#not to mention the angst for the couples

[starlittragedies]

i need a marauders murder mystery type of fic, kind of like clue the game. CAUSE IMAGINE !!!

like my thoughts are still a little messy but what if someone has just been murdered and the valkyries, marauders, and pantheon were all questioned and were suspects and they are all being questioned by the deputy or whomever (dumbledore) and as they are being questioned as a group and one by one there are other murders that are being brought to light as if saying “you got the wrong people” or “stop investigating” no one really knows…

in the end we find out that they’re all a little responsible for the murders. some of them were done by the marauders, the others the valkyries, the first one though that was done by the pantheon, but no one will ever know… no one really needs to know right?

[sillypenguinwitch]

okay so i'm not trying to make this a ~thing~ or a hot take or whatever, but can we talk about how all the hyped up queer shows still predominantly feature mlm couples? i'm not saying there aren't wlw shows/movies or the mlm-focused shows don't also feature wlw characters/couples, just... they either get nowhere near the same amount of hype, have some other main plot, end with at least one of them dying or experiencing something traumatic, get cancelled after one season in the middle of their arc, or they're not the main couple. And that's not to discount the representation you can get from secondary characters of course but just... ugh I want a heartstopper or rwrb or young royals or skam or love, simon or i don't even know... with girls. And I know I'm not the first person to bring this up and I know it's not that simple, but seeing all the hype for heartstopper and rwrb this week makes my heart ache a little bit so i needed to say this somewhere.

[thronesoldaccido]

The World We Could Have Created

Pairing: Kyle “gaz” Garrick x Fem!Reader

TW: Pregnancy, death, Angst, Grief, Mentions of loss, Hurt /no comfort

WC: 2.6K

(I just wanted to write something sad)

The night was still, the kind of quiet that only comes in the deep hours when the world is asleep and even the wind seems to rest. A soft, silvery moonlight spilled through the windows of the modest suburban home, casting gentle shadows that played across the walls. In the bedroom, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic breathing of two people entwined in sleep, their bodies close, their hearts beating in time with one another.

Kyle Garrick lies in bed, his arm draped protectively over you, his wife. In the dim light her face was serene, a soft smile curving her lips even in sleep. It was a face he knew better than his own, every line and freckle, every expression that had captured his heart all those years ago when they first met.

Back then, he had been a young man full of ambition and promise, studying hard to make something of himself, to build a future he could be proud of. You had been his anchor, the steady presence that grounded him, the light that guided him through the darkest times. They had been inseparable, two halves of the same whole, moving through life in perfect harmony. Kyle had known that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

They had done everything right, everything by the book, they had taken their time building their relationship on a solid foundation before taking the next step. Marriage had come naturally a beautiful ceremony surrounded by friends and family; vows exchanged with tears of joy in their eyes. It had been the happiest day of kyles life, standing at the altar, looking into your perfect eyes, knowing that they were about to embark on a journey together, hand in hand.

After marriage, they had talked about starting a family, about the joy of bringing a child into the world and raising them together. It was something they both wanted, something they had dreamed about during late-night conversations and quiet moments of reflection. And when you told him you where pregnant, Kyle had felt a joy so profound it had nearly brought him to his knees. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever worked for, coming together in that one perfect moment.

They had been so careful, so diligent. The nursery had been painted, the crib assembled with meticulous care, tiny clothes folded and put away in drawers. Every detail had been attended to, every step taken with the kind of love and devotion that only parents-to-be could understand. They have spent hours together, planning, dreaming, imagining the life they would give their child, the home they would create.

If only that was possible

It had started as a small spot of blood, barely noticeable, a mere hint that something might be amiss. But soon, the spotting had grown worse, accompanied by a sharp, stabbing pain that had caused you to collapse in your own home. The memory of it haunted kyle, replaying in his mind like a nightmare that wouldn’t let go- the way you had crumpled to the floor, your hands clutching your belly, the fear in your eyes as you looked up at him.

He had acted on instinct, scooping you up in his arms and rushing to the hospital, his heart pounding with terror, his mind a whirlwind of prayers and pleas.

The drive to the hospital had been a blur, his mind filled with the sound of your laboured breathing, the feel of your body trembling in his arms. He had begged the doctors to save you, to do anything they could.

