Healer somehow manages to imagine exactly what is in front of him, so clear it is as if he can see it for himself, caught in his mind like a picture. But that is impossible. It must be, because Healer has worn his bandages for as long as he can remember, so he has never seen anything.

Healer is finally and suddenly pulled from his queasy confusion by a new voice up ahead, shouting indignantly. “Scrap? You’re calling my perfect toys scrap?! How dare you!”

“Uh, who are you?” Gingerbrave pipes up, slightly bewildered.

Healer feels the same, complicated further by disbelief, worry and an unexplainable dose of hope. “How can there be another Cookie here?” He turns to where he thinks Plain Yogurt is, waving his free hand to get his attention when he doesn’t manage to find his arm. “The rest of the kingdom is definitely abandoned, isn’t it?”

Plain Yogurt, as if in silent apology for not being where Healer expected, suddenly presses their shoulders together, staying for a long moment before pulling away again. “Well, it definitely looked abandoned. Maybe they’re the only one here.”

“Huh?” The new voice sounds just as bewildered as Gingerbrave was, and Healer aches a little as he realises how young the voice sounds, paired with Plain Yogurt’s suggestion that they might be here all alone. “Wait, are you really Cookies?” There’s a subtle rise of hope in their tone, and Healer’s ache worsens, knowing that reaction only makes Plain Yogurt’s deduction seem more likely. “Pfft, what am I saying? Of course you’re not. Now, where are your data chip interfaces?”

There’s a few quick footsteps, before Chili Pepper is shouting, “Hey, get off of me!”

The little one doesn’t seem to show any sign of noticing her protests, based on Chili Pepper’s continued grumbling and the little one’s muttered…calculations?

Then, the little one gasps. “No way! You guys are all really Cookies?” There is a flurry of more footsteps, followed by startled complaints from the rest of the young adventurers as the little one presumably turns their inspection towards them. “It sure looks like it! Woah, I haven’t seen another Cookie in…” The movement briefly pauses as the little one drags out a hum. “...forever!”

That is rather concerning in itself, and Healer wants to ask about that, to understand the situation so he could possibly offer the little one help, but in the next second, everything happens too quickly for his questions to have a chance.

The little one’s footsteps storm towards them, followed by a split-second scuffle, dough hitting dough, and a yelp of surprise. Healer sucks in a breath, but he already has an idea of what happened, even before Plain Yogurt says, “Don’t you dare.”

The words are low and flat, a warning that hangs in the air like thunder. Healer finds it to be a bit harsh of a reaction, but he knows how sensitive Plain Yogurt can be with unwanted touch and he can’t really blame him for that, so instead he tries to smooth things over amicably. “Sorry, he doesn’t like physical contact all that much. You should have at least asked beforehand.”

“He didn’t seem to have any problems making physical contact with you.” The little one sniffs petulantly, slightly muffled like they were covering their face.

“That’s because we’re friends.” Healer explains patiently, before his worry finally gets the better of him, taking a step towards the sound of the little one’s voice. “Are you hurt at all? I’m sure Plain Yogurt didn’t mean to, but I can help if you are.”

He reaches his free hand out in a friendly offer, but the little one doesn’t take it. They scoff, footsteps stumbling back. “Whatever. I don’t need to be here for this. Have fun getting lost!”

The footsteps scurry away before Healer can muster up a proper response, and he deflates with an odd twist of guilt in his gut, dropping his hand.

“Um…that was weird, right?” Strawberry mumbles in the quiet aftermath.

“They were weird, more like.” Plain Yogurt snorts humorlessly, a mostly unfamiliar edge to his tone. “Talking about equations and grabbing everyone willy-nilly like that. Suspicious, isn’t it?”

“I hate to say it but I agree.” Black Raisin mutters as if it pained her, a judgemental caution thick in her voice. “I don’t trust that Cookie one bit. They acted strangely, and I doubt that they are really alone.”

Plain Yogurt snorts again, louder with more genuine mirth. “You don’t trust anyone.”

Black Raisin huffs, but says nothing. In any other situation, Healer would have been thrilled to see them agree on something, to get along semi-amicably, but unfortunately he doesn’t quite agree with their joint stance.

“Well, suspicious or not, we should still go after them, right?” Gingerbrave argues. “It’s probably dangerous for them to be running around here alone.”

“Yes.” Healer smiles slightly, relieved that someone else had the same idea as him. “I have a few questions to ask them too, about their personal situation and this kingdom.”

Healer is not sure why he feels such a strong sense of responsibility over this little one, a deep-seated guilt as if whatever happened to them is his own fault. It doesn’t make sense. Still, focusing on the little one is better than focusing on anything else, because at least the little one doesn’t prompt disorienting fragments of memories that tear at his mind with impossible familiarity.

“A splendid idea!” Custard declares, just as upbeat as before. “After all, every king should understand their loyal citizens’ perspectives.”

Plain Yogurt sighs, setting his elbow on Healer’s shoulder and leaning into him. “Well, if you say so. It would be good for us to know what really happened here, anyway.”

There it is again, that strange lilting tone that Plain Yogurt sometimes gets, the one he can never parse. Healer turns to face him at the contact, suddenly reminded of his earlier unanswered question. He asks quietly, “They weren’t hurt, were they? I heard contact, but it didn’t sound too hard.”

Plain Yogurt pauses for a moment. “Of course not.” He assures in a soft, hushed voice. “Nothing more than a little scratch, at most. I’m not someone who likes violence, you know that.”

Healer nods, understanding. “No, I know. It was an instinctive reaction, as unfortunate as it is.”

Plain Yogurt hums, the sound trailing off. Then, he straightens up from Healer and announces, as if to dismiss the topic entirely, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get your answers. We’re heading towards the castle anyway, so we’re bound to run into them again eventually.”

It is phrased ominously, but Healer accepts it as the support it is clearly meant to be with a small smile. “You’re right. Let’s get going, then.”

So, onwards they go.

It does not take them long to run into the little one again. Although they had retreated of their own accord, Chili Pepper’s penchant for rummaging through the scrap in their path quickly draws them out again.

“Hey, those parts are mine! Give them back!” The little one shouts from further away, clearly keeping their distance from the group. “You have no idea how precious those are.”

“Well, I do now!” Chili Pepper crows, a smirk colouring her voice. “And if they were really yours, how was I able to swipe ‘em up so easily?”

“Just give the parts back.” Wizard sighs in palpable annoyance. “We shouldn’t be picking unnecessary fights.”

“Yeah! You should listen to that Cookie with the high ice cream percentage, 13 grams of chili sauce!” The little one declares smugly, the tone rivalling Chili Pepper’s own smirk. They completely ignore both Wizard and Chili Pepper’s exclamations of confusion and offense, a bang or two suggesting that they had hopped up onto a box or ledge of some kind to lord over them. “This is my playground, and these are my toys. In fact, everything left in this kingdom is mine! So–”

The little one cuts themself off with a shriek of alarm, and Healer straightens up, mind racing as he whips around to try and ask Plain Yogurt what happened.

“Let me go!” The little one shouts indignantly, stopping Healer in his tracks. He can hear grunts of effort as they presumably try to struggle out of a hold.

“Hah! Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, huh?” Chili Pepper retorts, a little too vindictive. For a split second, Healer assumes she must be the one to have grabbed the little one, even though the direction and distance of their two voices don’t match up.

“Woah, Plain Yogurt Cookie, you moved so fast, I didn’t even see you!” Custard says in awe, building to an innocent excitement. “How would you feel about becoming my Royal Bodyguard?”

Healer freezes, silently reaching a hand out to where he thought Plain Yogurt was. Sure enough, his hand only meets air, and he quickly tucks it close to his chest, not wanting to attract attention in his own confusion. He hadn’t heard Plain Yogurt move at all – but then again, he had suspected that Plain Yogurt could move silently for a while now, based on a collection of instances where, in Healer’s blindness, he seemed to disappear into thin air.

“Where did you even come from, you- you–!” The little one sputters, a frazzled irritation spiking their tone. “–What are you?!”

“What, you can’t figure it out?” Plain Yogurt muses, condescending to a degree that honestly surprises Healer. He had never heard him like this, even in his spats with Black Raisin; something so close to toeing the line of cruelty. “What a pity.”

“Plain Yogurt, be gentle with them.” Healer says, suddenly realising that he might need the reminder. He assumes that this odd behaviour stems from the little disagreement the two had earlier, when the little one grabbed at Plain Yogurt without permission, though it is still a little uncomfortable to reconcile Plain Yogurt’s usual behaviour to this.

“I am, I am, they’re just fussy.” Plain Yogurt replies, his tone lightening back to a much more familiar one. Since none of their companions refute the claim, Healer accepts that as truth, though he likely would have done so even if he hadn’t had the assurance. “Well, my dear, you said you have questions. Now is your chance to ask them.”

Healer, admittedly, cannot help being slightly flattered by the implication that Plain Yogurt did this for him, even though he doesn’t agree with his methods in the slightest. “You didn’t have to–”

The little one groans loudly, and the sounds of struggling stop as they must have finally slumped into Plain Yogurt’s hold. “Just ask your stupid questions and let me go, before I stop being nice and do something you’ll really regret.”

The threat washes over Healer’s shoulders as he moves over to where their voices are coming from, drawing closer to them. “Sorry once again, little one.” He apologises, because guilt gnaws at him, though he isn’t fully certain what specifically he is apologising for. “I don’t have too much to ask but… where are the other Cookies of this kingdom?”

The little one answers quickly and scornfully. “I don’t know and I don’t care! This kingdom fell a looong time ago, and nobody stuck around after that. Literally everyone knows that.”

Healer had guessed as much anyway, but for some reason, the confirmation makes him slightly queasy, his breath catching in his lungs. “No, that can’t be… all of the Cookies that once lived here?” Unwanted, the sound of a bustling crowd cheering dances in his ears, a sugary scent thickens the air, and Healer shakes his head to try and dismiss the ghosts of something that does not belong to him because it can’t, it can’t. “But then, where did you come from?”

Plain Yogurt must have loosened his grip, because the sounds of a scuffle return, and this time, the little one audibly escapes with a laugh that sounds only slightly hysterical. “I’m not telling you! Leave me alone!”

With that, the little one scurries off, even faster than before. Chili Pepper shouts after them, and one after another, the batch of young adventurers take off after them without giving much consideration towards whether such a chase is needed.

“Where are you all going? This is completely unnecessary!” Black Raisin scolds, but she still runs after them, her crow cawing impatiently. She must have accepted that, regardless of her own hostility in the village, the adventurers are her wards on this expedition, and treats them with protectiveness accordingly. “Be careful, the tiles are loose, remember?!”

Healer, with little choice left in the matter, goes to follow the sound of their disappearing movements, only to startle when a familiar voice appears on his left.

“Sorry for leaving you alone all of a sudden.” Plain Yogurt says, sweet but not quite as apologetic as his words should have been. “I saw you reaching for me earlier.”

Healer finds himself fighting a small flush of embarrassment, but he presses it down behind a breathy chuckle. Admittedly, he hadn’t heard Plain Yogurt approach him, and had assumed he had followed the initial rush after the little one, since he had been their captor. “Your movement really can be impressively silent when you want it to be.”

“What can I say?” Plain Yogurt hums, playful and weirdly sardonic. “It’s a gift.”

Healer sighs, reaching out expectantly and relaxing in places he hadn’t realised were tense when Plain Yogurt gives him his arm. “You shouldn’t have done that to the little one, though. You must have scared them.”

Plain Yogurt tsks, the sweetness in his voice taking on a begrudgingly bitter tang. “Why? I was only returning the favour.”

“Even so. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, you know.”

Plain Yogurt laughs. “And you, my dear? Are you speaking from experience?” He teases warmly, in the way he always teases Healer. It is not meant to be taken seriously.

But the question triggers a snap of pain at Healer’s temples, bringing in the scent of choking smoke and the sound of crumbling destruction, as if the whole world were wheezing in pain. Flashes of stark red dance in the pitch black behind his eyelids – red, definitely red, but how does he know what that is – and the phantom claws of an unfamiliar magic scrabble through him, freezing and wild and near uncontrollable. A last resort. A dangerous gambit.

“Dear?” Plain Yogurt repeats, now with concern, it must be concern because Healer must be imagining the rise of a smile in his syllables. “You keep getting distracted. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” Healer exhales the reply, perhaps a bit too quickly, desperately trying to empty his mind of anything but the tangible, understandable present. He tentatively loosens his painfully tight grip on Plain Yogurt’s arm, unsure of when that had happened. “Yes, I am. We should catch up with the others before we lose track of them entirely.”

Much to Healer’s relief, Plain Yogurt accepts his blatant diversion gracefully and they finally start walking. Healer is genuinely worried, to a certain degree, by how far they have fallen behind, but Plain Yogurt seems unbothered. He leads him along as if he is certain he knows exactly where the rest of their group has gone, even though Healer cannot seem to hear any evidence of them. Perhaps there is a more obvious visual trail that he cannot see.

“They’re in this big fortress.” Plain Yogurt comments offhandedly as Healer feels the wind cut off abruptly, held off by sturdy walls. He hears a commotion of familiar voices coming from up ahead and quickens his pace, half-dragging Plain Yogurt behind him in his haste. Plain Yogurt makes no attempt to complain, instead letting out an interested noise. “A warehouse of Wafflebots, no less! It looks like there are dozens sleeping in here.”

