#major injury cw

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

At first Minato thinks the sound he hears is his eardrums popping, but a moment later he realizes that it came from a distance– a distance they’re closing as they sprint onward, in fact.

In front of him, Sanada stops short. “What–?” Minato can barely hear him. “Dammit… Both of you, hang on!” He takes off again, not even short of breath. 

Minato is almost jealous. Despite all of his time spent with the track team, he feels dizzy and ready to collapse by the time the alleyway behind Port Island Station comes into view. Every breath might as well be filling his lungs with tar instead of air.

The shadows in the alley sharpen and focus into human shapes– not two, but three of them: one sprawled on the ground; one standing as tall as it can; the third looming over them both, arm extended towards the smallest figure, taking aim–

“Takaya!” Minato’s voice sounds foreign in his own ears. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d be able to speak at all, much less shout.

Everything happens all at once after that.

Takaya’s whole body jerks towards Minato’s voice. 

The shape on the ground lunges up and forward, taking the smaller figure crashing back down with it.

The gun goes off with a sound like–

Like a gunshot.

It isn't a clap of thunder. It's not at all like the crack of a whip. 

There is no metaphor that can soften the truth. 

The noise that tears open the silence of the Dark Hour is a gun being fired: a spark igniting powder propelling a bullet at shattering speeds towards the soft, vulnerable bodies of his friends.

Speckles of something dark and reflective fan through the air, glittering obscenely where they catch the light of the moon. Takaya almost seems to glow under that sickly light; pale skin and hair and eyes and shining silver gun gleaming ghost-bright in the murk of the alley, in stark contrast to the dark shapes huddled on the ground.

He meets Minato's eyes briefly. His expression is openly astonished for less than a moment before it shifts to fury, then is immediately papered over with a mask of calm indifference. He says something, but Minato is still too far away to hear. The Dark Hour swallows him up faster than Minato would have assumed possible.

He isn't terribly preoccupied with Takaya's Houdini act at the moment though, because–

"Shinji–!"

Aragaki lies prone on the pavement with Amada pinned underneath, whose breath is coming in shallow, panicked gasps, his face pale under dark splotches of blood. The bullet intended for Amada has shredded Aragaki’s right shoulder into a confusion of gore and torn wool and glimpses of pinkish-white that Minato tries not to think too hard about.

“Hang in there, Shinji!” Sanada hauls him off of Amada and onto his back, revealing another wound in his gut, a black well of blood. More of it dribbles sluggishly from the corner of his mouth. Aragaki doesn’t cry out in pain as Sanada and Mitsuru rearrange him in their hold, lifting him off of the cold concrete and supporting his head. He hardly makes any noise at all.

Minato feels like his ears have been jammed full of cotton. He can tell people are talking, but he can no longer pick out any voices or words. His vision tunnels, phantom colors chewing at the edges. 

He stands there and watches as Yukari frantically tears out of her jacket and hands it off to Mitsuru, who packs it hard against Aragaki’s ruined shoulder. 

He stands there and watches as Junpei unties his own jacket from around his waist and uses it to dab gingerly at the side of Amada’s face– it’s only now that Minato realizes that not all of the blood that Amada is wearing is Aragaki’s. The shape of Amada’s left ear is all wrong, like some of it is just missing, but Minato only catches a brief glimpse before Junpei presses the jacket over the injury and holds it there, hiding it from sight.

Yukari tries to summon her persona. Io flickers above her like a mirage for less than a second before vanishing. She pulls the trigger again, but the result is the same. She pulls the trigger again and again and again, face contorted and body heaving with sobs that Minato can’t hear. Io stops appearing at all. He stands there and watches.

It’s no use. They’re too far from Tartarus or any powerful shadow that could be harboring a piece of its influence. They’re too close to the end of the Dark Hour. Minato has two personas that can cast Recarm, but they wouldn’t be of any use even if he could draw his evoker, if he could move at all.

He stands there. And he watches.

Aragaki is saying something to Amada, and Amada answers through his sobs. Their mouths are moving, but Minato still can't hear. Why can’t he hear anything? Why does it feel like his mind is clouded over in static? 

Something jabs hard into his side and suddenly Minato’s ears work again, like a loose wire has been jarred back into place.

“--ato! Minato! Hey, are you listening?!” He blinks, dumbfounded, and turns to the source of the voice. Junpei is staring at him. Minato has no idea what he’d call the expression Junpei is making at him, but it’s not one he’s ever seen him wear before. “Give Sanada-san your coat, man! We need to stop the bleeding!” 

Even though he can hear again, it still takes him far too long to actually comprehend what’s being said. Junpei starts to repeat himself before it finally clicks and Minato shucks his jacket and hands it over. Junpei passes it off to Sanada, and Sanada presses it against the hole in Aragaki’s stomach. Aragaki doesn’t even flinch, just looks over at Koromaru gently nudging his hand. He pets him weakly. It’s probably the most movement he can manage.

“Just a few minutes–” Fuuka says, nearly hysterical. “The Dark Hour ends in a few minutes. As soon as it does, I-I’ll call an ambulance!” 

“Did you hear that, Shinji?” With the hand that isn’t leaning on the makeshift bandage, Sanada grabs Aragaki’s, gripping tight. Aragaki grips back, much weaker. “Just hold on for a bit longer!” 

“Aki…”  Aragaki’s voice is quiet and thready, but everyone falls silent at the sound of it. “Take care of him…” He slowly inclines his head towards Amada. 

“Don’t talk like you won’t be around!” Sanada says through gritted teeth.

“Pr…promise me, Aki.” 

Sanada’s breath hitches and he bites his lip against it. “…Alright. Alright, I– I will. I promise I will.” 

Aragaki smiles and Minato’s heart lurches. It’s sad. It’s final. 

It’s relieved. 