The nurse looked up, meeting his gaze with a calmness that seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of his frantic emotions, she offered a gentle smile and for a brief fleeting moment kyle felt a sliver of hope pierce through his terror. “She is in stable condition, Mr. Garrick” she softly said, her voice soothing like a balm to his frayed nerves. “she’s in room 122”

Relief crashed over him, he released a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, nodding gratefully at the nurse before turning down the hallway she had indicated. Each step felt heavy, weighted with the anticipation and anxiety that had been building since he arrived. But the thought of seeing you, of holding your hand, of hearing your voice. These thoughts drove him forward, propelling him through the sterile corridors.

The number on each door blurred as he passed them, his entire focus narrowing to one goal: reaching room 122. When he finally arrived, he paused, his hand hovering over the handle as if needing to steel himself for whatever could be on the other side. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden light of the early morning. It was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. And there, in the centre of it all, was you, sitting up in the hospital bed, your face radiant despite the exhaustion etched in her features. In your arms, you cradled a tiny, swaddled figure- so small so fragile.

Kyles breath caught in his throat. His heart swelled as he watched the scene before him the sound of your gentle laughter filling the room like music. Your eyes, so full of warmth and love, met his as you noticed him standing there. “Kyle” you whispered, voice tender and full of joy. The smile that spread across your face was like the sun breaking through clouds after a storm. You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears “do you want to hold her?” you giggled softly, lifting the tiny bundle of joy just slightly. As if to introduce their newborn to the man who had been waiting so long to meet her.

For a moment, everything else faded away. Kyle felt a rush of emotions – overwhelming love, Pure happiness, and a profound sense of completeness. This was the life they had dreamed of, the life they had built together through years of love and commitment he stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the small, perfect face of his daughter and reached out to touch her soft cheek, his fingers trembling with awe and reverence, your hand found his, their fingers intertwining as they both gazed down at their child, the embodiment of their love.

But just as he was about to speak, it was gone. It was all gone. The warmth, the light, the laughter it was all gone. The image of you so vibrant and full of life, was gone. Kyle blinked and just like that he was back at the reception desk. “I’m sorry, sir….” The nurses voice trembled, each word landing like ablow to kyles chest, the pit of dread in his stomach widening until it felt as though it might swallow him whole  “ it says here she passed due to placental abruption.”

The world seemed to stop. Time, which had been rushing forward in a frantic blurt of anxiety and fear, suddenly slowed to a crawl. The nurses words echoed in his mind, the meaning clear but impossible to accept. Kyle stood there, rooted to the spot, as if the ground had opened up beneath him, threatening to drag him into an abyss from which there was no return. Everything he held dear – his hopes, his dreams, his future – shattered in an instant, leaving him feeling hollow and numb.

A single tear traced  a slow. Deliberate path down his cheek, the first sign of the storm brewing inside him. He had tried so hard to stay strong, to keep it together, but now, in the face of this unbearable truth, the fragile damn of composure he had clung to was beginning to crack, His hands, which had always been steady and strong, trembled uncontrollably as he forced himself to speak, his voice barely more than a whisper, “can.. can I see her...?” The nurse nodded; her eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored his own. She turned and led him down a different hallway, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling the air, the silence of the hospital pressing in on him from all sides. Each step felt like an eternity, every fibre of his being screaming at him to turn and run, to escape this nightmare, but his feet carried him forward, one heavy step after another, towards the moment he had been dreading.

When they reached the room, the nurse paused, offering him one last glance of sympathy before gently pushing that door open. Kyle stood at the threshold, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in shallow uneven gasps. The frigid air from the room seeped into his bones, making his body feel as lifeless as his soul. He knew what awaited him inside, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside him. On the bed, beneath a stark white sheet, lay.. you. For a moment, he could convince himself that you were just sleeping, that if he whispered your name, you would stir, your eyes would flutter open, and you would smile at him the way you always did. But the stillness of your body and the unnatural pallor of your skin, told a different story. The woman he loved, the woman he had planned to grow old with, was gone.

Kyles legs felt like they might give out beneath him as he approached the bed. His hands shook as he reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold fabric of the sheet. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him to stop, to turn back, to run from this unbearable reality. But he couldn’t, he had to see you, had to say goodbye. With a deep shuddering breath, he pulled back the sheet, revealing your face. You looked peaceful, almost serene, as if you were merely asleep. But there was no mistaking the lifelessness in your features, the finality of death had claimed you. The sight of you like this, so still, so cold, was a knife twisting in his chest, cutting deeper with each passing second.