“Wafflebots?” Healer parrots in alarm as they finally reunite with the rest of the group, who all seem to be discussing the same thing.

“The Vanillians seem to have originally built them to help with tasks too difficult for Cookies, like defence and construction, not as weapons.” Wizard explains, his words slightly slow and stilted like he is still trying to piece everything together. Then he gasps, the audible manifestation of a burst of excitement. “And just look at that Wafflebot Goliath! According to this blueprint, they all have a permanent enchantment on their machinery which allows them to perform up to twenty-seven different commands. It’s incredible!”

“All of that only proves that we should destroy this place.” Black Raisin insists, her determined voice holding a precious thread of fierce hope. “The more impressive it is, the more danger it poses to the village.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Custard interjects with a nervous waver to his voice that steadies out as he clears his throat. “As future king, I should take a closer look first. If we can fix them, then they won’t attack anymore. They could even be a great help!”

Healer hears Custard stepping closer to what must be one of the Wafflebots, and dread drips into his stomach. “Uh, I don’t think that is such a good idea, Your Majesty.”

“No need to fret, my faithful subject!” Custard chirps cheerfully as his feet continue to tip-tap closer. “This one seems docile, so it should be–”

Before he can finish that sentence, a sharp whirring fills the fortress, echoing through the large space and ringing in Healer’s ears as the screech of moving metal synchronises with the thump of robotic feet.

Healer can hear everyone jump into the fight, though it is difficult for him to track what exactly is happening past the squeal of metal, the buzz of magic, the rumble shaking his feet and the battle cries. What he does know is that Plain Yogurt is still lingering behind him, and Healer backs up into him, throwing his free arm out to protect him just like he had back in the village. He tightens his grip on his staff, but is discouraged from trying anything by the sluggishly low amount of magical energy he finds.

The acrid smell of explosions and laser smoke wrap around him, thick on his tongue, and Healer tries not to choke on his own disgusting sense of déjà vu.

Thankfully, Plain Yogurt is not as panicked as he was during the attack on the village, grounding him in the present with his steady assessment of the situation. “They look like they’re struggling to beat it.”

Which sounds bad, yes, and makes Healer queasy, but it at least brings him back to the here and now. He tries to think of what he can do to help, hearing the group’s enthusiasm to fight begin to slowly flag, his thoughts tangling uselessly with one another.

“There’s a secret passage somewhere here.” Healer blurts out, and the words scald him because he knows that they are true but he shouldn’t. He can’t afford to question or reject it when it could save them now, though, so he continues. “Near one of the, uh, control stations? I believe?”

He could not sound less convincing if he tried, and yet Plain Yogurt grabs his elbow and begins steering him towards the wall without question. Healer makes sure to keep himself between Plain Yogurt and the Wafflebot fight as they move, tense with anticipation, until they slow to a stop.

Under the din of the ongoing battle, there is the creak of rusty hinges.

“Found it!” Plain Yogurt confirms as he tugs on Healer’s sleeve.

Relief finally rears its head, and Healer twists around to yell over his shoulder as Plain Yogurt pulls him into the passageway, “Everyone, follow us! There’s a passageway here, we should be able to follow it to safety!”

It doesn’t take long for the rest to enter the passageway behind them, banging against the walls in their haste and panting as they try to catch their breath. The trek through the narrow passage gives them time to calm down, adrenaline levelling out as the clanging of the Wafflebot Goliath fades away. Plain Yogurt leads the way, at some point releasing Healer’s sleeve, until the walls fall away from their sides and the crisp, open air greets them once more.

The crisp, open air and the unmistakable whirring of a fleet of Wafflebots overhead.

Healer tenses, tilting his head upwards to try and gauge if the fleet is approaching them or not. Plain Yogurt must notice him doing that, as he always seems to, because he answers his silent question. “Don’t worry, they’re not attacking us. Actually, it looks like they’re leaving the Vanilla Kingdom.”

“But then where…” Black Raisin trails off, before sucking in a sharp breath. “No! No, they’re heading towards the village!”

The words alone are enough to make Healer’s heart sink, but the spark of genuine, unadulterated panic in Black Raisin’s voice makes it even worse. Out of all the time he has known her, Black Raisin has never sounded like that. Even in the worst calamities, even when the Wafflebots first descended, she has always been able to take control and keep steady, directing her energy into protection rather than panic.

Then again, she has never been this far from the village before. She has never been in a position where, when a crisis occurs, she cannot immediately take action to protect the village.

“Healer, we have to go back immediately.” Black Raisin demands, and he can hear a raisin crow take flight somewhere, spurned by her urgency. “If we hurry, we might be able to make it back before too much damage is done.”

He can hear her marching back past him, to try and go back the way they came, and Healer’s hand flies up to catch her shoulder. Her panic makes his dough crawl, but uncertainty and the thinning curl of power in his staff glue his feet to the tiles below. “Wait, I– unfortunately, the power in my staff seems to be depleted from creating the portal up. If we go back now, I’m not sure if we will be able return up here.”

He can feel how stiff she is beneath his palm, almost trembling with the wound tension, but Black Raisin still stops at his touch. Her voice, however, is unyielding, only growing in agitation. “Why does that matter now? The village is in danger. We can worry about things like coming back here once we make sure everyone back home is safe.”

She is right. Healer knows that she is right, but there is a clashing sense of responsibility swelling from the depths of his mind, pulling his heart in two dizzying directions. “But we have yet to fully understand what has happened here.” He argues, though he isn’t quite sure he wants to know either, unable to verbalise the foreign guilt that has sneakily tethered him to the path forward. “We still don’t know the situation surrounding the little one, and there could be other Cookies here in need of help that we don’t know of. And there is the matter of- of Dark Enchantress–”

His throat spasms thickly around that name with something eerily close to grief, and he is almost relieved when Black Raisin immediately cuts him off.

“What has gotten into you?” Her disbelief almost fully eclipses her outrage, all of which is undoubtedly stoked by the pressure of the situation. “None of that is our problem. Our only priority should be keeping the village safe, and our only fight is with the Wafflebots that descend on us. There is no need for us to involve ourselves any further.”

“But the world is larger than just our village.” Healer says, his words gaining a strength he doesn’t really feel. “Something awful has happened here and–”

“And that is still not our problem! We are not here to be heroes, Healer, we are just Cookies trying to live.” Black Raisin shoots back, shrugging Healer’s hand off her. The gesture stings a little, because she has never rejected his touch before, but he lets his hand fall. She sighs, her voice leaning closer towards a plea. “Please, Healer. You've been reacting strangely ever since we got here, and you’ve been almost constantly distressed. Don’t you think it would be in your best interest to go back anyway?”

Healer understands her point, but it scrambles into the complicated knot of emotions swirling in his chest. Half of him is tempted, half of him really has no interest in knowing any more, but the cold sting of the waning power in his staff keeps him grounded like an obligation. When the words finally and clumsily tumble out of his mouth, he is speaking to himself more than anyone else, sharp with self-inflicted reproach. “No, no, turning back now would be cowardly.”

He doesn’t realise his mistake until he hears Black Raisin reply, “...Are you saying I’m a coward? Is that what you truly think of me?”

There is a shiver in her voice, a crack of hurt so much worse than her anger and panic, and regret washes over Healer in an instant. His face falls, and he quickly, furiously, shakes his head. “No, that’s not–”

“Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” Plain Yogurt deadpans as his hand finds a place in the junction between Healer’s shoulder and neck, his presence pressing in from behind. “Cowardice is why you kept trying to crumble me behind his back, isn’t it? A shame none of those attempts ever worked.”

It is like the air itself freezes between them, Healer’s muddled mind momentarily going blank.

“...What?” He chokes out weakly, completely caught off guard. His head automatically tilts towards Plain Yogurt, like it always does when he tries to search for confirmation on something or other.

There is a moment of thick, unbearable silence before Black Raisin finally, finally bites through it with her teeth.

“You!” She barks, a brittle sound that is both harsh and unbearably fragile, her audibly shaking breath acting as punctuation. She takes a deep breath, and for a moment, her words grow wobbly as if she is holding back an angry sob. “Healer, I…”

Black Raisin does not immediately try to refute the accusation. Healer can feel his heart hammering in his own throat. The whine of lasers gathering power reverberates from somewhere.

“I don’t have time for this.” Black Raisin mutters dejectedly, gruff and low, followed by the scratch of her boots against the tiles as she spins around and breaks off into a sprint back the way they came.

Healer hears the retreating footsteps multiple into tens of dozens, hears the screams and panic, sees glimpses of Cookies cradling growing cracks as they beg for him to save them, as they lose hope in him and–

“Wait! Black Raisin!” Healer lurches forwards, reaching a hand out to try and grab her even though she has long since moved out of his range, his own desperation ringing in his ears.

Plain Yogurt’s hand tightens its grip on him, and he is reeled back before he can try and run after Black Raisin in earnest. “Let her go.” He murmurs, rubbing his hand along the length of Healer’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It won't do either of you any good to keep talking when you're both stressed."

Healer ignores the attempted comfort in favour of twisting around to face him fully, fumbling before he manages to gather the front of Plain Yogurt’s robes into his fist. It isn’t meant to be a threat. Rather, it is the only thing anchoring Healer as his pitch black world seems to spin.

“Is what you said true?” He asks, his chest aching. The power in his staff thrums lazily as if in response, but he stubbornly ignores that too. “About Black Raisin?”

“I guess she didn’t trust your judgement on me very much.” Plain Yogurt replies softly, evasive and yet an obvious answer in itself.

His judgement. Healer's judgement. The villagers always trust his judgement, but they aren’t the only ones. The last Cookies to trust his judgement, for better or for worse, were–

No—

Healer’s head explodes in spiced pain and he feels cold, right to the tips of his fingers, swaying and collapsing into Plain Yogurt. Smells and sensations and images pop incessantly through his mind, barbed and vengeful, and Healer rejects them all, recoiling, writhing, sinking, sinking, sinking—

Until he, blissfully, enters dark nothingness.

#~6k words of healer fighting for his life against déjà vu. cheers!!#i just think there is some psychological horror in remembering this whole other life that is apparently you #but is so completely detached from what you know as your own life. so.#shadowvanilla #vanilla milkshake #pure vanilla cookie #healer cookie #shadow milk cookie #(← called plain yogurt here you know the drill)#blind man's bluff au #the biscuit library

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crushmeeren · 4 months ago

Text

༝ ᭝ ༝ ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU — PART ONE ༝ ᭝ ༝

⤷ ⋆ ft. itachi uchiha ⋆

⋆ note ; this was inspired by this post. credit to @majesticflyingwalrus ! sfw! small bit of angst!

⋆ note x 2 ; i believe this is going to have to become a miniseries…. so let’s say this is part one — centered around a small snippet of your connection with Itachi before, your feelings on the day of, and the first year of your marriage.

master list ⤷ ⋆ PART TWO

You’d spoken to your husband maybe a dozen times before you were married.

Before you were thrown headfirst into a life long commitment with someone you could only comfortably consider an acquaintance for the sake of your clan.

Itachi Uchiha is polite. He’s collected, calm, rational. As children, he’d never been rude. He was a quiet boy, heir to the Uchiha clan. Someone who understood what it’s like to carry the weight of being the eldest child and all the responsibilities that accompany it, which you found comfort in.

Your families were close - ish, both high up on the social food chain. Whenever you’d been forced to spend time with him as a kid, he’d sit quietly nearby, working on a puzzle or reading some sort of book. Every now and then he’d invite you to join him and complete a puzzle, which featured pretty pictures of crows quite often, but you never spoke much outside of that.

Those memories you look back on with fondness, peaceful moments in an otherwise stress filled life.

As the years passed, and you reached your early twenties, your families renewed their bond, strengthened it. You remained unmarried, and so did Itachi. Your parents gave you grief over it, and when they brought up an arranged marriage, more than willing to give your hand away to Itachi, it didn’t surprise you. You’d been expecting it.

Itachi’s handsome, you respect him, and he’s kind, so you ignored the sensation of the ocean echoing in your ribcage and sucked it up. For your clan, you went along with the proposal. For your clan, you resigned yourself to a lifetime of loneliness.

Besides, you could do much worse than Itachi, right?

The planning was a breeze, over half the preparations being done for you. Your Mother, and Itachi’s, asked for your input considering certain aspects, but this wedding seemed more about the two of them instead of celebrating your union.

You have no clue if Itachi got a say in anything.

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

The day of the wedding you sat alone. Your Mother had been droning on and on about “proper etiquette”, and the “importance of sticking to the itinerary”, when the reality of the situation crashed down on you. Hard.

Your entire body chilled, a rush of icy slush replacing your blood, heart caught in your throat. Sweat beaded on the back of your neck, palms clammy. Once your hands started to shake your Mother stared at you in bewilderment, her questions concerning your health muffled and far away to your ears.

You excused yourself without waiting for permission, locating the nearest vacant room to hide, crouch down, and to breathe.

Through the window you gaze at the small children from both families playing in the field. Jealousy burns hot in your chest at their carefree nature, the little ones living in ignorance and bliss. You squeeze your eyes shut to shake off the dark direction of your mind, allowing their high pitched peals of laughter to afford you a moment of calm. Reaching up you wipe the tears off your cheek with the back of your hand, careful of the delicate makeup that’d taken hours to perfect.