Aragaki is smiling like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. He looks so content that Minato almost envies him. “This is…how it should be…” he sighs.

He slumps in Mitsuru and Sanada’s arms. Minato’s ears ring. There is a chorus of strangled cries from his teammates. 

Amada chokes like he’s been stabbed. “No–! H-he can’t–!”

“Is he–?” Junpei’s voice shakes.

“He’s alive,” Sanada gasps, still clutching Aragaki’s hand. “He’s still breathing–”

“I can feel his pulse,” Mitsuru affirms, pressing two fingers gently to Aragaki’s neck. “It’s weak, but it’s there. He’s only passed out, but unless he gets medical attention soon…” She can’t even finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The implication is heavy enough. 

“Still breathing,” Sanada murmurs to himself. “He’s still breathing–” He says it again and again, as though he can force the words to remain true through sheer repetition.

Without fanfare, the green glow of the Dark Hour vanishes. The murky clouds that had blotted out the stars disappear and the moon returns to its normal size. 

“Yamagishi!”  Mitsuru exclaims.

“R-right!” Fuuka is already dialing. Her voice is strained and thin but steady as she relays the necessary details, and the person on the other end of the line thankfully seems to understand. It isn’t until she closes her phone that Fuuka allows a choked sob to escape. “Th…they’re on the way,” she says, her voice breaking. 

All they can do now is wait. Nobody speaks. Most of the team crowds around Aragaki, if nothing else to assure themselves that he’s still alive. Only Amada stays off to the side, until Junpei breaks away to crouch next to him and speak quietly. 

And Minato. He’s frozen in place, staring at the battered body of a man he’s come to greatly respect as the life slowly leaves him. His eyes burn, but it doesn’t feel like the sting of tears. They don’t feel wet at all. Has he been blinking? 

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Minato-san,” Aigis says, her vocals strangely gentle. How does she feel about all of this, Minato briefly wonders. “Are you alright?” 

“...No,” he answers, voice barely audible even to himself. Minato hasn’t felt like this since… not since Back Then. Not since the bridge, and the car.

Aigis’ face remains as impassive as always, but somehow she still looks sadder than she ever has. Sadder than Minato thought she was capable of. “I am here if you need me.” The compassion in her voice feels like a brick thrown against his chest.

It’s only a few minutes until they hear sirens, but it’s the most agonizing few minutes of their lives. Even in Tartarus, where a minute can stretch like taffy, time has never seemed to creep by so slowly.

A group of punks has started to gather, trying to gawk at the sprawled figure hidden within the protective ring formed by his teammates. They scatter as soon as the ambulance pulls up, stopping right next to the huddle. Four paramedics pour out and swarm around the injured parties as fast as they can. Two police cars arrive moments later. Officer Kurosawa steps out of one of them.

The alley is filled with disorienting pulses of red and blue light. Minato almost misses the sickly haze of the Dark Hour.

There’s a whirlwind of voices– explanations and questions and medical jargon– but Minato absorbs none of it. He just watches (again– again, he just watches, and does nothing) as three of the first responders transfer Aragaki onto a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. The fourth gently guides Amada inside as well. 

Everyone wants to go with them, but there’s only enough spare room for one more person. Minato isn’t surprised when Sanada insists it be him. Nobody argues, and the ambulance takes off the moment Sanada is inside. 

The last train has already left the station, so the rest of them will have to find another way to the hospital. And they will. They have to.

None of them can bear the idea of doing anything less.

[amplexadversary]

.

[loudclan-clangen]

Loudclan - Moon 29: Part 2

Back in camp, the warm weather gives the healers a chance to relax, and puts Wildfirecry in a particularly good mood, reminding him of his former home in Forestclan, far to the south.

Wildfirecry takes Songpaw out to look for Fiercestripe's patrol. Along the way they discuss what's really been on Songpaw's mind.

The scent of blood sits heavy in the still air. With Songpaw sent back to camp for help, Wildfirecry steels his nerves and rushes ahead, prepared to join the battle against whomever had made the mistake of tresspassing onto Loudclan's territory. As he neared the Loudclan border, though, it became clear that the battle was long finished.

Fiercestripe, Chumtail, Dogwoodmoth, and Dashpaw were killed in the rogue attack, taking 4 of their attackers with them. Rosehiptree managed to survive by staying hidden in the bushes, but she is by no means unscathed. Loudclan is devastated by this event, and will need time to mourn, but on the other side of the valley, three trespassers thank the stars for whatever might have delayed their pursuers.

[...so ... how are we feeling about this one, folks? bad? yeah, I feel bad. full disclosure, if Eklutna dying was the moon that I decided I wanted to keep playing Loudclan, this was the moon that almost made me quit. I was and continue to be DEVASTATED by losing these guys, Fierce, Dogwood, and Chum were some of my all time favorites as I played and I fell in love all over again writing their stories here. (Sorry Dash, you just weren't around long enough for me to get attached.) In game technically Fiercestripe died of heatstroke, but since it was the same moon as the rogue attack this felt like a much more fitting way for her to go. Anyway, I think one more part should wrap up this moon, and my deepest apologies to you all.]

First Moon

Next Moon

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Aw hell fucking yeah gamers! Just remembered I had some references for Sonic and Shadow for ProjectFreedom. Planned on eventually making proper ones instead of reused official art, but that never came to be.

Now you can pretty much see what I was going for with the story with how their designs would’ve changed throughout the runtime.

[muzzlemouths]

Down the Rabbit Hole

Slasher!Sun x Slasher-in-training!Y/N CW: Blood, gore, injury, death, implied kidnapping and hostage situation, general serial killer antics, stockholm syndrome*

Disclaimer: This story is not considered canon to the DFtR au and in fact only bears resemblance in a couple of places, but you're still free to consider this an au of the au.

“Lower, still.”

His shadow stretches over your back, one hand placed between your shoulder-blades, the other laid over your hand, plated fingers leaning into your skin.