He buried his face in your chest, his sobs breaking free in the torrent of pain and anguish. He clung to you, his tears soaking through the fabric of your gown, as if somehow, by holding on tight enough, he could bring you back, could reverse the cruel fate that had stolen you away from him. But no amount of tears, no amount of pleading or praying, could change the reality that you were gone, and with you, the life you had dreamed of together. The dreams they had shared, the future they had planned, were now nothing more than cruel fantasies. He could still see the vision of you holding their daughter, the smile on your face as you introduced their newborn to him. It was now nothing more than a fading echo, a desperate attempt by his mind to cope with the unbearable truth.

Hours seemed to pass in that cold, sterile room, the silence closing in around him like a suffocating shroud. When he finally found the strength to pull himself away from you, to stand on trembling legs, he knew that this was his new reality: a life defined by loss, haunted by the memory of what could have been. The light in his world had been extinguished, leaving only darkness and the unbearable weight of grief.

The days that followed were a blur, each one bleeding into the next, marked only by the rituals of mourning. The funeral was arranged in a haze of numbness, Kyle moving through the motions as if in a dream. Friends and family gathered to pay their respects, their faces etched with sorrow , but their presence brought him no comfort. How could it? Nothing could fill the void left by your presence.

On the day of the funeral, the sky was overcast, heavy with unshed rain, as if even the heavens were mourning your loss. Kyle stood at the graveside, his body stiff with the effort of holding himself together. He watched as they lowered the casket into the ground, the finality of it crushing him. It was real now, you were truly gone, buried beneath the earth, and with you, all of the dreams they had shared. As the last of the dirt was shovelled onto your grave, something inside Kyle snapped. The grief, which had been a constant, gnawing pain in his chest, suddenly flared into something darker, something that threatened to consume him whole. He turned away from the grave, unable to bear the sight any longer, and walked back to the car, the faces of those around him blurring into a sea of meaningless condolences.

When he returned to their home, the emptiness was suffocating. Every corner, every piece of furniture, every photograph on the wall was a reminder of the life they had built together, a life that was now reduced to memories and what-ifs. The nursery, once filled with hope and anticipation, now felt like a tomb, a place where dreams had come to die.

In the days that followed, Kyle found solace in the bottom of a bottle. Alcohol became his constant companion, numbing the pain, dulling the sharp edges of his grief. He drank to forget, to escape the unbearable reality that you were gone, that the future they had planned was no more. But the alcohol also fuelled his anger, his frustration at the cruel hand fate had dealt him.

One night, in a drunken haze, Kyle stumbled into the nursery. The sight of the crib, the tiny clothes, the toys neatly arranged on the shelves—it was too much. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted, and he tore through the room, destroying everything in his path. The crib was smashed to pieces, the clothes ripped from their hangers, the toys hurled against the wall. By the time he was done, the nursery was in ruins, a reflection of the desolation in his heart.

He collapsed on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been his hopes and dreams, and let the tears come. They were hot, bitter, and unrelenting, a flood of grief that left him exhausted and empty. The house, once filled with love and laughter, was now a silent, barren shell, and Kyle was left alone to face the darkness that had taken hold of his life.

In the weeks that followed, Kyle became a ghost of the man he had once been. He withdrew from the world, isolating himself from the people who cared about him. He couldn’t bear their pity, their well-meaning attempts to help him move on. How could they understand? How could anyone understand the depth of his loss, the gaping hole in his heart that nothing could fill?

The days blurred into one another, each one marked by the same routine: drink until the pain dulled, sleep, wake up, and do it all over again. But even in his drunken stupor, Kyle couldn’t escape the memories of you, of the life they had shared, of the future they had planned. Those memories haunted him, a constant reminder of what he had lost.