A soft knock on the door startles you, both eyes opening wide. You sniffle once and rise to your feet, smoothing out any wrinkles in your outfit, regaining your composure.

“Come in,” you call out, voice scratchy with the evidence of your recent crying. You clear your throat as the door opens and, to your surprise, it’s Itachi who steps in. The door swings shut behind him, not producing a single sound. Your eyebrows shoot up and Itachi gives you a small, comforting smile.

It’s silent as he walks closer, the air around you somber and achy. He sits down with enviable grace in the chair next to where you stand, patting the seat beside himself in invitation.

“I’m aware this day is…difficult,” he begins. He tilts his head up to meet your gaze, eyes warm and calm. “Your Mother told me you were in here. I wanted to be sure you were okay, so, are you alright?”

You sigh through your nose, resigned, and take a seat. Itachi reaches over and hovers his hand an inch above your knee, hesitant, before making the decision to rest it there. You stare at his hand, the lump in your throat returning, only this time it’s due to the sudden surge of affection swelling for the man.

“I’m doing well, all things considered,” you say light heartedly. You sneak your hand underneath his, thread your fingers together, and lift your head to lock eyes with Itachi, the corner of your mouth curling upwards.

Itachi laughs, and for the first time, you notice the movement crinkles the sides of his eyes. How endearing.

His expression switches to something more sympathetic, tender. “I apologize this has been forced upon you. If it helps, I’m very content with you being the one chosen for me. It’s comforting to me that I’m marrying someone who I’m on friendly terms with.”

“Yes,” you agree, eyes twinkling as his sweet words lift your spirits from the floor. “Although, I have to admit I’m heartbroken to be marrying you instead of Sasuke.”

Itachi’s jaw drops open, eyes going round like saucers before laughter bursts out of you, squeezing his hand tight as he rolls his eyes and joins in with you.

“A pity,” He teases. “I know for a fact my menace of a little brother would be ecstatic to marry someone as wonderful as you,” Itachi says, humming as he pretends to be in thought. “Don’t be surprised to find Sasuke waiting for you at the altar.”

You gasp in fake shock, leaning in to bump his shoulder with yours. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The sincerity of the statement leaves you searching for the right response, a small horde of butterflies demanding their presence be known in your belly. Things grow quiet between you once more, the silence comforting rather than awkward while you find your voice. “I am truly grateful that it’s you, Itachi. I doubt I could survive this with someone else.”

Itachi shifts his body to face yours, expression determined and serious. “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to make our life comfortable. Even if our relationship is not romantic, I’m grateful to be on the receiving end of your friendship. We’ll find our rhythm, promise me you won’t give up hope.”

You do promise, even going so far as to lock your pinkies together. Itachi exits first, and you follow his footsteps a few moments later.

When you leave your heart’s lighter than air.

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

The first year of your marriage, Itachi lives like he’s your roommate. Nothing more, nothing less.

You sleep in different rooms, you’ve made your home in separate bathrooms, and Itachi keeps busy enough with clan affairs that his appearance throughout the day is sparse. Somehow, dinner happens to be the time you’ve both allotted for the other. It’s not in writing, and you don’t speak about it, yet Itachi joins you nearly every evening to share a meal.

You’ve created quite a comfortable routine for yourself within your new life as Itachi’s wife. That’s all it is though, comfortable. Just as Itachi promised.

Loneliness is your shadow from day one. On your wedding night, you’d harbored a shred of hope that you’d share an intimate night with your new husband. When you’d kissed Itachi in your bedroom, fumbling to undress him, his response was to break the kiss as gently as he could. He declined with a strained smile and manners that never seem to abandon him.

Crying into your pillow, alone, was not what you expected to be on the table.

Itachi sat prim and proper at the table the next morning when you tried to apologize for making him uncomfortable. He assured you that wasn’t the case, but asked that you didn’t bring it up again, as he felt that enough had been pushed onto your shoulders already. He refused to add sex that you wouldn’t enjoy to the list.

You swallowed your pride and respected his wishes, assuming it was his way of letting you down easy and that Itachi had no real desire for you besides that of a simple companion. Yes, the situation was a blow straight to the gut, but you agreed to this life, so did you really have any right to complain?

Ever since, a distance remained between you. Day after day, you took up new hobbies, doing anything to fill the hole in your heart. As ironic as it may seem, you found yourself spending tons of time with Sasuke of all people. As if you did marry him instead.

You’d decided to start going on more walks, eager to explore and appreciate the beauty the Uchiha compound had to offer, and that’s where you discovered Sasuke.

Halfway through the journey you spotted him relaxing on a stone bench, watching koi fish swim circles in the pond, peaceful as you’d ever witnessed him. You’re sure Sasuke heard you approaching, because he was not surprised in the slightest when you took a careful seat next to him.

Quiet small talk about koi fish flowed through the air, and you mentioned your wish to tend to the gardens nearby. Then, on a whim, and before you could regret it, you asked him if he’d be interested in joining you on your daily strolls. The shock must have shown on your face when he accepted, because he snickered in response.

So that’s how you filled out your days. Occupied with different things such as drawing, gardening, baking, and going on walks with Sasuke. It shocked you to the core as you found a friend and confidant in the younger Uchiha.

A month after your one year anniversary with Itachi, you join him for dinner one night. He sits stiff as a board, shoulders tense when you arrive. A quick uptick of his lips becomes your singular greeting after you say hello.

“Is everything alright, Itachi?” You ask, tone weary as you settle down in your spot across from him.

He nods once, a quick jerk of his head. “Of course, I’ve just been meaning to speak with you about something. Before that however, tell me about your day.” Itachi sets his hands in his lap, waiting for your answer with an unreadable expression.

“Oh, well it was fine. Sasuke helped me —,”

“Sasuke?” He interrupts, voice tight.

Your eyebrow raises. “Yes,” you answer slowly. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned before we go on walks together.”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. I fear I’ve been quite forgetful today.” Itachi does seem distracted, which is odd in of itself. You’re certain you’ve discussed your walks with his little brother before and he never had an issue with it. You blink in Itachi’s direction, the atmosphere turning tense and unsettling. You’re able to hear to the crickets chirping outside.

The silence is awkward. “Is there something you needed to tell me?”

Itachi’s brows pinch together, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. “Forgive me for being so out of it. Yes, something important. I spoke with my Mother and Father today, they’ve informed me the elders have been pressuring them to tell me that I need to fulfill my duty and…,” he pauses to clear his throat, gaze firm. “That you and I need to have a baby, to produce an heir.”

Your stomach drops, body flashing white hot, and your cheeks become hot to the touch within seconds. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t lie.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. Once again you’re smacked in the face with the life you signed up for. If you’re honest, you’d forgotten about having children over the course of the past year. It’s inevitable you suppose, making little Uchiha babies with Itachi, you’re his wife. “No, you wouldn’t.”

Itachi opens his mouth to speak but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t you dare apologize, Itachi. I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to be your wife. All I ask is that you be gentle, I’m not so experienced after all,” you try to joke, but it falls flat.

His gaze softens, posture loosening. He remains quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then guilt appears to be written all over his face. “I’m a virgin as well, so know you’re not alone in this.”

No beating around the bush with Itachi. At least he doesn’t apologize again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, voice soft. You suck in a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly, steadying yourself. You’ll find time to spiral over this when you’re alone. “When are we going to start?”

Itachi shoots you a small smile, the same one full of comfort and reassurance he gave you on your wedding day. You hadn’t even realized your shoulders were hiked up with tension until they relax under his gaze. “In order to answer that, I have to ask you another uncomfortable question. When does your next cycle begin?”

⋆ ⋆ should this mini series arranged marriage au continue? lemme know what you think! ⋆ ⋆

#itachi uchiha x you #Itachi angst #but there will be fluff I swear #uchiha itachi x reader #itachi uchiha #itachi uchiha x reader #uchiha itachi #itachi x you #itachi x reader #naruto x reader #naruto x you #itachi naruto #itachi headcanons #naruto headcanons #uchiha clan #uchiha x reader

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abbotjack · 25 days ago

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If Robby and Jack had a sex playlist, what songs do you think would be on there? And who would be most likely to take you in the bathroom while at work?

jack’s playlist is all brooding grunge and controlled destruction. he touches like he’s trying to remember what softness feels like. he fucks like he thinks you're not going to stay.

robby’s? smooth. curated. intentionally devastating. think al green, foreigner, bryan adams. slow hands. warm mouth. praise in your ear like it’s second nature.

i hope you have as much fun with this as i did 🖤

content/warning : NSFW. sexual content (descriptive but not explicit). public sex. emotionally intimate sex. suggestive dialogue. praise kink. grief/comfort themes. light dom/sub energy (hand placement, control). slow, intentional pacing. mention of trauma. emotionally repressed men losing control. 18+ MDNI!!

word count : 1,611

🎸 Jack – Combat-Bred Grunge Heat, Wrapped in Denial and Softness He Won’t Name: (link)

Jack made a playlist because you told him he needed one. He gave you that look—eyebrow raised, half a scoff—but later, when you weren’t around, he opened his music app and typed “bedroom” into the search bar like he wasn’t about to overthink every damn song on it.

What’s on it? Stuff from his twenties. Stuff that gets under his skin. Stuff he’d never admit turns him on—but it does. No title. No cover art. Just ten songs that sound exactly like the way he touches you when it’s quiet.

1. “3 Libras” – A Perfect Circle This one plays when he’s slow—when he’s pressing you into the mattress like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your ribs. His mouth is at your throat, his hands steady.

When he says “I got you,” it’s not because you asked—it’s because he needed to hear it out loud.

2. “Hurt” – Johnny Cash (NIN cover) You don’t fuck to this song. You end up fucking to it. After a bad shift. After a code. After he tells you “I’m fine” with that look that means don’t ask.

Then he’s in you—fully clothed, jaw clenched, forehead to yours—and you know this isn’t about pleasure. It’s about surviving something.

3. “Outshined” – Soundgarden When he fucks you against the wall, he doesn’t speak. Just lifts you like it’s instinct. His dog tags hit your collarbone.

The song’s loud, but he’s louder—grunting into your shoulder like it’s the only way he knows how to ask you to stay.

4. “Shadow on the Sun” – Audioslave He’s riding that high from the trauma bay. Blood on his sleeves. No time to decompress.

And you—waiting in the stairwell, looking at him like you already know.

His mouth is on you before the first verse ends. You don’t even make it out of the hallway.

5. “Nutshell” – Alice in Chains He joins you in the shower without a word. His hands are gentle.

Forehead pressed to your shoulder blade.

It’s not about sex—until it is.

He makes love to you like grief is still living in his ribs.

6. “Love Ridden” – Fiona Apple You called him out earlier—said he shuts down when you try to talk about feelings. He didn’t respond.

Then he played this. Pushed your hair back. Stripped you bare like he needed to know what it felt like to be understood without saying anything at all.

He comes too fast. Says your name like a confession.

7. “Blue” – A Perfect Circle (Yes, again, but hear me out) Not rough, but unrelenting. His fingers are between your legs while you’re still in your scrubs. The door is locked. The blinds are pulled.

“Tell me when.”

You can’t. He already knows.

8. “Colorblind” – Counting Crows He doesn’t mean to cry. It’s barely anything—a tremble in his exhale when your hands slip under his shirt. He says “You’re good to me” like it’s a warning.

Then he fucks you like it’s the last time—and maybe it is.

9. “The Chain” – Fleetwood Mac He tears your shirt in half.

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

You ride him to this. His hand at your throat, the other gripping your thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him here.

10. “Simple Man” – Lynyrd Skynyrd This one plays low. Real low.

You’re still catching your breath, legs tangled with his under the covers. The lamp’s off. Just streetlight slipping through the blinds. He brushes your hair off your forehead. His hand never leaves your thigh.

“You okay?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod. He kisses your temple like he’s trying to memorize you this way.

Like he thinks he won’t always get to.

♡ ୨୧ Will he take you in the bathroom at work? : ✅ Absolutely.

Without hesitation. But only when he’s sure you want it just as badly. He keeps it professional—up until the moment it stops being professional.

You brush past him during a shift, fingers grazing his, and he looks up at you like you just started something you better be ready to finish.

He waits. Watches. Doesn't pounce.

But when you corner him in the hallway between consults, lips parted like you're about to say something you shouldn’t? That’s it. He grabs your wrist, pulls you into the nearest staff bathroom, and locks the door behind you.

📻 Robby – Soft-edged Dilf Who Says He’s Not Into This Song and Then Destroys You to It (link)

Robby’s playlist has existed for years. It’s got a stupid name like “🌙 late” or “bed (clean ver)” but the songs are insane. You don’t know whether to laugh or moan when they come on—and sometimes it’s both.

His taste is classic. Romantic. The kind of man who puts Marvin Gaye and Springsteen in the same playlist and makes both feel filthy. And yeah, the songs are upbeat—but that just means the sex is good, unrushed, and flirty as hell.

1. “Let’s Stay Together” – Al Green The bassline’s still rolling when he pulls you into his lap—steady hands, mouth at your neck, one palm already sliding beneath your shirt.

He fucks you like the groove: slow, deep, deliberate.

Every roll of his hips syncs with the beat.

“I’m so in love with you…” plays in the background—and he doesn’t say it. But he doesn't have to.