“The lateral quadrants of the abdomen are where you want to start. Too high and things get messy, what with all the vital organs that are hoarded up there,” Sun instructs. “The liver, spleen, and kidneys will put him down quick, but if you want to have a little fun, first…”

He patiently directs your aim where he wants it, positioning the knife in your grip to sit atop the skin that guards the victim’s intestines, just below the bellybutton. Cold metal against warm flesh.

“Ovaries and the like can complicate things, but that shouldn’t be an issue with our dear fellow. I picked him out special just for you!”

Your eyes remain locked on the man under your blade. His body slumped forward, deadweight against the ropes binding him to a steel chair. He reeks of sweat and hard won copper, shirt collar sticking against his skin the way crimson clots around his nose and temple, long since having dried. Old blood flaking like dandruff.

If you didn’t know any better, you might have assumed that Sun had brought you a poor sap with one foot already in the grave. It had felt demeaning. All these months spent training for the perfect kill and he brings you a body that’s practically on death’s door like you’re a kitten that can’t yet feed itself. But he had promised you a hunt, and a hunt you will get. The slurred mumbles of the hostage as he— it comes to are certain assurance of that.

“Well, it’s about time,” Sun hums beside your ear. “Might have been a bit too rough with him on the way over here, human skulls can be so brittle these days, but at least it gave you ample time to prepare yourself.” His head swivels on its axis to face you, smile faltering instantaneously. “Are you scared?”

You follow his gaze with slow recognition, watching dumbly as your hand trembles around the knife, its handle made sticky with the sweat coating your clammy palm.

“It’s excitement,” you assure him, desperate to subvert the subtle glimpse of disappointment in his gaze.

“It’s okay to be scared.” He sees right through you regardless. The dissatisfaction in his voice empties into an amused snicker, and his smile returns tenfold, teeth glistening in the moonlight that streams through old factory windows. Broken glass clinks underfoot as he turns you to face him, hands bracing on either side of your shoulders so he can take in the sight of you, hopeful pride in every inch of his grin. “You’re going to do wonderfully, bunny.”

Sun fondly adjusts the lop-ears attached to your cap. A rabbit beanie made of stolen yarn that he’d drawn up a pattern for the day you first fell under his wing. He had presented it to you just outside the entrance to this long abandoned building, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. A reward for making it this far.

You can’t afford to fail him now.

A final steeling breath pours from your lungs. “I’m ready,” you tell him.

Sun nods towards his— your victim’s rousing shifts as the sorry bastard finally works up the strength to heft his chin from his chest. He is allowed little more time than this to gather his bearings before Sun takes center stage, not oblivious to, but willfully ignorant of the man’s inevitable panic.

“Goooood morning, friend!” He sings. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your schedule so early in the day, goodness knows wall street keeps you busy, busy, busy! It’s just, well, my dearest rabbit here, it’s their very first time doing this sort of thing on their own, see, and I needed someone who would put up just the right amount of fight. We don’t want to make things too easy for them. Where’s the fun in that? And– now, now, struggling isn’t part of the rules, silly! Where was I…oh, yes, on to the matter at hand.”

He comes around to the man’s back, deftly ignoring their attempts at reasoning with him – cries of desperation muffled behind duct tape – and undoes the ropes keeping him there with an easy swipe of hidden claws.

His sigh is nothing if not exasperated as the two of you watch the man test out his newfound freedom by immediately colliding with the floor. 

“Predictable as always,” Sun tuts. He crouches at the man’s side, arms resting casually on his knees, and shares his disappointment with a shake of his head and a quiet click, click, click of his tongue. “They never expect to also be tied at the ankles.” 

He captures a fistful of the man’s hair and idly rams his cheek against the concrete, halting all further attempts at escape then and there. “How positively dull. None of these maggots have a lick of intelligence between their eyes, they’re all boneless writhing and empty promises. Pitiful.” His eyes blink your way. “Not like you, bunny. No, not like you at all.”

Your grip vices around the knife as if it’ll protect you from the questions burning on your tongue.

“Is that why—”

“No.” He silences the notion before it even has room to breathe. “You are where you stand today, alive, for a great many reasons. The fact that you managed to impress me with clever ruses has little to do with it. That said, if you continue to question my motives I will see to it that I find someone quieter to play with. Or have you already forgotten that you aren’t the only soft-furred creature in the burrow?”

His answer arrives as a swift shake of the head, crocheted ears flopping side to side with bitter irony. “I haven’t forgotten,” you promise him. “Is — is that why you’re teaching me to hunt for myself. That’s what I’d intended to say.”

“Oh.” His shoulders fall, joints easing up all at once like a dog relaxing its haunches. He licks his teeth and sheathes his claws for another day. “Yes, bunny, that is why I’ve brought you out here. It’s high time we see the fruits of your labour, hm?”

It is rare that you lie to him, and rarer, still, that he believes you. As such, your answer is a swift nod and a flash of the puppy-dog eyes that got you into this mess to begin with. You aren’t going to push your luck on this one — not when he’s finally starting to trust you.

“Marvelous,” hums Sun. His nails scrape ruthlessly against the scalp as he winds the victim’s head back to see his face, grin widening. “What do you think, bunny — five seconds head start?”

“Make it ten.”

He catches your eye. This — like everything else — is a test, and the flicker of static in his voicebox implies a level of surprise. His gaze rakes over you with the emotionless cadence of someone already expecting to be disappointed. 

“Feeling confident, bunny?”

You need to prove your worth to him. Prove that his investment in your sustained life isn’t a gamble he will live to regret.

“I won’t disappoint you,” is what you end up saying. It’s the answer he wants to hear, regardless.