And so, he drifted through his days, lost in a sea of grief and alcohol, a man broken by loss, clinging to the shattered remnants of a life that had slipped through his fingers. The future, once so bright and full of promise, was now nothing more than a bleak, endless void. And in that void, Kyle was left to face the unbearable truth: that you were gone, and with you, the light in his world had been extinguish

[angeart]

Aaaaange, why doesn't Scar feel safe at that moment? More Tease pretty please? -🎀

oh i can do more than tease for this one :3c

[1,2k ramble + 8,5k rp snippets]

you know how we talked about the post-return situation, with the hermits raising potential allegations against scar? worried that he might be hurting grian, that their relationship is not safe?

that is pre-wedding. that is before scar proposes, but he already has plans to. he's always dreamed of a big, fancy wedding. it'd be picturesque and grand and wonderful! there'd be lots of flowers and music, laughter and dancing. and they'd be surrounded by friends who would be happy for them.

all of this is actively crumbling in scar's hands as hermits shy away from him as if he was dangerous and unpredictable. they're wary, unsure. they no longer see their cheerful, clumsy, harmless friend. they see an unfamilair vex.

they are not happy for them. and, right now, they do not approve of their relationship either.

scar thinks this is not how home should feel like. this is not what he wants. and he doesn't know how to convince them that he's not that scarecrow they have constructed from their lack of understanding. he doesn't know how to get through this.

but it's more than that, right? all their concerns, however well meaning, also make grian spiral. there's so much stress put on the two of them suddenly, their relationship straining.

none of this was ever meant to happen like this.

it's at a point when grian starts finding his stability, after that big breakdown, that scar decides he's done hiding and running, too. if he has to convince everyone to like him again, then he will. he'll fight for this. he'll do his best so that they can overcome this.

him and grian decide to host a little sleepover. for selected hermits! that way, they'll be opening themselves up to others. they want to try and show the others who they are now. to invite them back in. to let them get to know them all over again.

they arrange for it to happen within a week or so, as they still have to make a dedicated room for it. it's a lot of people to hang out and sleep!

they dedice to repurpose their old bunker. yes, the one they constructed shortly post-rescue. the one that was their hideout, their safe place.

it's underground, its walls drenched with anxiety and uncertainty. grian itches from it all, now used to spend time in their nest-tower, high up above the ground. underground feels stifling, all of a sudden. it feels wrong.

the first thing scar does is break the ceiling, to make a big skylight. it's left open for now, sand smelting into glass.

they struggle with the concept of hosting an event for many people. they can't seem to remember what they need. desperately, they try to figure out ways to make the place seem cozy and non-threatening, both for show and for their own sanity.

they talk about a little flower patch in the middle, right underneath the skylight. something bright and nice smelling and alive. they talk about mood lighting, about fairy lights and a fireplace. and—

they talk about sleeping arrangements.

grian says he doesn't want to make a big nest. he... doesn't want the others in their nest.

they're not flock.

they no longer feel like family.

so instead, they try to figure out how many beds they need. except, grian still wants a nest! for him and scar. and, maybe that's good! that'll be another stepping stone, showing the others the new them. who they are. what they now need. things like that!

while scar is tasked with making the small garden, grian goes off and gathers things for beds. he starts making them, quickly becomes overwhelmed, and instead starts putting together a big net that will hold their nest-bed suspended in the air.

he might be ignoring some symptoms of sickness that he simply brushes off as stress. a bit of tension. a couple of anxious, sleepless nights. it's fine.

(it isn't fine.)

it's when they take a break that grian finds himself too lightheaded and needs to lie down.

it's only about half an hour or so later, in the middle of them talking about some of scar's previous relationship experiences, that grian starts to feel really dizzy.

he has a fever.

and he succumbs to it fast after this.

scar wants to take him to the nest upstairs, but grian says he is too nauseous to be moved, so scar does the next best thing: cocoons grian's shivering, curled up form in blankets.

and he messages the hermits.

the hermits, who think he might be doing bad things to grian.

he tells them they need to postpone the sleepover.

he tells them grian is sick.

he asks for soup, but says not to come inside.

it... doesn't sound good. it rings some alarm bells in the heads of those hermits that are Very Concerned and Very Confused and maybe a notch paranoid. but scar stops replying. he's busy dealing with a sick grian.

and hoo boy.

grian's fever climbs sharply and mercilessly, making him delirious and disoriented. he can't tell where or when they are. he keeps talking about things that have already happened. he asks if the world is ending again. he thinks him and scar will be tossed to different servers this time. he asks for [REDACTED]. he asks for flock. he asks for kane and nico, where are they????

scar's heart is splintering and tearing to shreds as he tries to keep a grip, navigating heartache and mirror panic, trying to calm grian down.