2. “Sara Smile” – Hall & Oates You laugh into his mouth when it starts playing—“You put this on?” He doesn’t answer. Just lifts your shirt and kisses every inch of skin he reveals.

He’s gentle with you here. Kisses your thighs before he touches you.

Tells you how good you look spread out for him.

3. “Waiting for a Girl Like You” – Foreigner You’re on top, and his hands are braced at your hips, holding you in place as you move.

His eyes are soft, jaw tight, chest rising with every breath.

The synth swells behind you and so does everything else—his pace, your moans, the tension building in your thighs.

By the time the chorus comes in, he’s gripping you tighter.

You finish before him. He’s proud of that.

4. “Woman” – John Lennon You called him soft. Teased him.

Now your chest is flush to the mattress and his hand is at the back of your neck—not cruel, just firm.

The lyrics echo like a challenge: “I love you… now and forever.” And he proves it with every slow, deep thrust.

When you come, he doesn’t stop moving—just kisses your shoulder and keeps whispering, “Still think I’m soft?”

5. “Drive” – The Cars The mood shifts. It’s dark. Intimate.

You’re half beneath him, half wrapped in a blanket, his fingers between your thighs while your eyes start to flutter shut.

The synth is warm, steady. The lyrics ask: “Who's gonna drive you home tonight?”

He already did.

And now he’s driving you straight to the edge

6. “The Way You Make Me Feel” – Michael Jackson You’re teasing him—swaying your hips in the kitchen, batting your lashes.

He gives you one look, pushes you against the counter, and kisses you like you asked for it.

He’s all rhythm. Tight grip on your waist. Thrusts in time with the beat. You come mid-song, laughing and moaning at once. He bites back a smile.

“Told you not to start.”

7. “Babe” – Styx You’re riding him slow, hair in your face, hands pressed to his chest.

The lyrics are soft and sentimental—but his grip is anything but. He cups your ass, tilts your hips, groans into your neck when you roll just right.

When the song swells, so do you—tight around him, gasping.

He holds you there until you stop shaking.

8. “Let’s Make a Night to Remember” – Bryan Adams This is the one he plays on purpose.

The lights are low. You’re already in his shirt.

He kisses your shoulder. Your spine. Your thighs.

And when he slides into you, it’s all hands and warmth and rhythm. You don’t come once. You come until he can’t hold back anymore.

9. “Sledgehammer” – Peter Gabriel This one hits different.

You’d been mouthing off all day—teasing, taunting. Now you’re bent over the couch, one knee up, dress rucked around your waist.

The drums hit with each thrust.

His grip doesn’t loosen. Your voice breaks. He doesn’t stop until you’re wrecked and smiling, legs trembling.

He smacks your ass once, then kisses it.

“Still smug?” he murmurs.

10. “Wonderful Tonight” – Eric Clapton It’s the song that plays while you’re brushing your teeth in his t-shirt, and he’s watching from the doorway like you just knocked the air out of him.

When you climb into bed, he doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for you—pulls you close, settles you against his chest like it’s second nature.

You kiss him slow. He flips you onto your back.

No rush. No games. Just skin to skin, fingers laced with yours, the kind of sex that makes you feel known.

“Look at me,” he whispers when you start to come apart.

And you do. Because how could you not?

♡ ୨୧ Will he take you in the bathroom at work? : ✅ Yes. But only if you really push him.

Robby’s the kind of man who follows the rules—until you give him a reason not to. He’ll resist at first. Say something like “Not here,” even as his eyes drop to your mouth.

But if you back him into that on-call room, hands in his coat, voice low in his ear?

He’s locking the door before he finishes his sentence.

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #request #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #noah wyle #dr abbot x reader #dr robby x reader #dr abbott #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025

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dclovesdanny · 1 month ago

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Version two

Jazz Smith has made Lex Luther cry on three separate occasions, though she will remain adamant that the first and third time weren’t her fault. The first time, he cried because she thought he was an old man who was lost and he had to explain in detail who he was. The third time was firmly on Bruce Wayne’s shoulders. He was the one who had bumped into him, spilling his drink on his suit. Jazz was just trying to clean up the mess. How was she supposed to react when she saw the bomb strapped to his chest? Panic?

No, she simply made a fuss and used her minor tech abilities to make it look like the juice had turned off the bomb, leading to her loudly wondering why he was stupid enough to strap a fragile bomb to his chest. She just wanted to shake him, not make him cry.

(After that day, Oliver Queen hired her to work for him. Dinah quickly adopts Jazz emotionally, with Roy acting as a big brother. Lian adores her auntie Jazz)

Samantha Drake was a problem child, according to almost everyone who met her. She was a goth child who hated acting prim and proper like their parents wanted. Tim was the only one who understood her, supporting her veganism and later helping her prank Batman. (She and Bruce were rough and angry with each other in the beginning, but they still stayed in contact. Bruce grew to admire her stubbornness and conviction, while Sam could begrudgingly admit Bruce was a good man when he wanted to be.)

(She and Bruce never spoke about the night where they sat side by side on the clock tower. It was Jason’s death date, the first one since she and Tim had debuted as Robin and Crow. They never talked about how Sam admitted she knew grief, and she let herself tell Bruce a little about Danny. Only Alfred knew that the two spent the night reminiscing, sharing stories and anecdotes, until they arrived in the cave. None of them talked about the brief hug, the first hug Bruce had ever given her. They never acknowledged that night again.)

Tucker Thomas never left the Narrows, forging a birth certificate that labeled him as 19, even though he was barely 15. Duke didn’t call him on it. He visited often though, always keeping a suspicious eye on Bruce. He didn’t trust the man.

(Damian was the only one who bluntly asked him why he glared at Bruce. Tucker couldn’t figure out how to explain it at first, so he channeled his inner Danny. “He gives off fruitloop vibes. Gotta make sure he doesn’t start going all crazy with things like cloning or becoming obsessed with green goo.” Tucker immediately noticed how much Damian stiffened at that, but he didn’t say anything.)

Dante Constantine was only a child in demon years, though he looked like he was a teenager. He was doing home schooling for the time being as John worked with the bats to get papers made. He was a social and happy kid, smiling and chaotic but nothing cruel or barbed.

(John noticed how his son stared at the stars with a longing nothing seemed to satisfy. He noticed how warily Dante stared at the toaster, and how the terrible nightmares that caused his son to sob for hours often involved names like “Jazz” “Sam” “Tucker”. Most of all, he never forgot how his ex mentioned that Dante’s soul had been older, much older than it should be. John saw it too. He was more concerned in the slowly healing cracks in his son’s soul.)

Tonight, all four of them would be attending a party thrown by an old friend of Constantine’s.

Let the fun begin….

#dcxdp #dcxdp prompt #dcxdp prompts #reincarnation #dimension travel #all of the dp characters are slightly more than dc characters #Dinah and Oliver have basically adopted Jazz #Tim loves his chaotic twin #even if she is like a mix of Bruce and poison ivy #Damian is pretty sure Thomas’s cousin has met his grandfather #which is very concerning #John knows something is weird

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sh4nksslvt · 14 days ago

Note

hellooo I really like your work and would like to request some angst

maybe like reader dies or gets close to it. some more uncommon charcters too like nami, usopp, or franky please!!

thank you for really cool work and I hope you can do this!!

hii! thank u sm~ oohh~ thats a great idea, ive decided to put them all together, hope u like it!

What Remains

The Straw Hats survive a Marine superweapon test — but only because you don’t. You made a choice to save them all, and they didn’t see it coming.

strawhats x platonic gn! reader tags: angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, platonic bonds, grief a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Smoke curled upward from the scorched ruins of the Marine testing island. The sky was dim, bleeding orange as the sun tried and failed to burn away the choking clouds.

They found your body beneath the collapsed structure—arms still raised like you were shielding the others even in death.

It wasn’t the injuries that broke them. It was the look on your face.

Peaceful.

Like you knew.

ONE WEEK EARLIER.

"These weapons..." Franky said, examining the diagrams. "They’re worse than anything Vegapunk ever dreamed up. They’re built to erase islands."

“And they’re testing them here?” Nami’s voice trembled with disbelief.

Usopp peered over the map. “That’s not all. Some of this... it’s Poneglyph script. These freaks are mixing history with firepower.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just stared at the map. Quiet. Calm. Like a storm on the horizon no one else had seen yet.

“We have to stop this,” you said.

Of course, everyone agreed.

But none of them saw what you saw. None of them realized the cost yet.

Not even you.

THE BATTLE.

The Straw Hats split into teams. Luffy and Zoro drew the front lines away. Robin sabotaged the comms. Brook and Jinbei distracted the guards. Chopper tended to wounded civilians trying to escape.

You were supposed to go in with Franky and Usopp.

You didn’t.

You slipped away the moment they weren’t looking, whispering your last words to Nami before disappearing into the smoke.

“I trust you. Don’t look back.”

You found the core buried deep underground.

A thrumming vault of seastone and ancient script, glowing with stolen knowledge and raw destruction.

You knew what it meant.

You could read the Poneglyph fragments embedded in the weapons.

You knew what would happen if they were activated.

So you made a choice.

A selfish, irreversible choice.

You overloaded the core.

THE AFTERMATH.

When the blast hit, it carved a crater into the earth.

Luffy felt it first—his scream carried across the island like a cannon blast. “(Y/N)!!”

Franky’s stomach dropped. He bolted toward the smoke, ignoring everything—orders, pain, fire.

Usopp followed. Nami, too. She didn’t even speak. Her Clima-Tact sparked wildly, emotions bleeding into weather.

They dug with bare hands and bleeding fingers.

And finally, they found you.

Still. Burned. Crushed.

But unmistakably you.

And unmistakably gone.

THE SUNNY.

Franky hadn’t spoken in two days.

He sat in the engine room, back turned to everyone, arms blackened with soot and oil. He worked until his hands bled, building gods knew what.

Chopper had tried to check on him. Franky didn’t even look up.

Usopp wandered the deck in silence, eyes red, mouth dry. He hadn’t told a single story since they left the island.

He’d tried. He opened his mouth once to make a joke, and nothing came out.

So he just sat with your grave marker, talking to it like you were there.

And Nami—Nami was broken in a way no one had ever seen.

She didn’t cry loudly. She didn’t scream. She just shut down.

She went days without food. Sat curled in the crow’s nest, staring out to sea, clutching the note you left her in your final moments.

"Don’t look back."

She hated you for it.

She loved you for it.

She never stopped shaking.

NIGHT.

Luffy stood by the railing, his hat pulled low, wind in his face.

Sanji stood beside him in silence.

“You knew they were gonna die,” Luffy said suddenly. His voice wasn’t angry. It was hollow.

Sanji lit a cigarette, fingers shaking. “I knew they weren’t coming back.”

Luffy didn’t answer.

“They saved all of us,” Sanji added after a long pause.

“I didn’t want saving,” Luffy whispered.

Then he turned and walked away.

FRANKY.

The machine he was building exploded.

He didn’t flinch.

Robin found him hours later, crouched beside the wreckage, staring into space.

“They’d have slapped me for this,” he said quietly.

Robin knelt beside him. “For what?”

“For not stopping them.”

“They knew what they were doing.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

Robin placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It never does.”

USOPP.

He buried the dials you used in a small, unmarked box.

Every trap you helped him design, every gadget you tweaked. Gone. Hidden away like a secret.

“I’m never going to be that brave,” he whispered.

Then he broke.

Ugly, shaking sobs that echoed across the deck.

NAMI.

She didn’t speak for three days.

Then, she found Franky. Slammed him into a wall.

“You let them go alone!” she screamed.

Franky didn’t fight back. “I know.”

“YOU PROMISED—YOU PROMISED ME THEY’D COME BACK—!”

He wrapped his arms around her mid-swing, held her as she sobbed, her fists pounding against his chest until they were too weak to lift.

ONE WEEK LATER.

Luffy called everyone to the deck.

No one knew why.

When they arrived, they found him standing in front of a small, newly-built monument.

A single beam of the destroyed fortress. Carved with your name.

And beneath it—your jacket. Cleaned. Pressed. Folded neatly.

Luffy didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

They stood together. Silent.

One by one, they left offerings.

Sanji placed a bottle of sake.

Robin left a single violet flower.

Chopper tied a string of charms around the wood.

Zoro leaned his sword against it for a moment. A quiet nod of respect.

Brook played a low, mournful tune on his violin.

Jinbei lit a lantern and pushed it into the sea.

Usopp placed a small slingshot on the beam.

Franky left a blueprint.

And Nami… Nami placed your note. The last one you ever wrote.

“Don’t look back.”

She whispered, “I’m going to.”

Then she walked away.

They kept your room the way it was.

No one said it aloud—but they all visited.

Nami would sit on your bed when the nightmares came.

Usopp would fix the shelves you always overloaded with junk.

Franky recharged your tools every week, even though you weren’t there to use them.

And Luffy…

Luffy would sit on the figurehead, facing forward, holding your jacket in his lap.

He never cried where anyone could see.

But the jacket was always warm.

As if it still remembered you.

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kabsey · 25 days ago

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It's time for... the Dellamorte thought of the day! Yay!

Today's theory: Caterina favored Lucanis because they share the same (unhealthy) coping mechanism.

When Davrin asks Lucanis how he survived the Ossuary, he says that he "shut down completely," ignoring any thought or feeling that did not relate to survival and escape.