The ropes at your victim’s ankles are sliced through cleanly and without another word, though it’s obvious by the way he lingers that Sun considers marring the skin with his claws before letting you at him. It’s like an appetizer, he once told you. The game grows boring once they’re dead, and they die too fast if you aren’t careful. You must learn to pace yourself.

But this isn’t your average game. This is a test. This is a hunt.

You won’t leave this building until the knife is drenched in red.

“Oh!” Sun twitches with surprise as the man scrambles to his feet, up and out of Sun’s grip, and takes off around the corner. “Careful, bunny, he’s a slippery one.” He taps the space beside his eye, winking. “Don’t worry, I’ve already started your time. Ready?”

You swallow the remains of your doubt and bolster your grip with phoney pride. “Ready.”

Wordlessly his palm raises, five fingers brandished. Then four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Your shoes snap against concrete. Into a run, then a walk, then an amble. Six months of instruction swells your head, Sun’s voice in your ear: if you’re too hasty, you’ll give yourself away. Slow down. Breathe. The warehouse is only so big, and all exits, save for the one Sun guards, have been preemptively blocked off. You have all the time in the world to get the job done.

A hiss. Just ahead and to the right, muffled abruptly. Behind the pillar. Your neck whirs in its direction, and you tut.

Amateur.

The thing about duct tape is that, try as you might, it is impossible to peel away without a sound.

You press on, happy as a clam with this turn of events. Your anxiety may have been kinder had you known that your first victim was going to hand himself over to you on a silver platter.

The dim atmosphere of the abandoned warehouse aids your every step. Sunlight pierces through the darkness in streams of hazy gold through old, broken windows risen towards the sky. Too high to offer hope of escaping through them, too small to provide anything more than the sparse break in looming shadow.

His silhouette ducks behind a pile of debris and comes around to the other side, hastened footsteps, his gait clumsy and uncertain. Your prey is terrified.

He should be.

You raise onto your toes to muffle the path forward, back hunching close to the ground in a way that bares eerie resemblance to the second and more withdrawn of your two teachers. It’s a short matter of soundless breaths later that you find yourself tucking into the shadow between a pillar and broken furniture, a firm plan already in mind and ready to be acted out by the time you find a suitable piece of debris.

The shard of glass bites at your fingers. You’re careful with it, delicately turning the item in your palm until you’re sure of its weight, then you let it fly. It lands to the right of his silhouette with a hushed ting as though you had kicked it with the toe of your boot and, predictably, the man decides to scurry left.

It’s almost laughable; the way he runs himself into your awaiting knife.

The sound that spills from his throat is gutteral and moist, each pitiful attempt at words hindered by the blood that coats his throat as he coughs into your shoulder. Were this a mercy kill he would already be on the ground, but as it stands, you have some things to prove.

Your knife splits flesh as its sharply withdrawn from his gut in one smooth motion, and he howls, spitting vitriol between blood stained teeth. He stumbles a few paces away and into a delirious, uneven run — though it’s more of an hobble.

It makes no difference to you. Sun’s gaze hovers, expectant, from a few yards away. That’s all it takes to propel you forward.

You’re clumsy, coming up on him too fast, too reckless, and it gives the man room to dodge your first swing. But not your second. This one drives into his shoulder, clawing at muscle and nerves alike. The limb is made useless in an instant. 

Blood pours from the wound like wet confetti, signalling the damage to a vascular vein. That gives you two minutes, if you’re lucky, to finish him off yourself before he’s bled dry.

Red paints your forearm as your knife makes contact for a third time, and his stomach unwraps against the mouth of your dagger like a present. Your wrist trembles with the force applied behind each upward thrust of the blade until your victim falls, and you fall with him, collapsing into a straddle over his already-still chest as you tear your weapon from the body and incessantly plunge it somewhere new. Intestine. Pancreas. Liver. Flesh. Body. Prey.

“Bunny.”

Sun’s voice is a warm ray of light in an otherwise stormy sky. 

His hand lands gently on your shoulder. The other, wound around your wrist where it hangs in the air, halted mid-strike, is almost painfully firm. Decisive. His fingers squeeze until you’re forced to give up the knife. 

You watch it fall to the ground with a clatter, followed by silence.

You look up.

His faceplate tilts with an audible shrill, rusty metal whispering together. “Well?” He mutters, expectant. “How was it?”

Stars dance in your vision, cheering with little voices of praise and pride. “It was…” Your lips part in quick succession, gaping, gulping, gasping around all the words that crowd your mouth yet none of them fall. “It…it was…” 

Terrifying? Your could have died yourself had things gone south.

Horrifying? There is still blood on your hands from a fresh kill.

Disturbing? Addicting? The thrill of the haunt plays on a loop between your ears. You lost yourself somewhere between the chase and the floor. Sticky scarlet coats the underside of your fingernails and soaks into your sleeves. Your hair stands on end and your breath runs ragged, muscles twitching with excitement, not fear.

“Exhilarating,” Sun answers for you. His face splits into a too-wide grin.

You’ve passed the test.

He releases your wrist and comes around to your front, rolling the body of your success out of his way with a shameless nudge of his shoe. Once stood before you he offers his hand, palm up and spotless in comparison to yours, and fits you with an encouraging nod. “You did well, bunny, but this is only a taste,” he promises. “Are you ready to have some real fun?”

Sun allows no room for hesitation. He follows your hand — tiny where it settles against his own — with a fiery gaze that bores into you like that of his namesake. And you shake on it.

“Lead the way,” says the rabbit, in too deep to back out now.

“Good choice,” answers the wolf.

He knows the decision was already made for you from the start.

[cyantt-does-stuff]

"Your glass house shattered, look at the damage it caused."

The End makes me feel things.