it's at this time there comes a knock at their door.

scar can't deal with the others. not right now. not now, not now, not now.

they don't ask for permission to come in. they don't take silence as a no.

grian chirps in distress, from beffudled memories alone, and— they're worried. they can't leave it be.

they find the hole that was meant to, eventually, be a skylight.

they drop down.

mumbo, worried out of his mind. tango, here to help. impulse, last-minute joining them just to keep things reined in.

scar knows grian is out of it. he knows grian didn't want anyone else in their nest.

these are intruders.

and all grian registers are voices. all he thinks of are hunters. he sobs, terrified.

but to the others? scar's shifting into a vex form, flickering and dangerous, clutching grian who's making distressed noises, shielding him from sight.

they need to check up on grian, but they're not allowed any closer.

of course this escalates messily. and scar's afraid and hurting, but he needs to protect grian, and they aren't seeing him anyway. they don't see that he's scared. they don't see that he's cornered and helpless. they don't understand grian's current headspace, or his experiences that dictate his feverish panic.

and there's no space to explain.

... you know what. have the rp bits. as a treat <3 (this starts at the impromptu end of conversation about scar's past relationships, just for context.)

i decided not to redact some bits, for your enrichment. and to feed into the chaos. you're welcome :3c

------ RP STARTS HERE ------

SCAR

Scar takes another moment just to run his fingers over Grian’s forehead, then back into his hair, carefully folding his bangs back. In a lot of ways, early days with Grian were like that. Sharing their passions, enjoying each other’s company, nothing but fleeting touches between them that Scar would be left thinking about for days. 

He thinks he may have always been a hopeless romantic.

But is it really hopeless if the man of his dreams is here before him now? Curled up in his lap and cooing so soft?

Scar hums, pleased, even if he obviously wishes the sickness weren’t part of it.

“Eventually she was invited to some exclusive server, real far off. She didn’t know when she’d be able to see me next, so… we decided to go ahead and split.” Scar says it all so casually, because it truly was a mutual decision. One of the few relationships that ended with no misunderstandings or disappointments.

Well, it was still a little sad, but they knew it was for the best.

She didn’t want to leave Scar waiting, and he wanted her to feel open to exploring her relationships to the fullest with her new server mates. 

“I knew dating was always sort of secondary to her. Not as important as her art. She could do without it easily, especially if she was going somewhere with a bunch of other artists.” Scar looks down, carrying that soft smile and directing it toward Grian. “And she wanted me to be able to move on, so I could eventually meet, as she called it, the One.” He grins, remembering that being her exact phrasing. “…and that’s you.” Scar flushes a bit at his own cheesiness. “I know it.”

--

GRIAN

grian sighs softly at the touch through his hair, relaxing even through his shivers. his teeth chatter a little, a small frown forming between his eyebrows, but it softens a little as scar continues talking.

he tries to slot the information somewhere in his head. that this was an amicable breakup, brought on by insurmountable distance, diverging life paths. that this is something scar can still remember fondly. that this person had every trust that scar will find someone right for him, and that scar is convinced that someone is grian.

but somehow, his thoughts snag and loop, a faulty wire somewhere. distance and far away servers. distance and—

all of a sudden, he's thinking about the apocalypse that took everything from them. everything but each other, eventually. 

he thinks of distance, and a faraway server.

and scar not being with him in that scary place, or grian not being there with scar.

he takes a sharp breath, head shifting and eyes opening. his gaze is feverish and intense as it finds scar. "i would've look'd for you ev'rywhere," he says, hushed but urgent, completely nonsensical.

--

SCAR

Scar tilts his head, confused. He can tell what Grian is saying is drenched in adoration, but it feels misplaced, like it doesn’t belong here in this particular conversation.

Scar isn’t so sure he’s going to get an explanation with Grian in this state.

“I’m right here,” Scar decides to say instead, voice soft like flower petals placed over his skin, hoping to ease whatever tension is lingering in Grian’s thoughts.

His thumb brushes just in front of Grian’s earwing, not quite touching, but grazing over those tiny feathers that permeate his skin. 

“Right here.”

--

GRIAN

grian's gaze softens, some intensity fizzing out, even if the feverishness stays. "right here," he parrots in a weary but fond whisper, audibly relief laced. his eyes close again and he tilts his head further, chasing the touch of scar's gentle fingers.