I would be willing to bet Lucanis's favorite cooking utensil that Caterina did the same thing when her family was murdered. I bet the pyres weren't even cold before she started the boys' training. Her brain blocked it all out except for one thought: keep these boys alive.

And this suited Lucanis fine. ("I don't need time. I need to work.") He saw his grandmother lock all that terrible pain and grief away, and he said, "Great idea, Nonna."

But what if Illario couldn't? What if he needed to cry and had nightmares and broke things when he couldn't take the horror of it all? What if every time he did, it reminded Caterina and Lucanis of the agony they were trying so desperately to ignore? What if it made him vulnerable?

"Vulnerability could get him killed!" shouted Caterina's brain.

So she tried to beat it out of him. She berated him for his weakness. She encouraged Lucanis to disdain him, using his cousin as another blunt instrument with which to punish him for the grave sin of having feelings ("with which to save him," corrected her brain).

So the three of them never properly mourned: Caterina and Lucanis as a way of coping and Illario because he was forbidden to.

And I don't think it's possible for any combination of the three of them to have any kind of real relationships with each other until they take the time to grieve that first horrible loss.

I think Illario could if he got away from them and the Crows, at least for a while. I have less hope for Lucanis, but perhaps he could if he ever became a father and/or fledgling trainer and realized how damaging it is to treat children that way. He may even get glimpses of it when he becomes First Talon and, for the first time in his life, is responsible for someone's life besides his own.

Or perhaps he sees his friends mourn their own losses during Veilguard, and he, in time, slowly asks how they do it. (Imagine how much Emmrich could help him. No wonder Lucanis hates the Necropolis and its reminders of death. But imagine if he could learn to appreciate some of its beauties.)

I don't know if Caterina could ever truly mourn the loss she suffered. It's too big, and she has hidden from it for three decades. The killers who murdered her children and grandchildren also murdered whoever Caterina Dellamorte was before that day.

#lucanis dellamorte #illario dellamorte #caterina dellamorte #dragon age: the veilguard

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earl-grey-crow · 1 year ago

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sometimes a girl just has to listen to skin and bones (cinematic) by david kushner and read the last chapters of harpist in the wind at 1 in the morning because it's all become a little too much

#I'm sick of anxiety I'm sick of being sad all the time I'm sick of being lonely and friendless I'm sick of being so tired I'm sick of terror #I'm sick of feeling dysfunctional all the time I'm sick of things that never work out Lord I'm just so tired #I couldn't cry enough for this grief #*sighs* oh well #at least it was fun visiting morgon and deth and the stars again it sure does feel like being thrown against a wall multiple times #earl crow ramblings

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astro-hunny · 3 months ago

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Okay, analysis of Akira's grief after 2/2 has been done to death, but I can never get enough of it. So here.

How does Akira handle his grief after Akechi dies? For real, this time.

On that last trip to the Metaverse, is he stealing every glance at Akechi that he's given, peering at the other and praying to a god that won't listen for him to survive? While in jail, does he occupy himself with scenarios in which he sees Akechi again? Does he write happy and sad endings on his end in equal measure, but ensures Akechi's freedom regardless?

When he gets out, does he notice everyone skirt around the topic? Does he pick up on the fact that they avoid sitting in one specific seat by the counter? Does it irritate him that they won't dare speak the name of the boy who used to sit there? If so, does he bring it up? Or does he keep quietly grieving, slowly regaining his appetite just to lose it all over again once something reminds him of the life he gave up?

Does he choke on a certain coffee blend? Does it get so bad that the smell nearly makes him sob? If, and when, he comes back to Leblanc, does he place out a cup of coffee on the counter every February, perfectly made and left to cool for a ghost who will never again step through the door?

Do crows become hard to look at? Does he flinch when someone asks for a game of chess, or billiards? Does he hold on to that one leather glove, hanging on for dear life on the worst of nights? Does it anchor him? Does it tear him apart? Is he ashamed to admit that both can be true?

Does he ever stop grieving?

And then, if the ghost returns. If one day, a boy with rosewood eyes and soft, coffee brown hair wanders through that door, takes his seat, and orders his usual.

How does Akira react? Does he scoff and demand answers? Does he cry, poorly muffling sobs as he tries not to get tears in the coffee? Does he yell and fight and ask the boy why and how and when and what and every question under the sun? Does he shut down entirely, walls crumbling as he turns into a wailing mess?

Or does he stare at the other for a moment. Wait for him to look up. Smile. And go to make his - friend, lover, rival, reflection - a cup of coffee.

And when Akechi thanks him softly, takes a sip, and slowly feels the tension seep out of his body, does Akira finally stop grieving?

#shuake #akeshu #persona 5 #p5r #goro akechi #akira kurusu #happy 2/2 guys it's literally midnight. why did I write this #sorry if this is incomprehensible #I kinda just wrote and let it spiral lol #persona 5 royal #p5 goro #p5 akechi #p5 akira

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nagaytoe · 7 months ago

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ULLAGONE

Solivan Brugmansia X Reader

TWs/tags: Sol x reader, Crowe dies, murder, drugging, grief, mentions of guilt

@5herryx here it is! :D

Disclaimer: This is my first oneshot fully written in english (english isn't my native language) and published, if you guys have any advice feel free to tell me :D

This oneshot was inspired by @kierandayern post ( https://www.tumblr.com/kierandayern/762316734455791616/bad-end-pt1-you-cannot-decide-whether-or-not?source=share / check out their art, its amazing! :3)

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Word count: 1,869

Ullagone

(Noun) [irish] 'a cry of sorrow'

This was not how you expected your evening to go.

Just an hour ago you were eating dinner with your boyfriend, Jericho Ichabod. It was your first date as an official couple and you two decided to do something fancy.

Now his lifeless body is laying at your feet.

As you stare down at it in shock, you remain frozen in fear, not knowing whether running would help you in this situation or not, considering someone with a knife in his hand is blocking your way.

“I can finally have you all to myself…”

You recognize that voice but fail to place it due to the stressful situation you're currently in and the mask he is wearing, covering the lower half of his face. The figure in front of you is tall and clad in all black. The darkness of the alley certainly is no help in distinguishing his features.

The figure steps closer to you and over Crowe's body, like he wasn't a living and breathing human being mere minutes ago, but rather a pile of trash, blocking the attackers' way to you.

You instinctively back away, with each step he takes forward you take one back, leading to you being backed into a corner.

“[____], please, don't be afraid.” He's careful in his approach, almost as if you're a scared bunny he's trying to pick up and comfort. His right hand extends forward in a calming gesture as he keeps it low, his palm facing downwards.

“Stay away!” you croak out and up until now, you didn't even notice the tears streaming down your face. Since when were you crying?

“[____]...” he stops in his tracks, looking at you. What was he thinking about? The easiest way to knock you out? The most gruesome way to kill you? The best way to kidnap you? Now that you think about it, how did he even know your name?

“Why can't you see that I did it for you? That lowly scum… if you knew who his father is…” his voice turns from comforting to aggressive in the blink of an eye. He takes a deep breath before he continues, this time in a softer voice “I'm just trying to protect you…is that so wrong?”

You look up at him, a mix of emotions evident on your face: Sadness, Fear, Anger and now confusion as well. He can't be serious, can he? There's no way he truly thinks that there is nothing wrong with killing innocent people just for the sake of 'protection’ , not that you needed any protection from Crowe to begin with.

“I know you're confused, maybe even scared, but I have my reasons, you know?” he says as he steps closer.

“Don’t come any closer!” You yell and press yourself against the wall behind you in a feeble attempt to create more space between the two of you for the time being, causing him to stop in his tracks.

“Hey…I would never harm you…” The man in front of you almost sounds vulnerable, hurt even. In the back of the alley there is a dimly lit wall lamp, but it provides enough light to enable you to make out some of his features. His vermillion eyes stare intensely at you and long, black hair with green highlights peeks out from underneath his hood and frames his face…

Realization hits you like a train, your knees giving out underneath you as you slouch against the wall, hands moving up to cover your mouth in shock. Even more tears stream down your face now. How is Sol Crowe's murderer? This can't be real, Sol was always so nice and helpful, he would never harm and especially not kill another person without reason.

“Sol?” You sob, hoping immensely he won't feel addressed.

“[____]...” he whispers and hooks a finger under his mask, pulling it down and revealing the rest of his face. Safe to say, this was not the answer you were hoping for. You were hoping that this was someone who looks similar to him or maybe that this all is a bad dream or a really bad joke, but it wasn't. Sol's face looked back at you with his all too familiar warm smile.

You sink to the ground and cover your face with your hands, crying your eyes out.

Sol steps closer and crouches down in front of you.

“Please understand, I didn't do this with the intention of hurting your feelings, it's just…. I couldn't sit around any longer and watch him take what's mine” he gently puts his left hand on the side of your right calf, slowly stroking up and down in a comforting manner, smile still evident on his face.

You pull your legs closer to your chest in a weak attempt to shake him off, but to no avail - his hand keeps its position on your calf.

“Get away from me”, you manage to croak out in between sobs. Sol frowns at that, “I know you're scared but please believe me when I tell you that I would never harm you. Unless, of course, you leave me no other choice” he declares this as if it's the most normal thing in the world one could state, as if it doesn't make you freak out internally, especially since he killed a man mere minutes prior.

“Go away!” You yell at him, but he seems unfazed, “You know i won't do that, pumpkin”

You look at him, not knowing what to do. Your eyes are red and puffy, cheeks stained with tears and lips swollen, but despite the situation you two are in, Sol still looks at you with the same affectionate expression he always has. Up until now, you failed to notice it, maybe it wasn't even there before, but there was something dark, something possessive, gleaming in his eyes while looking at you like that.

You are not sure whether to run away or not, but staying here isn't really an option either. Gathering all your strength and courage you push Sol away with as much force as possible and quickly get up. You attempt to start running but don't get far as Sol twists around to grab your ankle, causing you to fall to the ground. It seems as though Sol wasn't exactly pushed to the ground, but rather caught off-guard and thrown off balance a little, unfortunately for you.

“Where do you think you're going?” He sounds irritated now.

You turn on your side and try kicking him with your other leg, but to no avail. Sol is quick to grab your other leg as well, now holding onto both of your ankles while you awkwardly lay on your side.

“[____]...” he says your name in a growling, almost threatening, way as you look at him with wide, scared eyes. Perhaps you actually are like a bunny in this situation, you sure feel like one at least. A bunny which has been caught in a trap and now has to fight for its life.

Sol pulls you closer to him and starts crawling on top of you, placing one of his legs atop of yours to restrain you from fleeing. You thrash underneath him but it's no use, his weight presses your legs down and he grabs ahold of your wrists, effectively pinning you underneath him.

“Don't make this harder than it has to be, [____]” ,Sol growls out, visibly agitated.

You cry bitterly, overwhelmed with the situation. You must be dreaming, there's no other way, no other explanation. Sol, your best friend Solivan, would never kill another human being.

“Why?” You cry out in between sobs, barely audible.

“Why? You're asking me why I killed that low-life?” he leans in closer, studying your face intently.

“He took something from me. The one good thing in my life was taken from me and claimed by someone else, someone who doesn't deserve an angel such as yourself. Don't worry though, pumpkin, he won't be a bother any longer.”

Sol nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, muttering “Of course, if only you had chosen me over him right from the start it wouldn't have come this far… but it doesn't matter now anyways, it's just the two of us now, my dearest soulmate”

You can't seem to stop crying as you keep shaking your head. He was completely demented, Crowe is – was – an amazing person, a friend who always listened and comforted you whenever you needed it most and a loving boyfriend on top of that. He didn't deserve to die. Was it your fault? If only you hadn't been with him, if it wasn't for you he'd still be alive. Now his parents have to bury their son, his friends have to mourn the loss of their beloved friend, all because you were so utterly selfish. You had noticed Solivans interest in you, but chose to ignore it, you thought you were just imagining it, but it was as clear as day. Crowe was dead because of your negligence.

“Hey, no need to cry… I need you to calm down a little, alright? You're shaken up and freezing cold, we should get you home…”

Sol kisses away the tears running down your cheeks, causing you to move your head to the side. Sol frowns at that, moving both your wrists into his left hand and his right hand rising up to your left cheek, lovingly caressing it.

“Let me go…” you choke out amidst sobs, wiggling in his grasp, though this only causes the grip he has on your wrists to tighten.

“I love you. Do you understand that? I love you and won't ever leave you. I won't let you go, pumpkin, I'm here to protect you.”

Sol removes his hand from your cheek and reaches into his back pocket.

“If you refuse to acknowledge that then I will have to make you understand. But don't worry, we have more than enough time for that.”

He pulls out a small syringe, filled with some liquid. You struggle even more in his grasp, eyes blown wide.

“Sol, no no no, please, please don't do this. You… You're my best friend, please don't hurt me, Sol…” you cry out, scared to death. Will this kill you? At least it would be a painless death and you'd be reunited with your star-crossed lover yet again. Though something inside of you tells you that he won't release you from this situation any time in the near future.

Sol's face softens as he studies your scared face. “Shh, no need to be scared, pumpkin. All this will do is calm you down and make you sleep for some time. Remember, I won't cause you any harm, all you need to do is stay still”

He inserts the needle in the side of your neck and pushes down on the plunger, the contents of the syringe injected into your muscle. You grow dizzy rather quickly, your attempts at fighting growing weaker until they cease altogether and your body grows limp. The last thing you take note of is Sol kissing your forehead and whispering something incoherent before your world fades to black.