[angelicsentinel]

Chapters: 1/21 Fandom: 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed, Magic Kaito Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan/Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid Characters: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan, Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid, Black Organization Member(s) (Meitantei Conan), Haibara Ai | Miyano Shiho, Miyano Akemi, Hakuba Saguru, Hattori Heiji Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Magic, Action/Adventure, Torture, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Identity Reveal, Minor Character Death Summary:

Kaito uncovers a vast conspiracy from a most unusual source—a journal that purports to be from the future. Caught in the grasping claws of fate, Kaito finds an unlikely ally in detective Kudō Shinichi. They must work together to prevent a dark future, though the present Shinichi is suspicious of Kaito's motives.

-

Notes: So I hit my millionth word in dcmk alone this fic by a country mile. Time travel was a siren song I couldn't resist even after I told myself I'd never do this again. Many thanks to @chiikichai for picking up the pinch hit when the original artist ghosted me and being a wonderful partner; it was such a pleasure to work with you again, Doodle for listening to my inane rambling when I desperately needed it, Kir for being my biggest cheerleader and supporter, for not saying I told you so, and for betaing this monster, and @glitchedcatto for body doubling. Love y'all 💙

Don’t forget to check out Chii’s absolutely incredible art here! Go give it some love!

[kjack89]

Say Don't Go

E/R, canon era. Some light angst for your Friday evening (or whatever your timezone equivalent). Implied canonical character death, blood mention.

The candle in the back room of the Musain flickered with increasing unsteadiness, its melted wax having long since overflowed from the holder. Shadows cast by its inconsistent light danced along the walls, accompanied solely by the sound of Enjolras’s pen scritching across paper and the methodic dull thud of Grantaire’s wine bottle as it was lifted to lips then returned to its place.

Without warning, the candle spluttered out, plunging the room into darkness.

“I suppose we should take that as a sign,” Grantaire said, a moment later, and Enjolras sighed.

“You may,” he said shortly, standing and fumbling to light another candle. “Would that my work ceased with the absence of light.”

He successfully lit another candle, lighting the room once more, and Grantaire just shook his head. “But does your work not bring light into the world of its own accord?” he mused.

Enjolras glanced at him. “Coming from you, that is almost a compliment.”

Grantaire laughed. “Only if we are in the business of considering drunken rambling to be complimentary.”

“Again, from you…”

Enjolras trailed off and Grantaire laughed again, a somewhat gentler sound this time. “That I suppose is the most potent sign yet that I should take my leave, before my words somehow bring offense, intended or otherwise.”

He stood and Enjolras glanced up at him. “You need not leave on my account,” he said.

Grantaire paused, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Truly?”

“Grantaire, if I made a point of removing you every time you caused offense, you would never again attend another Les Amis meeting,” Enjolras said patiently, already looking back down at his papers.

But still Grantaire hesitated. “There remains a difference between my presence at one of our meetings versus my presence here, after hours, with just you as company.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth before blurting, “Would you permit any other attendee of our meetings to stay late into the night with you in this way?”

“No other attendees are brave enough to attempt it,” Enjolras murmured.

“Or fool enough,” Grantaire countered.

Enjolras glanced up with a small smile. “That too,” he agreed.

Grantaire hesitated for a moment more before shrugging. “Very well,” he said, taking his seat again. “If you truly do not mind.”

“I have far more important things to concern myself with than how you choose to spend your evening,” Enjolras told him.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, reaching automatically for his bottle of wine. “I imagine you do.”

— — — — —

“Sit,” Grantaire ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument, pointing at a chair as he crossed to the washbasin, rolling his shirt sleeves up. 

To his surprise, Enjolras sat without complaint, which in and of itself was evidence that forcing him to sit and stay still was the best move. Joly might have additional advice, but he had been swept up in the crowd after the National Guard had interrupted their assembly, leaving Grantaire alone to close his hand around Enjolras’s wrist and bodily drag him from the scene.

But not before Enjolras managed to get himself hit in the temple by the butt of a musket.

It was with slightly shaking hands that Grantaire managed to wet a cloth in the washbasin, and he took a deep, steadying breath before turning back to Enjolras, and the blood that matted the entire right hand side of his face. “I’m certain it looks worse than it is,” Enjolras murmured, though he didn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eyes as he said it.

“And I am certain that you do not find yourself in a position to determine as such,” Grantaire said, reaching out to tilt Enjolras’s chin just slightly with two fingers before finally reaching out with the wet cloth.

Enjolras winced at the touch and would have flinched away were it not for Grantaire holding his head steady. “I can do that,” he protested, his voice little more than a mumble, as Grantaire began washing the blood from the side of his face.

Grantaire made a small dissenting noise, his eyes not leaving the gash at Enjolras’s hairline. “You certainly can,” he murmured. “But I have little faith that you would if left to your own devices.”

“To be fair, you have little faith in just about everything,” Enjolras returned evenly.

A smile twitched at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “Well, save for—”

“Your full glass, yes,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “Do you ever grow weary of making the same jest?”

“Haven’t yet,” Grantaire told him, straightening to return to the washbasin and rinse the cloth. As he did, Enjolras stretched and made the tell-tale signs of beginning to stand, and Grantaire whipped around instantly, scowling. “Did I say you could stand?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes once more. “I am fine,” he told Grantaire, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Grantaire pursed his lips. “I did not say otherwise.”

“Well enough to stand, at the very least,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “Now that remains to be seen.” He pointed again at the chair before ordering, for a second time, “Sit.”

Enjolras sat, scowl firmly in place. “I think you are enjoying this,” he said, a little sourly, and Grantaire’s shoulders tensed as he hunched over the washbasin, the water in it pink with blood.

“You think that I enjoy tending to your wounds?”

Grantaire’s voice was quiet but Enjolras still flinched as if he had shouted. “I did not mean—”

Again Grantaire turned to him, his face impassive as he took his previous spot at Enjolras side, pressing the cloth once more to Enjolras’s head. “My preference would be that you not be harmed seemingly every time you get it in your head to set foot out your door, but my vote, it seems, does not carry much weight.”