-- 

SCAR

Scar’s glad to see Grian close his eyes, knowing he likely needs the rest. To think he was building beds and nets when he was slowly succumbing to a fever just makes Scar sad.

“For good, too,” Scar adds on, humming. “If you’ll have me, of course.”

He sees his communicator buzz— it had been a few times during his story— and wonders if that means soup is here already. With a name like soup group, maybe they had it ready-to-cook. 

Slowly, he shifts one hand over to take it, just to make sure he was clear about not entering the house. He’s careful to maintain soft patterns with his other, not wishing to disturb his mate.

--

GRIAN

for good. that sounds wonderful. it feels like a nest built around him.

grian coos, velvety and quiet, nuzzling weakly against scar. he feels him shift, but the attention to such details is slippery to grian's mind, especially as scar's touch remains on him, tracing gentle patterns.

--

SCAR

Scar stills for a second upon reading his messages, only drawn back into focus by the soft coo that escapes his mate’s lips. He’s quick to continue his soothing, setting the communicator down atop a half-squished pillow with a plop. 

<PearlescentMoon whispers to you> Soup delivery!

<GeminiTay whispers to you> Anybody home?

<Skizzleman> anybody seen G?

<impulseSV> Skizz

<impulseSV> Don’t

<Mumbo> Did something happen??

<GeminiTay> He’s just sick!

<Tango> …sick huh?

<impulseSV> Here we go again… 

--

GRIAN

with no idea about the turmoil spreading across the server-wide chat, grian stays curled up, leaning on scar. the silence stretches, making the space feel heavier somehow, time oddly slippery.

grian doesn't like it.

he lets out another coo, this one less stable. there's a questioning edge, something insecure and sorrowful and afraid.

--

SCAR

Scar blinks rapidly, eyelashes fluttering a bit as he tries to recalibrate. He can't bother with that nonsense right now, Grian needs him. That's his only priority.

"You okay, G?" Scar asks, carefully curating his voice with his practiced honeyed tones. "Soup's at the doorstep. Should be fine to leave it there, though."

--

GRIAN

soup's here?

grian forgot all about the soup. why's it at the doorstep?

he can't think.

he lets out another coo, pitched similarly to the last.

--

SCAR

"...Are you hungry?" Scar tries to guess. "I told them to leave it there for now. I'm sure it'll stay hot."

-- 

GRIAN

grian's getting increasingly more confused. who brought the soup?

they're... underground, right?

there's this horrible moment when grian can't tell where they are. or when.

"... why d'n't they c'me in?" he murmurs, thinking feverishly about flock. about nico and kane, and their worried faces.

--

SCAR

"You...you said you didn't want anyone in the nest?" Scar replies, nervous now. 

Did he misinterpret that? Did he just cause turmoil in the chat for no reason?

--

GRIAN

grian looks at scar again, his gaze unfocused even as he searches scar's expression for answers that evade him. he's so confused. flock is allowed in the nest?

he chirps, unable to put the mess of his feverish, disoriented thoughts into words.

--

SCAR

"Shoot," Scar says, doubting his actions now. "I—I can message them again? I think the messages from Pearl and Gem were only a few minutes ago—"

--

GRIAN

grian stiffens, his eyes widening with more confusion.

peal and gem?

it takes him an odd, hollow moment to place those names, and then he's unthinkingly moving, rolling over, chirping in a higher pitch. the cocoon of blankets tangles around him, keeping him right where he is, unable to flare out and flap his wings.

--

SCAR

Scar is about a moment away from grabbing the communicator when Grian begins thrashing, and he quickly shifts to cradling him with his arms, trying to keep him in place. "Hey, heyyy, whoa... easy there, birdie, what's wrong?" Scar tries to imitate a small chirp, trying to say that it's okay if Grian can only make noises. He'll try to interpret to his best ability.

--

ANGE ( :D )

--

GRIAN

grian breathes heavily from that small amount of exertion, completely placated by scar's tight hold and the familiar rumble of his voice. dark spots blotch out his vision, and he lets himself go limp, cradled by scar's arms. safe. safe, safe, safe.

his head is so jumbled, and everything feels like a horrible dream. they're underground. there's meant to be flock here. there's meant to be—

with eyes flooding with confused tears, he whimpers. "scar?" his voice is hoarse, breaking midway through. "where's avi?"