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madwomansapologist · 9 months ago

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So I saw you were asking for kyojuro requests,

what about Kyo coming home from THAT mission alive to Gn reader who hasn’t slept for days, worried that he would die like in the movie( maybe they had a nightmare of those scenes?) and that then tooth rotting fluff ensues of kyo comforting reader with hugs and snuggles and wraps them up in his haori?

one of these nights | kyojuro rengoku x hashira!reader

waiting. you fought, protected, killed, saved. for days on end, you contined with your duties as a hashira. but all it takes is one look at you to see the truth underneath it: you were waiting for him. waiting for kyojuro to come back to you. to come back at all.

cw: canon level of violence. conversations about death. demon being tortured. reader is filled with rage and violent intent. angst to fluff. happy ending. inspired by one of these nights by red velvet.

an: thanks for your request! really i just needed an excuse to write about him. kyo is such a sunshine ray, it hurts me to know he received the nanami treatment (guess i have a type). i even made a playlist for him.

Blood burned away from your lilac nichirin. Surrounded by darkness and ashes, you gazed at the head throwing offenses at you. You grabbed it by the hair, walking back to the sleeping village.

"I dreamed of him hours ago", you ignored all the whining. "He was bleeding. A hand deep into his chest, one of his eye long gone, his sword broken in two. Can you picture someone smiling in such a moment?"

"You stupid bitch! It was mine! That girl was mine! She would give me the strenght of twenty, no, fifty humans, and you took her from me! You gonna burn! You gonna die screaming and crying and begging..."

"I can", you answered your own question. "He won't die carrying grudges and regrets, no one will forget how my Kyo is sweet. Not the ones he saved, trained or had the chance of being changed by him. He deserves that. To be remembered."

Some lovers would tell you to have more faith. Hope. To accept that justice will prevail and goodness always is rewarded. Some would judge. How can you not trust Kyojuro to come back to you? How can you talk about his death? How can you love him when you act like that?

And for them, you asnwer would be: I am jealous of you. Jealous of how some have the privilege believing that poetic justice exist. Jealous of those that never noticed how easy it is to die. Jealous of the fearless.

Tonight, all you know is that you feel something wrong is about to happen. Something wrong, cruel and unnecessary. It's one of these nights you despise.

"He would've grant you a peaceful death, weak demon", you caressed his cheek. "Kyojuro would give you what he deserves, believing it must be the standart."

With a swift motion, your nail cut through his left eye. "Once he's dead, I'll turn my grief into torment and pain for your kind", one pull, and the gelatinous pieces fell on the ground. "I'll make demons dream about a world Kyojuro Rengoku survived."

Your tsuguko reached you as your fingers ripped the demon's lips appart. The wisteria you apply daily to your sharp nails was enough to make him to beg. You dropped the head on the floor.

Hands trembling, eyes wide open. You scared him. Another tsuguko that will runnaway from you. At least he lasted more than the others. "Report", you demanded.

"I attended her wounds", he started, voice oscilating. Not a man yet, not a boy anymore. He's growing stronger, faster than anyone should need to. "She insisted on cooking you dinner, Hashira."

He wasn't afraid of you. Of what he saw you doing to that demon. You chose him as your tsuguko because of how similar to you he is. He fight to protect, but he survives to punish. "Why are you so startled?"

"I saw his crow, Hashira."

Your tsuguko ran back to your mansion. The last part of his daily routine. You walked, so far behind you couldn't even see him. A distance you could cross in the blink of an eye turned into minutes of silence.

You're not ready to hear it. Not now. It's too soon. To live as a slayer is to be aware of how easily the balance between life and death can change. But Kyojuro deserves better than that.

Kyojuro deserves all the sunrises and sunsets this world can offer. He deserves sweet treats, salty soups, succulent meats. He deserves to see his father change, his brother grow, this country heals. Kyojuro deserves more than you could ever give him.

At least, if you're about to hear the news from his crow, that means you won't be the one to tell Senjuro. Cry now, you thought to yourself. Do it now so you won't do it in front of the kid.

Blinded by heavy tears, you followed the blur lights surrounding your mansion. Sanemi would've mocked your for acting so vulnerable at night. A newborn demon could end you now, and you wouldn't notice until their fangs were deep on your skin.

How didn't you noticed? If a crow was to warn you about his death, it would've fly straight to you. It wouldn't be his crow. And the path wouldn't smell like blood and sweat.

How didn't you heard as he gasped? How didn't you felt the air changing as he stormed towards you? How didn't you knew he would come back home? Come back to you.

"Why are you crying, my jewel?" Kyojuro evicted the silence following you home. His powerful voice ecchoed throught the night. His scarred hands held your face, fingers cleaning the tears. Softly, he made you look up. "Who made you cry? Tell me and I shall punish them!"

As your tears dried, you reached for him. Trembling hands raised, stopping right before you could feel his skin. Was it a dream? Did your fears came true and you finally went insane? "Kyo..."

He was there. Right in front of you. You could feel him. The scars on his hand. The warmth of his breath. The sweet aroma of orange coming from his hair. You could feel his fire. That bright soul only Kyojuro has.

And he was hurt. Wounds across his face. Blood dripping from his shoulder. He was in pain. He never went back to you like that. Looking so fragile. So vulnerable.

Your Kyojuro, your sweet Kyojuro, was hurt. More than you could ever imagine. And still, he managed to come back to you.

"You're back", you whispered. Your head was so light, no thoughts could manage to distract you from his burning eyes. "I thought... I-I had a nightmare. And the crow..."

Kyojuro sighed. His hold tighten, forehead falling into yours. Embraced by him, the rest of the world be damned. You couldn't care less about this wretched floating rock.

"Forgive me, flame of my heart", he whispered. Kyojuro whispered. That made you hold your breath, afraid of this being a product of your tired mind. "I promised to never make you cry."

You closed your eyes, hands on his broad shoulders. "I will always forgive you", you bit back the tears. "As long as you keep coming back to me."

"It was an Upper Moon."

You stumbled back. Kyojuro grabbed you, his fingers deep into the skin of your hips, haori floating between you two. "You survived a Upper Moon."

"No", Kyojuro smiled. "I killed one."

You laughed. Loudly. Until your cheek burned. You grabbed his face, pulling Kyojuro into the longest kiss you ever shared. You couldn't let him go. You would never let him go.

How you love being wrong.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

general taglist: @lovelyy-moonlight

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

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darlingdaisyfarm · 18 days ago

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★ happy birthday, Stanley. happy birthday, Mabel.

a/n: since my birthday was an ass, sorry, Stanley Pines, you’re going through it now too. sometimes you just gotta project your inner child grief into a nearly sixty y.o man and make him cry over birthday cake

june 15th smelled like buttercream, and Stanley woke up with his curls glued to one cheek and a dangerous amount of hope in his chest. they were ten now. well, he was ten now. Ford was ten fifteen minutes ago. big whoop.

”fifteen minutes older,” Ford mentioned, first thing, even before stretching. ”just reminding you.”

“ehh, fifteen minutes less wrinkly,” Stan muttered back, smirking into his pillow.

and Caryn even wore the pink lipstick today, the one she saves for anniversaries and fancy dinners they don’t go to anymore. Caryn always had a way of making her mouth look like something from the tv ladies Stanley wasn’t supposed to stare at. she kissed both boys on the crown of their heads and Stan caught a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster when she leaned over. she looked younger. she looked kind. he loved when she looked like that.

Ford had peeked into the kitchen when he heard the electric mixer, and he swore he could taste the sugar just by smelling it. and Stan had stuck his whole hand in the frosting bowl when no one was looking. his fingers were still kind of sticky.

“look at my boys! how did i get so lucky? happy birthday, Stanford,” their mom had said first. of course she had. Stan looked at his brother sideways, eyebrows raised. Ford beamed behind his glasses. “and happy birthday to you, my free spirited Stanley,” she said after, pulling him in with the same arms and Stan grinned so hard it hurt.

you grow in the same womb and fight over the same crayons and steal each other’s socks and build treehouses that almost fall apart twice a week. and somehow, it still feels like no one else in the whole damn world gets you the way your twin does.

the cake is a marvel. Caryn really went out this year. golden sponge with marbled blue and purple icing, like galaxies. and there’s strawberries. fresh ones! Stanley sat straighter, god he loves his mom so much it hurt. he can’t stop staring at it.

“make a wish,” their mom says.

Ford closes his eyes. he always does things by the book. Stanley squints one eye open just to make sure Ford’s not wishing for something dumb like a microscope.

they blow the candles.

and maybe it’s stupid or childish, but Stanley’s fingers curl around his own hunk of cake and he smushes it into Ford's face, sculpting a new little galaxy on his twin’s nose. sticky, pink, cold. Ford gasps and Stan’s scared he went too far.

but Stanford laughs, hard. wiping icing from his cheek with his knuckles and grinning so wide his gums show. “ohhh Stanley Filbrick Pines,” he crows, already scooping up his own piece. “you’re dead!”

they’re laughing so loud they don’t hear the footsteps at first. and it was too perfect. that was the problem. things don’t stay like that.

it hits like a slap in the middle of a joke. Stanley feels it in his stomach first. he’s still holding the plate and icing still covers fingers. Ford’s giggle dies in his throat.

“Stan. what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Filbrick’s voice isn’t loud, but it’s cold and Stan feels like standing in front of a freezer with no clothes on.

“just, mhm, playin,” he mutters, wiping his hand on the side of his pants. he can’t meet his dad’s eyes. he never can.

“pa, it was an accident,” Ford tries to explain, stepping in front of Stan like he always did.

“accident? i bust my ass at work all week, your mother spends hours on this cake, and this is how you act, Stan? throwing food? this is so disrespectful.”

Stan's tongue felt like wet cotton in his mouth. he wanted to explain. to say ”but pa, but Ford laughed, but Ford thought it was funny, nobody was mad.” but his voice felt too small and sticky in his throat. he watched his dad's mouth move, those bitter words that left bruises on the inside of a kid's ears.

“i didn't mean—“ but Filbrick’s hand sliced through the air, cutting off.

“you never mean to. that’s the problem with you. always screwing around. ruining things. this was supposed to be a good day, Stan.”

Ford tried again. “dad, but he’s not—“

“don’t interrupt me.”

Stan didn’t cry, not yet. crying was for babies and losers and he already knew his dad thought he was both. so he stood there, cake under his fingernails, and he didn’t cry. he ran.

ran past the bushes and the clothesline. past the lemon tree that didn’t grow lemons. ran with a sound in his chest that was worse than sobbing. to the treehouse. the little broken box they built together with bent nails and a hammer that Ford couldn’t lift right. the sign on the door says “DO NOT ENTER.” in red crayon. he made that sign himself and he meant it.

Shanklin is already waiting, curled in the corner, blinking up at him with those buggy eyes. he picks her up and she doesn’t squirm. she never does when he’s sad.

“i ruined it,” he whispers to her, voice shaking. “i ruin everything.”

he curls up next to her, knees to chest. cake still under his fingernails and dad’s voice echoing in his skull. happy birthday, Stan Pines.

you don’t deserve it.

Ford didn’t like the way the house felt after Stan ran.

the slice of cake his brother had dropped was melting sideways into the wood while Filbrick muttered something about discipline and how boys don’t cry and what's even wrong with them these days. Ford didn’t listen. Caryn’s arms were crossed, Ford watched the pink lipstick on her lips tremble as she breathed through her nose.

“you just ruined it,” she snapped.

her husband scoffed at that, muttering about responsibility, about boys who never grow up, about how he’ll never learn, not unless someone teaches him some damn discipline. Ford stood there, staring at the frosting still on the floor, on the chair, melting into the cracks of the old table. he thought about how Stan’s smile had cracked open so wide just before it happened. how his eyes had crinkled with joy. and now he’s probably alone, curled in on himself, calling himself names again.

bad kid. bad boy. always too much.

Ford hates it.

he steps away. just like that. doesn’t say a word. ma watches him go but doesn’t stop him. she knows.

Ford takes the biggest slice with the frosting he can because he knows his twin likes it that way. scoops it onto a napkin because the plates are still in the sink and Stan always said napkins are easier anyway, no dishes, dummy. Ford grins to himself, then slips out the back door, cake in hand. a boy on a mission, a hero on his way to save his twin.

the grass is wet. the sun’s starting to dip a little lower, not quite golden hour yet though.

the treehouse door still said DO NOT ENTER and Ford knew better than anyone that when Stan wrote that, what he meant was “please come find me anyway.”

“Stan?” he calls. no answer. “it’s me.”

still nothing.

Ford sighs. “i brought cake.”

quiet, wet voice, “you can come in.“

Ford climbs the ladder one step at a time. when he pokes his head through the trapdoor, Stanley’s curled up in the farthest corner, arms around his knees, Shanklin tucked in the crook of his elbow. his face is pink and swollen, looking like he tried so hard not to cry and still failed. Ford wants to fix it with all the tools he doesn’t have. he wants to make the world kind to Stanley, just once.

he sits down beside him, careful not to drop the cake as he holds it out like an offering.

“you deserve this.”