Enjolras winced, though it did not appear to be from the pressure Grantaire was applying. “I—”

“What?”

Enjolras sighed. “I apologize.”

Grantaire blinked, his hand not moving. “There really is a first time for everything.”

For a long moment, they sat like that in silence before Enjolras rolled his shoulders and tilted his head, trying to catch Grantaire’s eye. “I do mean what I said earlier, though.”

“Which part?” Grantaire asked.

“That I can do this myself,” Enjolras told him, reaching up to rest a hand on top of Grantaire’s and the cloth still pressed to his temple. “You need not stay.”

Grantaire just made a small humming noise of what could have been agreement or dissent in equal measure. “I shall take that under advisement,” he murmured, making absolutely no move to pass the cloth to Enjolras or otherwise move.

Enjolras sighed, his hand dropping to his lap. “You shall be the death of me,” he said sourly.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Grantaire’s face. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

— — — — —

Grantaire sat upright, swinging his legs over to the side of the bed but making no attempt to stand. He glanced back at Enjolras, sprawled next to him, the light from the moon filtering through the window casting Enjolras’s usually golden curls with a silver sheen. “What?” Enjolras asked, something languid and almost sleepy in his tone. 

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, his fingers twitching against the bed sheets.

A frown puckered Enjolras’s forehead. “And yet you look as though you are waiting for me to say something.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Perhaps I am.”

Enjolras sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Would it not be easier to tell me what you wished to hear?” he asked, something like frustration coloring his words. “I am—” For the first time that evening, even more so than when he had asked Grantaire to accompany him to his bed hours earlier, Enjolras hesitated. “You know that I am not experienced in this regard, so if there is any set of usual platitudes I should be offering—”

Grantaire let out a noise like a snort, shaking his head. “After all this time, you think I seek mere platitudes?” he asked, his voice low.

Enjolras rolled onto his side to face him. “Truth be told, I know not what you seek,” he said, matching Grantaire’s tone. “From me, from this, from any of it.”

Grantaire just shook his head. “All this time, I have sought only one thing.”

He said it simply, evenly, and Enjolras frowned, looking away. “That is what I feared most of all,” he said quietly. “That you should seek the one thing that I cannot offer.”

For one long moment, Grantaire just looked at him, something unreadable in his expression. Then he sighed and drew a hand across his face. “I know what you presume I wish to hear, but you are wrong,” he said. “Never have I expected to hear those three sweet words from your lips in this or any lifetime.” He leaned over so that his lips were practically against Enjolras’s ear. “I would settle instead for two.”

“Two?” Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire nodded. “Don’t go,” he murmured.

Enjolras shifted away slightly so that he could frown at him. “You wish for me to tell you to stay?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No. I wish for you to ask me not to go.”

Enjolras’s frown deepened. “I see no difference—”

“I suppose you wouldn’t, so used are you to having every request treated as an edict,” Grantaire mused, straightening once more. “And that is what telling me to stay would be: a command. You and I both know I have had no great success at following commands, even the ones given by you.” He paused, his eyes searching Enjolras’s for a long moment. “But while you have commanded many things of me, all of which I have failed, never once have you asked anything of me. So if there are only two words I could hear fall from your lips, it would be that request alone.”

Enjolras looked away. “Must I ask for something that is offered freely?”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s expression, but his voice was even as he replied, “Only so that the person offering knows that it is not he alone who wants it.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, broken only by Enjolras’s eventual sigh as he rolled over onto his other side, his back to Grantaire. “If you wish to stay, stay.”

Grantaire swallowed and nodded with unspoken understanding. “And I think it best that I go.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “If that is what you wish.”

— — — — —

Enjolras ground his teeth together, frustration palpable. “Go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire just smirked, lifting the bottle of wine in his hand but not drinking from it. “Give me one compelling reason why I should,” he challenged.

“You are drunk.”

Enjolras said it flatly, his disappointment clear, and Grantaire’s smirk sharpened. “That has never hindered my staying in the past.”

“Fine,” Enjolras said impatiently. “You are drunk and you are annoying me.”

Still Grantaire looked amused. “Again, never before have you found that a hindrance.”

“Well, I find it one tonight.”

Grantaire set the bottle down, propping his chin on his hand as he looked thoughtfully at Enjolras. “I don’t believe that you do.”

Enjolras scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said, unless you have suffered yet another injury, this time to your ears,” Grantaire said, before repeating, enunciating every syllable, “I don’t believe you.”

“You think that I speak falsely?” Enjolras asked, with a dangerous sort of calm.

Grantaire just shrugged. “It is less that I find your words false and more that I understand your meaning to differ from what you speak.”

Enjolras scoffed, looking down at the pamphlet in front of him. “I don’t believe even you know what that means.”

Grantaire’s smirk became brittle. “It means that you say one thing, knowing that I will understand what it is you truly wish to say but cannot allow yourself to.”

Now Enjolras looked up sharply, his lips pressed together into a flat line. “You know not of what you speak,” he said, the same dangerous edge to the words.

A dangerous edge that Grantaire did not heed. “Don’t I?”

“No.”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s face and he leaned forward, urgency in every line of his body. “I, who have spent every day of the past few years deconstructing every sentence you have ever uttered?” he asked quietly. “I alone who has spent uncountable hours at your side to hear what words you do not share with even your closest friends? You think I know not of what you speak?”

His volume had risen considerably by the end, and Enjolras just lifted his chin, meeting his glare coolly. “You have deluded yourself into believing this is more than what it is. You may lace your words with hidden meanings and double entendres, but that does not mean—”

Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “And now you accuse me of not saying what it is I think!” He stood abruptly, taking only a few automatic steps toward Enjolras. “My God, man, I could not be any more transparent with my thoughts, with my feelings, if I tried. I ruminate and I ramble and every thought that has ever existed in my head has seemingly also passed my lips, but you—“

He broke off, shaking his head, equal parts admiring and grudging. “Every word that passes your lips is weighed, measured, considered,” he said. “Each sentence as carefully constructed as any of your plans. And so I have taught myself to read between your pauses just as surely as your words, to find meaning in each breath and every hesitation. Call me deluded if you must, but do not sit there and tell me that I do not know of what I speak, in this instance at the very least.”