--

LINK

--

SCAR

Scar's huddled over Grian, as if he wanted to shield him from the world. (He does.) He keeps his grip firm and shushes him softly, trying to reign him in as much as he can so he can get some sort of coherent answer, when—

Oh.

Oh no.

"Where's—" Scar chokes out, completely caught off guard by the question. He pulls away, catching sight of those tears, and suddenly his eyes are stinging as well. "I—Grian, we're..." He can't answer that. He can't, he can't. "Grian we're home."

--

GRIAN 

grian's gaze jumps between scar's eyes. incoherency threads through his veins, spilling across his nervous system. the word home makes no sense to him.

he chirps, a quiet, mournful, quivery sound. confused and afraid.

--

LINK

--

SCAR

Scar chews at his lip, trying very hard not to lose himself to the sudden flood of panic that surged through him at those words, not to mention the sheer misery of it all as well.

"We're not there, Grian," he continues to try. "We're home. We're—"

He hears knocking at their door upstairs. 

Scar's ears twitch, honestly unsure if Grian will hear it as well with how Scar is huddled over him and with the less acute hearing. 

Muffled voices pool in from beyond the stairs.

...not gonna answer. ... just wants to be sure ... if it makes him feel better...

"...on Hermitcraft," Scar finishes, the word almost bitter on his tongue. 

--

GRIAN

"i— but—" grian's oblivious to knocking or potential intruders. he sniffles, a tear falling free. he's shaking, the fever ravaging, the world gently spinning off axis around him. 

he thinks scar looks a bit panicked, and it just pushes him deeper into his disoriented confusion. because— aren't they hiding? from danger? aren't they in a hideout? in a bunker, or a cave? aren't they in a nest that's incredibly makeshift, put together in a rush?

... isn't there meant to be flock here?

he chirps again, louder, still that higher pitch. fear sears through the sound, his breath turning rapid as his heart beats wildly against his ribs, even as fever presses the heavy weight of exhaustion right over his chest. 

he's scared, because he can't remember. he can't remember what happened—

"where are they?" he insists, his voice verging a sob. "where is flock?"

--

SCAR

Scar thinks the voices stopped for a second after Grian chirps, and the reality of the giant hole in the ceiling sets in on Scar all at once. All they’d have to do is walk about the back and there’d be nothing keeping anyone from seeing the two of them. 

Scar’s wings flare out around Grian as an instinctive shield. 

Grian is asking about flock, and…

Well, the reality of that is that there is none here, Scar concludes dismally. 

Grian didn’t want the hermits in their nest when they were constructing the party room. Grian asked for Avi. Grian’s probably thinking about Kane and Nico, too.

The hermits haven’t gotten there. They don’t know avian-brained Grian.

“[REDACTED],” Scar answers, trying to give Grian a shred of reality to grasp onto. [REDACTED]

--

GRIAN

[REDACTED]? 

grian's mind spins, the same way the room spins around him. he feels as if the whole ground tilted with them on it. there's sea underneath the raft of the floor. 

he feels sick.

he wants to close his eyes, but he finds himself staring at scar, helpless. floatingly, he remembers words about distance and faraway servers, and he thinks of hermitcraft imploding, whole chunks being lifted up into the air.

his stomach twists and lurches. the spinny feeling makes him think even more vividly of those floating chunks. maybe they're on one now?

he ducks, as if the ground really moved from underneath them. he tries to paw at scar, but his hands are still trapped, and it just makes him thrash again against the blankets, whimpering.

he wants his flock. he doesn't understand where they are.

"call them back," he whimpers. "call— avi. can— avi can come too?" he pauses, his breath stuttering as he looks up at scar with so much pleading. 

he wants a bird flock. he wants to tuck him in the middle of the makeshift nest and make sure he's safe.

--

SCAR

Scar stares at Grian, heart actively tearing itself apart at his words and tears threatening to fall. 

He hears footsteps.

He can’t do this. If they find them he’s not going to be able to untangle all of this in time, he—

“They’ll be back,” he lies, chest aching. “Shhh, shhh, listen, they’ll be back, okay?”

The words taste like acid on his tongue, burning his throat like rotten bile. 