Stan doesn’t take it right away. he’s still biting his lip, he doesn’t believe him, trying not to cry again. “i ruined it,” he mumbles. “dad was right. i ruined everything. your project, the cake, the day. i ruin everything, Ford. i don’t wanna be a bad kid i’m trying. i swear. i just, i never know when i’m too much.”

Ford leans in. “you’re never too much for me.”

Stan sniffled again, rubbing the back of his wrist under his nose, embarrassed by how wet his face felt. “you should just go,” he muttered, eyes not meeting Ford’s. “you don’t gotta stay here with me. you had a good birthday, right? it was nice before i— before i screwed it up. you can still go back and have fun.”

“what kind of birthday would that be without you?”

“a quiet one,” Stan tried to joke. “with clean shirts and no cake on the walls. maybe even one dad doesn’t yell during.”

Ford’s eyes flashed. “i don’t care what dad wants! he doesn’t get to decide what birthdays are supposed to be. and if he thinks the best part of today wasn’t you smashing cake in my face, then he’s— he’s wrong. okay?”

Stan shrugged, curling tighter around his knees. “he said i don’t think before i act. said i always ruin stuff. and he’s right, you know. i do. even when i’m trying to be funny or nice or whatever. i always mess it up. im a screw up”

“no, Stanley, no you're not. you’re exactly you. and i’m not just saying that to make you feel better. i mean it. if the world doesn’t know what to do with someone who loves hard and laughs loud and shoves cake into faces, then the world is wrong. not you.” Ford paused, then added with a tiny laugh, “and by the way, that cake smash was hilarious. i was gonna get you back for it. i still might!”

“you were?“

“of course. i was gonna go for the frosting in your ear. but then dad ruined it. not you, Stan. dad. you made me laugh harder than anyone else today. you made the day fun. if that makes you bad, then i guess i wanna be bad too.”

Stanley looked down at his hands. “he hates me.”

Ford shook his head. “no. he just, well, doesn’t know how to be kind. and that’s not your fault. that’s never your fault.”

Stan’s lip wobbled again. “but you’re fifteen minutes older,” he said as if it was some sacred fact that made Ford better.

“yeah,” Ford smiled softly. “and that means it’s my job to protect you. and this, right now, is protecting you!” he gently placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Stan didn’t answer. not in words. instead, he just fell into ford’s arms like a falling star and Ford wrapped him up tight, forehead to forehead, like they were still in the womb. like they’d never stopped sharing the same heartbeat.

“okay then. . . then you're- you’re the smart one.” Stan murmured into Ford's clothes.

“and you’re the heart,” Ford said, instantly. “don’t you get it? i’ve spent our whole life next to you. same crib. same bed. same school lunches. same scraped knees. and i know you, Stan. better than anyone ever will. and you’re the best person i know. we were born together! you and me. same day. same time. you think i’d ever let the world tear you apart from me? you’re stuck with me, Stan. forever.”

“even if i put cake on your face?” Stanley pulled away to look at his brother's face.

“especially if you put cake on my face.”

they both laugh, even through the tears.

Ford leans back against the wall, and Stan curls up next to him, still holding the cake.

“hey, Ford?”

“yeah?”

“next year, can you be the one who gets yelled at?”

“deal.”

Ford picked up the slice and broke it in two. handed the bigger piece to Stan. “to us,” he said. when they ate, they didn’t talk for a while. didn’t need to. somewhere far away, the sound of arguing in the house turned to nothing but wind.

and even though it wasn’t perfect, the music never played, and the present count wasn’t even, and their dad was still grumbling about boys who didn’t know how to behave. Ford didn't care because as long as they were in the treehouse, they were safe. they were okay.

and Ford knew, in the soft part of his chest that he didn’t tell anyone about, that this was the version of their birthday he’d remember. his own twin, his possum, a plate shared in half. nothing would ever be more important than keeping Stanley whole.

Ford never really cared that he was fifteen minutes older. because it didn't matter. they came into the world together on the same night, under the same beautiful stars, same mom screaming down the hospital hallway. and they're gonna go through the rest of life that way too. same everything.

“but what if someday we don’t?” Stanley asked him oncr when they turned fifteen. “what if you go somewhere without me? what if you get real smart and go to a school far away and i can’t follow?”

“then i’ll come back,” Ford smiled at his twin and nodded, hugging him tighter. “i always come back.”

you're not a bad kid, Stanley, and no amount of cake-smashing or crying or possums in your pants is ever gonna change that.

★★★

the birthday cake was three tiers tall, top-heavy and colorful, speckled with glittered sugar and shaped like a shooting star which was Stanley's idea. there were banners and foam hats and a punch bowl filled with too much ice and not enough juice, and Stan kept laughing and joking, grabbing Dipper by the shoulders and hollering something about how eighteen means you start getting hair in new places. Ford corrected him gently with a dry lecture on anatomical development, which Stan interrupted with a fake cough and a smirk. “yeah, yeah, puberty pt. 2, we get it, doc.”

and Dipper laughed. he laughed at them both, it was a good day. or, at least, it should have been

but when he looked up, Mabel was gone. and he didn’t need to say anything or ask where she went. weird feeling curled cold and familiar low in his ribs, which Dipper always called was the twin-sense.

and when one part of you is missing, when you’ve shared a womb, a life, a bed full of plushies and glitter spilled across the floor at 3 a.m., you feel it like a phantom limb aching.

“be right back,” he mumbled, brushing off Ford’s comment about post-grad programs and sneaking past Stan’s enthusiastic offer of a mustache trimmer as a gift.

the attic door was slightly ajar.

when Dipper came in, he saw his sister on her bed. her knees were hugged to her chest, tucked tight beneath her arms, and the sweater she wore, with the handmade ‘BIRTHDAY GIRL!’ lettering stitched in glittery felt, was rumpled at the shoulders. in the corners of her eyes were tears and there were hiccupy little sounds leaking out of her.

“Mabel?” he said, quiet.

she didn’t look up at first. just a small sniffle. “i’m fine.”

she wasn’t.

he sat down beside her slowly, folding his legs the way he used to when they were ten and building pillow forts and eating gummy worms in secret. they sat like that for a moment.

“i don’t like birthdays anymore.”

“since when?”

“since this one. maybe since the last one, too. i don’t know. isn’t it scary. . ? getting old? i thought i’d be happy,” Mabel said, and her hands were clenched now, tugging at the fabric of her knees. “no. i AM happy. i mean, there were so many presents and balloons and sparkles, and i wore that birthday crown and everything. but. . .” she trailed off.

Dipper waited.

“but every year it gets harder. every year we get closer to not being us.”

he frowned. “what do you mean?”

“what if we end up like them?”

Dipper didn’t need to ask who they were.

Stan and Ford.

two halves of a mirror that spent thirty years cracked. two people with the same eyes, same blood and still, they’d managed to live without each other for most of their lives. and sure, they’d come back together now, sure they had matching recliners and could joke again and occasionally argued, immediately apologising to each other after, but there was always a sadness behind it that never really leaves.

“they were twins too,” Mabel looked away. “they used to be like us, right? making secret languages and sharing bunk beds and building things and fighting with sock puppets. and then poof, they weren’t. just like that. just gone. and maybe it’s stupid but i keep thinking, what if that happens to us?”

Dipper couldn’t breathe for a second. because he had thought it too. every year, every change, every new interest, every new distance, he worried about it in his own way, just that this worrying sounded way more rational when written in a journal he started years ago. but hearing it from his own twin made it real.

“i don’t wanna lose you,” Mabel admitted quietly, “i don’t wanna wake up one day and have some dumb fight and then never talk again. i don’t wanna be alone. i don’t care about college or jobs or growing up or being cool. i just want. . . i just want you there.”

and god. his heart hurt. he pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders, wishing he could squeeze her back into childhood just by holding tight enough.

“you won’t lose me, Mabel.”

she sniffled into his shirt. “but—“

“no. you won’t.” he pulled back to look at her. “you know what i realized watching Ford and Stan?”

”what?”

“they didn’t stop being brothers because they got older. they stopped because they stopped listening. they stopped believing each other mattered more than pride, or fear, or mistakes. we don’t have to do that. we won’t do that.”

Mabel looked doubtful, because hope was scarier than fear sometimes.

“you know why they fought?” Dipper asked gently. “they were scared too. both of them. they were so afraid of losing each other that they didn’t say anything, until it turned into anger. and then it was too late for a long time.”

Mabel sniffled, wiping her tears with her sweater.

“but you, Mabel, you tell me when you’re scared. you tell me everything. and i do the same with you. that’s what makes us different. we’ve already done more healing than they ever did when they were our age.”

her eyes filled again. “but what if one of us leaves?”

“then we follow. i don’t care if i get fifteen degrees or join some fancy science expedition or meet a thousand weird anomalies or ghosts. if you need me, i’m there. always. because no matter how old we get, you’re still my sister. and nothing matters more than that.”

“not even the mysteries of the universe?”

he smiled. “not even close.”

“you’re sure?”

he held out his pinky. “cross my heart. spit handshake level of sure. blood pact level of sure. Stan’s-weird-tattoo-on-his-back level of sure, Mabel.”

a wet little giggle slipped out of her, against her will. growing up was scary, birthdays were scary. but being alone when you literally have a walking copy of yourself near you was much scarier. and if there was one thing she could believe in, even as time spun forward without mercy, it was this. her twin would always find her when she ran.

and he would never let go.

Mabel's lip wobbled. “i don’t want to be old, i want to be twelve again. i want to go back to the Shack and steal grappling hooks and wear twelve sweaters at once and make friendship bracelets for waddles.”

“we still can!” Dipper exclaimed, “we’ll just . . . do it at eighteen. or nineteen! or twenty-five. or seventy-two.”

Mabel giggled. “you’ll be bald by then.”

“hey!”

“but i’ll still make you birthday cards with glitter glue and those tiny stickers with cats dressed as pirates.”

“you better.” Dipper grinned.

they sat there in the silence and smiled together, even through tears.

“thank you, Dipper.”

“always,” he said. and meant it.

because they were twins. and when you come into the world with someone else’s heartbeat echoing next to yours, you never really stop listening for it.

outside the room, just down the shadowed hall with its peeling wallpaper and framed photos tilted slightly, two old men stood like statues. yeah maybe they shouldn’t have listened because it was rude.

but they did and they didn’t move.

not even when Dipper started speaking, his voice sounded so careful yet trembling and that sounded so much like him, like Ford. too thoughtful and smart for his age.

Ford felt it hit him in waves as he stared at the door. and when Mabel said she was scared they'd grow apart the same way Stan and Ford did, it knocked the air from his lungs.

because yes, that was the fear, wasn’t it? that someday, no matter how bright or loving or glitter-soaked it began, it would end in silence and thirty years of absence.

Ford’s eyes shimmered. and when Dipper said “you tell me when you’re scared,” Ford swallowed so hard it hurt. he wanted to say that to Stan. had wanted to, for sixty years.

Ford felt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and turned away, hoping that his brother would not see, trying to blink the wetness away before it slid. but then his twin leaned in and smiled.

Stan, ever the saboteur of sentiment, muttered, “guess i gotta start making you glitter pirate kitty cards now, huh, Poindexter?” that made Ford blink, surprised. then a smile broke across his face. he reached up and wiped a tear quickly, trying to make it look like a scratch.

“you better,” he whispered back, smiling.

they didn’t talk about it again that night.

★★★

the sky over gravity falls was clear and sugar-blue on june 15th. today the Mystery Shack was full of chosen family. so many streamers. Waddles wore a party hat. Soos brought ribs. Wendy brought fireworks.

Ford stood beside the table, politely accepting a party blower shoved into his six fingered hand by Soos, but he wasn’t looking at the cake. he was watching Stan.

and Stan was. . . off. and that was weird. he wasn’t joking or making smart-ass remarks. wasn’t elbowing Ford or boasting about his super candles-blowing technique. none of that. instead, his hands were folded a little too neatly on the table. his smile was thin.

and suddenly, Ford was back there, decades ago, on the day they’d turned ten. he remembered the way Stan had laughed too loud and thrown a piece of cake at him, trying to be funny. Ford remembered their father’s glare. the silence that fell over the party. the way Stan’s hands had dropped, limp and small.

and Stan had never touched birthday cake the same way again.

and when Mabel happily clapped her hands and shouted “okay okay okay now blow out the candles!!” Ford’s chest tightened.

“sweetheart,” he said to her softly, interrupting her countdown. “hang on.” Ford turned to his brother. “Stanley.”

“uh, yeah?”

“it’s your cake too. your birthday too.”

“yeah, yeah, I know.” but then why Stan didn’t move?

Ford lowered his head. “you don’t have to wait for me.”

Stan gave a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “old habits die hard, huh? looks like i’m still waitin’ for pa to say who gets the first slice.”

Ford's heart cracked as he touched Stan’s shoulder. “well, good news. dad’s not here. and if he was, i’d shove cake in his face.”

“you? really?”

“you’ve been a terrible influence on me.”

they both smiled. then Ford leaned in closer and said, “blow them out, Stanley. you go first. please.”

Stan paused, looking around. he looked at the candles. at Ford. at the twins and Soos and Wendy and Waddles and all the family that had chosen to stay.

and for the first time in maybe fifty years, he did as he closed his eyes, took a breath, and blew out every last candle.

everyone clapped and cheered, Mabel even threw confetti in her grunkle's face.