Enjolras said nothing, and Grantaire took another step towards him, reaching out for his hand. “There may only be two words I have ever wanted to hear, but it does not mean you have not said them in every way that matters. And that is why I do not believe you find my presence a hindrance, on this or any night.”

But Enjolras just pulled his hand away, his expression carefully neutral. “Go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s hand fell to his side. “So be it,” he said. “But returning to my home will not change the meaning of any words said here tonight – or anything left unsaid.”

“I know,” Enjolras said quietly, so softly that Grantaire almost could not hear him. “I only wish that it could.”

— — — — —

There was no moon in the sky, and the only candle in the room had long since extinguished itself.

Still, Grantaire moved with practiced ease, finding his clothes where he had flung them a few hours earlier. He shrugged into his shirt, doing up the buttons with long, nimble fingers, pale against the stark blackness of the room.

Enjolras watched with hooded eyes as Grantaire tugged his trouser on and then stood, disappearing a little at a time under each additional layer, the hastily buttoned waistcoat, the sloppily tied cravat.

Neither man made any attempt to speak.

Perhaps all that needed to be said had been.

Or perhaps both feared breaking the tentative, unspoken truce that had led Grantaire again to Enjolras’s bed that night.

In any case, Grantaire turned to the door without sparing Enjolras an additional glance, and only then did he hesitate, his hand on the doorknob.

Without warning, he turned, crossing back to the bed and reaching for Enjolras, his hand gentle against the back of Enjolras’s neck as he pulled him up just enough to press a single long kiss to Enjolras’s forehead, the kiss like a benediction, a sacrament.

Penance and absolution in one.

His fingers carded through the wispy curls at the nape of Enjolras’s neck, but still he made no attempt to speak, or otherwise break the moment.

A moment that was not enough, and could never be enough, but the only moment that Enjolras had ever granted.

He held onto the moment as though he could somehow force it to be enough.

Then he straightened, and this time, when he left, he did not turn back.

— — — — —

Grantaire, roused by the silence, stumbled forward, his eyes fixed on Enjolras and only Enjolras. Just as always.

He brushed past the National Guard as though they were no more than mere specters, for in that moment, they were. One final impetus for the unspoken conversation that had ruled what little he had forged with Enjolras over the years.

“Do you permit it?” he asked, the simple question that defined their entire existence, that narrated the way their lives were forever entwined and hurtling towards this moment no matter what either man had tried to wrought along the way. 

Enjolras’s answer to the question was as immaterial as ever, because Grantaire had always known what the answer was, or would be. Had known it as certainly as he knew that it would end like this.

His answer was in the soft smile Enjolras gave him there at the end of all things. It was in the gentle press of his palm against Grantaire’s, just as it had been in every kiss, every touch, every gasp wrung from Enjolras’s body. Grantaire had heard what he so longed to hear in every way that mattered, in the end.

He only hoped that Enjolras knew it, too.

There was no time now to ask, no time to speak, but so much of them had lived in the unsaid that it mattered not.

The final volley of gunfire sounded, but Grantaire did not hear it. His eyes were still fixed on Enjolras, and he heard but one thing, one final time:

Don’t go.

[space-blue]

@recom-week Day 4 : Whump and Betrayal. What goes around comes around for recom Eyre

[drunkenmantis]

what if....

[not-poignant]

I hope it's okay to ask, but how are things? Looking forward to Underline The Gold on Sunday so much

Omg I'm looking forward to it too

Tbh I'm up to chapter 8 on that now so we're ready to really start pushing ahead with some of the side stories which is exciting

As for me, it's been pretty rough, anon, not gonna lie. I'm going to put this under a read more because I'm pretty honest and also because there's more than one 'I might have cancer' mention among other things:

I kind of thought I was doing fine and then it all got on top of me a couple of days ago and (self-harm mention) I ended up self-injuring due to autistic meltdown. Sometimes I don't realise how bad things really are until I'm at that stage and I have bruises and soft tissue damage to show for it. I've since talked to my doctor and therapist about it, but like...oof.

I've actually been taking a break from writing since I've hit 50k and I generally have a rule that I have to take at least 2-4 days off once I've hit that point, but I'm still pretty stuffed, but mostly for health reasons. I've written 14 chapters this month so I feel okay about the break lol.

On Friday (the day after the meltdown) I needed to have a hand X-ray (even right now, the knuckles in my left hand are really sore), see my GP for 40 minutes, talk to my therapist, organise an iron infusion (I have microcytic anemia and need an iron infusion again, which I think is my 5th or 6th - I need one about once every 2-3 years, and mostly the time between is the slow downward spiral of losing more and more iron until I'm truly fucked) and a meeting with one of the head haematologists in the state because my red blood cells are bullshit and weird (yay). Guess that explains the exhaustion.

I still need to organise a lymph node ultrasound (which is probably nothing, except there is like a 'higher than average' chance it could be metastatic cancer, since I do have tumours in my head right now that could metastasize, and the tumours are extremely close to the swollen lymph node - also I haven't had a virus).

I need to organise a meeting with a dermatologist, I need to organise a full abdominal MRI to see if I have any other tumours we don't know about, and I got an eating disorder management plan for restrictive eating, which does entitle me to like...cheaper dietitian appointments, but also formalises me as having an ED as opposed to 'disordered eating.'

On top of that I had to deal with a tribunal after my Dad had a catastrophic stroke a few months ago, and the tribunal was last month, to determine who would look after him. Our family is so broken and my stepmother so manipulative/vindictive that the government decided no one could be trusted and took care of his finances and healthcare themselves meaning none of us can have any real say in his future (truly the best outcome, but a damning one for the state of the family), and I also had to listen to my stepmother accuse my sister of being a criminal for 20 minutes with completely unfounded lies, and of course, my Dad has had a catastrophic stroke, and that's complicated. That's a whole...

That saga is so much anon, I cannot even begin to explain even the tip of that iceberg.

I've been spending a lot of extra time like scanning family photos and other things and packing items in his home for storage etc. and while that's been done now for over a month and a half, I guess the burn out started some time ago and it's just been slowly getting on top of me. Kind of the 'slowly boiling a lobster in a pot' analogy.

I've been overall quieter on Tumblr as a result of all of this, and it all just...destroyed me on Thursday, and ever since then I've been recovering.

I've just realised it's nearly 1.00am and I swear the last time I looked at the clock - which felt like 5 minutes ago - it was 11.00pm.

Oh and to top it all off I've had vicious 'not falling asleep until 4.00am' insomnia + increased nightmares because my PTSD has relapsed back into 'pretty severe.' So um, managing most nights on 3-4 hours of sleep a night, and that's bad for all my chronic illnesses, of which I have many.

Ah. Yeah. :(

Lemme rustle up some good news for you, anon, because I feel like this is just too much crap.

Bushflowers/wildflowers are really nice right now as it's turning to spring in Western Australia (it's Djilba in the Noongar seasonal system, which I prefer)

Rhubarb is in season so I'm making a lot of stewed apple and rhubarb as a comfort food.

Reading the manhwa Punch Drunk Love and enjoying it.

Asks like yours - even if all of this sounds dire - helps me to undestand that I actually do have good reasons to feel tired and that it's okay to take breaks and that's really valuable (sometimes - though rarely - people use my anon function to talk at me, rather than talking to me as a person, and I just...really value feeling like a person sometimes aslfkjsa) so while I might seem down, this has actually been nice to end my night on. Also you've reminded me that I am super excited/happy to share more Underline the Gold with people

I got some organisational stuff and organising stuff in the house makes me feel good.

I have an extremely good doctor and tbh for a long time I didn't, so like, every good specialist and doctor is worth their weight in gold. :)

I hope you're doing okay and looking after yourself / taking care anon, and that you get something good out of what remains of the weekend. <3 And for everyone who needs one, hugs are on the house.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

iZombie S01E13: Blaine's World

[meltanfan395]

[Musharna mail! Cw for major mortal injury, pokemon abuse, cults, religious trauma

A church. Well, what’s left of it. The ceiling seems to have exploded open. Floating above the church is Eternatus, Eternamaxxed and Mega Evolved, wreaking havoc while screaming in pain.

The Sword and Shield of Galar, Zacian and Zamazenta, are locked in cages on either side of the stage.

This place feels familiar, and not in a good way. Looking around at the pews, the shattered stained glass, the statues of clawed hands and Galarian legendaries, it fills you with dread.

Time skips a bit and you’re trying your best to remove the lock on Zamazenta’s cage, when suddenly

Searing pain, from your back spreading through to your front.

You look down to see the Rusted Blade, sticking straight out of you.

The sword is swiftly removed as you try to scream, but it comes out whispered, as screams usually do in dreams.

You look up to see a woman with curly short purple hair, a clawed hand necklace, glasses, and a long robe standing over you. She simply sighs, dropping the sword and walking out of view.

As the nightmare begins to fade, the floor seems to grow around you, sucking you in, like quicksand or perhaps oobleck. It covers you completely, and the dream ends when your eyes are covered.]

Jo shoots up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. They clutch their stomach, right where that wound would be. That wound that was never theirs In the first place.

That. Dream that shouldn't belong to them...

It suddenly occurs to them that this MUST be part of somethin' supernatural. Jo's never had anything to do with the heroes of galar, let alone eternatus...

First thing in the morning... They need to investigate.

[lingeringmirth]

too still

Stranger Things | Lumax, Lucas centric | Rating: T | Words: 100 | Drabble, Angst, major canonical character injury , S4 missing scene.

cw: major character injury (no graphic description)

A/N: This is actually my first lumax and first time writing Lucas' pov.

Also here on AO3.

-

Lucas holds Max in his arms and he cries. He knows he should get up, should run, call an ambulance, but he can’t move.

Erica finds him there, his fingers to Max’s weak pulse, his vision blurry with his tears.

She runs.

‘I’m sorry… Don’t go. Please, Max.’

Death has brushed by him before, but never like this since they thought Will was dead, and that hadn’t been like this… he hadn’t been in love with him.

Max is too still, maybe too broken to be mended. He can’t lose her.

The sound of sirens has never sounded as welcome.

[exc1table]

Silvered Soul chapter 2

Summery:"Unfortunately for Rosalee Silver Soul, information broker and clairvoyant, years ago she had drawn the bats attention, and knowing them as much as she does (which is quite a lot seeing as she has regularly spoken to Martha and Thomas since before their untimely demise(they were her favorite customers)) she should have known that getting this involved in her cities local cryptids would get her in deep trouble."

Chapter summery: "flashback time! we learn some things about Silvers past, and finally meet some ghosts, and learn how Silver became clairvoyant in the first place.

"Years ago when her business was still relatively new, Silver had been selling information on the Mob to the Waynes. They paid well, and the info was relatively easy to obtain, given her level of skill. She was careful while obtaining it, yet despite this, Carmine Falcone still discovered someone was ratting them out.""

Spoilers under the cut

scene 2 "I just got shot and your asking if I'm alright!?"

Paper version

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 27: Left for Dead

Warning for Combat, canon-typical violence, weapons, blood, broken bones, injury, fainting, near major character death