Ford stepped up next to him again. and then, without warning, scooped a giant glob of cake and smashed it straight into Stan’s nose.

there was a moment of silence after Waddles let out a piggy squeal.

but then—

“ohhh you’re gonna PAY for that, nerd!!”

forks flew and frosting rained down. Wendy hurled a piece of cake like a snowball, while Mabel yelled “CAKE WAR!!” making all the party guests’ ears ring. Waddles tried to eat the battlefield.

it was chaos. sweet, sticky, beautiful chaos. and it was the first time in years Ford had laughed this sincerely

and in the middle of it, frosting in his hair, arms flailing to block an incoming cupcake, he looked at Stanley and saw his twin smiling wide, laughing like a kid again.

no guilt, no fear. just joy. his brother, his family.

and that, Ford thought, wiping frosting from his glasses, was the best birthday gift of all.

#gravity falls #stan pines #ford pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #Stanley Pines #stanford pines #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fanfic #stanford pines headcanons #stan pines headcanons #gravity falls headcanons #stangst #grunkle stan #grunkle ford #filbrick pines #caryn pines

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erindrinkstea · 10 months ago

Text

Rising from the Ashes

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader

Monster AU!

Harpy Crow Gaz and Phoenix Reader

TW: Violence, Blood, Death *temporary, Light Angst

Main Masterlist | CoD Masterlist

Description:

A routine mission turns deadly, leaving the 141 Task Force shattered by your loss. But as grief settles in, they notice something else settling in from the ashes.

Note: Talon is your codename.

"You broken, lovie?"

Soap's voice rung through your overstimulated sense of hearing but you understood him nonetheless. "I'm fine, Soap!" You assured the scot despite every being of you screaming that you were not fine.

Your left arm was broken, laying limp on your side as you now depended on your right to shoot. Your right eye was busted as well, limiting your vision on the field. Not only that but you could feel one of your bones not in place somewhere in your rib as it poked and prodded at your insides.

"Now go and tear those bastards down! I'll join Gaz in the sky." You smiled and Soap didn't buy that smile for a second but he had to go.

You grunted as you forced yourself to lift off into the sky, your wings straining from all the cuts it had.

"Hi, pretty boy." You chuckled, joining your lover's side in the air. Your eyes only scanning Kyle for a moment before your focus returned to the field. You raised your gun, raining hellfire to the hostiles beneath you.

"Aw, your wings." Gaz commented. You could hear the pout in his voice. "I swear- I'm going to spend a whole day grooming your wings back into proper condition."

You laughed at his declaration. "Only if you let me do the same to you, baby." You cooed.

"Less flirting, more fighting, lovebirds." You hear Price's voice cry out. Dragons and their very enhanced hearing- you swear.

"Copy, Captain." You grinned, returning to wrecking havoc on those unfortunate souls below.

"Look at my baby. One hell of a spitfire ain't they?" Gaz had a lovestruck look despite the ongoing bloodshed. "Get your arse in the game, birdbrain." Soap laughed, though more like howled.

"Y'know... We never really got to know what breed of harpy is Talon yeah?" Soap grunted as he quite literally tore on hostile in half.

"Huh, I never really asked." Gaz muttered to himself, just realizing. You'd think that 2 years into the relationship, you'd know by now. While it was known knowledge that the two of your were harpies, Gaz was specifically a crow breed while your breed remained unknown and undiscussed.

"AH- FUCK." You cursed in agony as one of the werewolf motherfuckers ripped a wing out your back. Price moment.

Eyes snapped to your form immediately. You curled up in the ground, clutching at your back in immense pain.

They couldn't even process what happened properly. The next thing they knew- your curled up form was picked up and your head was smashed into the ground.

It was quick. Should they be grateful at least that it was quick? Should they be fucking thankful that at least you won't have to live with the pain of a missing wing?!

The entire 141 Task Force was enraged, distressed and absolutely pissed. To touch one of them was a death sentence, signed and delivered to death herself.

Gaz was in pain. Everyone that was in his path met their end quickly as he rushed to your side. Nothing was more important than you. He felt pain like no other as he cradled your limp form.

Gone. You were gone. Just like that.

"My birdie?" He whimpered, calling out to you desperately. The feeling of grief choked him from the inside out. His wings spread out to curl around you, shielding you from the hell that the 141 unleashed on the bastards that touched you.

He gasped as your skin was fading into dust, your body crumbling into ash in his hold. He cried as he tried to salvage you, tried to hold you closer to keep you from leaving.

"What the fuck is happening?!"

"Don't go, baby. I'm here now. I'm here now, birdie."

"Please. God, please. At least let me keep their body, don't take them away from me even more."

The last part of you crumbled into ash and he curled his wings even more to keep you two in your own private space.

Cries of "I'm sorry." on repeat spilled from Gaz's lips. The hell outside of his private space went silent as the task force finally finished with dealing with the bastards that dared to lay their hand on you. That dared to end your life.

"I'm sorry, Garrick." Price offered his condolences.

"Shut up." Gaz didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to listen to anyone. All he needed now and all he needed ever was you. Just you.

It was silence. A shared mournful silence between the four men. The remaining four of the 141 task force.

"Chirp?"

A small fire came to life from the ashes. Gaz hissed as his fingers got burned a bit from the heat. From the dust, there was a small movement before a little chick's head popped out. "Chirp!"

Eyes that stared up at the harpy sargeant with the brightest glint of a thousand suns. "What the fuck is that?" Soap cursed as all men stared shocked. Gaz knew what or who that was, he was familiar with those pretty eyes. "Birdie?" He called out.

"Chiiiirp!" You responded, your tiny chick form cuddling up to your lover as he scooped you up in his hands.

"A fucking Phoenix." Price was the first to snap out of the stupor. His boisterous laughter infecting the other men as they joined him.

"Should've known my birdie would be special. A Phoenix, of course you are, you spitfire." Gaz chuckled, bringing you close to cradle you.

"My beloved Talon is more like a little toothpick now aren't you?" Gaz teased as you angrily chirped back at him. Nonetheless, you nuzzled closer into his touch.

Not minding the slight tremble in his hands. You cuddled close, comforting your lover while looking into his relieved but still terrified eyes.

"I'm never leaving your side again." Gaz promised. "I pity your arse then, Talon. Looks like you're stuck with Kyle for eternity." Soap joked and the harpy sargeant nudged playfully at the werewolf.

"Stop it, Soap. Let him have his moment." Ghost interrupted what would be a playfight between the two sargeants. The three men watched as Gaz cradled your small form close to him.

His eyes a bit slitted and wary, even towards his own allies. It was clear that the whole scenario set off Gaz's instincts. You wouldn't be leaving Gaz's sight after what just went down, that was for sure.

"Let's get you home and into our nest, yeah birdie? Let's get you safe and tucked in. I'll need to check your wings as well. It's good to see you still have a complete set after returning."

Ah, you just know that the two of you will spend hours grooming feathers.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

#Erindrinkstea #Call of Duty x Reader #Call of Duty #CoD #Task Force 141 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #monster au #harpy gaz #wraith ghost #dragon price #werewolf soap

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officialnostradamus · 1 month ago

Text

Thinking about...

Emmrich and Rook after the chaos. About love undying, of course, also devotion and domesticity and learning, together, what those things mean when the world isn't crashing around their ears.

Thinking about tumultuous nights after The Events where Rook, kind and passionate, is aimless. They went so hard after one thing for so long and they don't know what to do with themselves. They love watching Emmrich thrive back with the Mourn Watch, happy that he's happy, but it's intimidating to see how seamlessly he melds back into his old life. Within a week, he's returned to performing his regular rights and duties within the Necropolis and crafted his next syllabus. Before the month is out he's drafted a guest lecture for the College of Magi, and begun outlining his book cataloguing their experiences (it's titled simply "The Veilguard", however the subtitle is nearly a paragraph long).

Rook hasn't yet decided if they're ever returning to their work with the Shadow Dragons, and they aren't even sure if they're needed. It's an evening of particular frustration where Rook is snippier than usual when they finally admit how they feel, and how guilty they are about feeling that way. They don't expect Emmrich to kiss their forehead and remind them that grief isn't linear, and no two people handle it the same, finding the root of the issue with graceful precision. They're able to talk about it, to understand each other a little more, and find out how they move on the same path at different paces.

Thinking about how they travel to Kirkwall months down the road. The blight, desiccated and crumbling beneath the sun every day, has mostly been cleared from the Free Marches and though it will be years before anything could be considered recovered, Kirkwall has a tenacity about it. It was one of the things that he loved so dearly about it, and why it was the perfect place to honour him. Rook doesn't cry as they unveil the memorial fountain in the city square, across from the renowned Hawke estate. A quill, well, technically a fountain pen, hovering over an open book - an homage and a pun at once, it was perfect.

Emmrich cries then, soft silent tears of awe as he is struck by the size of the crowd, the outpouring of love, and the presence of their friends. He apologizes, "I was never lucky enough to meet the man, he was your friend, dearest." Rook chuckles, tucks into his side, and reminds him that he likes that passion.

Later, there's fewer of them, now crowded into The Hanged Man. Rook has met the famed Aveline Vallen, somehow still acting Viscount of Kirkwall, and the Archon, Dorian Pavus, is drinking, in his words, swill from a dented flagon. His escort is possibly the largest man Rook has ever seen even without the horns. Bull claps them on the shoulder and congratulates them on saving the world and mutters something about "redheads" that gets him a scorching look from the Archon. A little over a tankard in, Isabella is standing on a table telling a story about her time with Varric in Kirkwall. "It's a hard-on in Hightown!" She crows and the nameless figure whose been shadowing the group all evening groans. "It's just Hard in Hightown, Isabella," the dark haired man corrects and when she cackles, "Whatever, sailor," that's when Rook breaks.

They have no control over it. The sudden wave is overwhelming and it bubbles up like a laugh, like hysteria, and then they're sobbing. No one seems surprised and they do the kindest thing of all, leave them be. The crowd continues their merriment, and Emmrich's arms fall around Rook, he presses a kiss to their temple and asks gently if they want to leave. No. They stay. Emmrich keeps their hand the entire night and makes Rook laugh with a bold story about drinking an entire bottle of wine on a late night as a student. Compared to Isabella or Dorian's stories, it's incredibly tame. For Emmrich, the details about mercilessly ripping apart a distasteful professor's presented thesis was downright vicious. By the time they do call it, Rook's eyes are still puffy and grief isn't linear, but Emmrich's cheeks are rosy and his laugh is warm and they lean on each other as they take the stairs.

They live in Emmrich's apartment in the Upper Mortuary. It just makes sense. Rook hasn't had their own place since they were recruited by Varric and Emmrich's tenured quarters are neatly kept and well appointed. Emmrich is never more at home than within the Necropolis and Rook feels safe there. Steeped in magical protections and practically a fortress, it has always seemed to them a space outside of the regular world, timeless. Even though they leave whenever they want to, and spend time in the rest of the world to pursue life, the isolation does begin to wear. When Rook starts to feel antsy they get nervous, afraid that they're falling back into old habits, and terrified that its selfish of them to want anything different. They know how much all of this means to Emmrich; how can they ask for anything else?

At first, Emmrich is also nervous. He can't imagine giving up his work, leaving the Necropolis, though he believes he would, for Rook. As he realizes that all Rook is asking for is a few months, he laughs. Soon, they're both laughing. It's a dream spending the seasonal break from students in a tiny flat in Minrathous where they can breathe the sea air and wander through familiar yet ever changing markets. They stand on the balcony and Emmrich's hand rests low and comfortable on Rook's back as they gaze into the ocean, no longer so afraid of drowning.

They aren't the sort to languish away in obscurity and when the needs of the many arise, one, or both of them are happy to intervene. Emmrich's expertise is unmatched and he offers it freely to those in need, especially when there is an uptick of spirit possession after the troubles with the veil. Spirit, not demon. A confused joining or desperate seeking, he is happy to search for solutions. Rook spends time in rebuilding efforts, fixing damages from the blight and preventing bandits and looters from doing even more harm to those impacted. It does mean they aren't always together. For the first couple of months, they're inseparable and it takes time feel comfortable being apart, but they manage. They're busy, ambitious people with so much to do.

They miss each other desperately.

After a long stint visiting Lucanis and working on restoring Treviso, Rook returns home by surprise. They're too impatient to wait the day and they slip into Emmrich's lecture. By now, the graduate students know them. Most of them also recognize the look when Emmrich notices Rook in the back. He's a consummate professional, and he makes it through the first falter, though his eyes are wide and he seems a man who has just remembered how to breathe. Then Rook grins and he excuses himself from the lectern. One embrace isn't enough and their kiss isn't necessarily class appropriate and, still tangled in each other, Emmrich says it. He doesn't mean to. There is a plan, flowers, candles, and music; the same song they listened to that night. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. His arms are full of Rook and despite being away they smell like home. "Marry me?"

---------

Huh. This was supposed to be just a tiny head-cannon as I consider the future for my lovely boys. Got away from me a little but damn do I adore them so I hope you enjoyed this unedited stream of words. Tune in later for the NSFW version, 'cause legit, that's what I was initially getting at. Please, ask me about my head-cannons, I'd love to elaborate (I say on a post that was supposed to be a paragraph and is now one-shot length). I need to sleep 😘

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