“You’re sick, Gri, let me take care of you,” Scar pleas, shutting out his surroundings so he can focus. Focus. Grian’s the only thing that matters. “Why don’t we go upstairs? If— if you puke on me, fine, I just— you should have a bath. And more blankets. And Mr. Beak.”

And medicine on his way up. And soup. 

And away from the approaching hermits. Away from danger.

--

GRIAN

"they'll... be back?" grian repeats, in the smallest voice, each syllable threatening to snap and let it all crumble. he sniffles, another tear tumbling down his cheek as the confusion continues to tear a path through him like wildfire.

scar says their flock will be back. 

he says grian is sick, and oh, maybe the world isn't ending, then? 

grian feels weird. everything's fuzzy and nonsensical, memories fading and time slipping and everything melting together.

there's a sob, and it takes grian a moment to realise it came from it. "it— it feels like—" his body shakes and trembles, barely a separate thing from the shivers. he's curling up again, making himself small. with a ragged breath and tears glistening in his eyes, he looks at scar, completely missing his point about upstairs and a bath and mr beak. what leaves his lips instead is a question that's white-hot, shaking him to his core. "scar...? is the world ending again?"

--

SCAR / MUMBO

“What—“ Scar is reeling from all of this. It doesn’t feel unlike being trapped in a cramped terracotta bunker listening to Grian murmur thoughts of death and despair. “No, Grian, the world isn’t ending.”

Scar thinks he knew how to handle this better once upon a time.

This world has ironically shaken his confidence. 

“We’re perfectly safe.” Scar continues. “We’re in our home— our house that we built.”

“Grian?” comes a voice from above, causing Scar to bristle.

His eyes flick upward and catch sight of a nervous pair of eyes peeking over the dirt hole.

Scar does not want to talk to Mumbo right now.

--

GRIAN

grian's eyes close and he blindly curls towards scar, deeper into his hold, lost and despondent. nothing makes sense, not even scar's reassurances. 

out of all the words scar says, grian wants to hold onto one the most: safe.

and yet incoherent threats continue sinking teeth into grian's flesh. sending panic signals about how he's weak if he's sick, and they're a target, and they can't run from danger. about how their flock is missing. about how they might be hurtled into different, faraway servers this time, and— and grian doesn't know how to survive without scar, and—

he sobs loudly, his breaths becoming erratic. he hears his name, but it's not scar's voice, and he flinches hard, whimpering, until some instinct catches up and tells him to run. to grab scar and abandon the nest.

he tries to flap his wings, but finds them bound.

he doesn't process that sensation right, pitching straight into memories of traps and nets, chirping high pitched and distressed. the blankets don't hold too hard, but he just can't figure them out, unaware of what they even are.

--

SCAR / OTHERS

“Grian!” Mumbo exclaims, calling the attention of his other unwelcome companions. 

Scar snarls, luckily muted and hidden from view by his bright wings. This is not what he needs right now. This is not what Grian needs. He needs peace and quiet and warmth and soft things—

Scar hurries to try to still Grian, shushing him as calmly as he can manage. “Hey, hey, Grian, it’s me, it’s okay, shhhh, please calm down.”

Grian said he felt nauseous. This has to be about the worst thing possible for him.

“Scar, what’s—“ Mumbo is babbling, sounding nearly as panicked as Grian. Scar doesn’t care about that though. 

He thinks maybe Mumbo has fallen onto his knees up there. He thinks he might be considering popping down into their space.

Scar is not having that.

Strangers are not allowed in the nest, get out, get out.

“Grian, look at me,” Scar tries, urgent and insistent. “We’re safe, we’re okay, I— I’m gonna take you upstairs.”

“Whoa there, skippy, I don’t think you should be taking him anywhere!” comes Tango of all people.

Scar eyes glow a faint blue, feeling cornered, while all of his body language shifts into that of defensive and protective, wrapped around Grian fully with his wings blocking the intruders from view. 

He desperately attempts to lift.

--

GRIAN

grian sobs, quieter, against scar's soft, frantic shushes. he wants to believe that everything's okay, but scar doesn't sound okay, and there are all these other voices, rising up and loud, coming closer.

scar pleads for grian to look at him, and dizzily, he does, his eyesight blurred by hot tears. he's breathing too fast, which is just inviting more lightheadedness; he shakes in scar's grip, whimpering as scar repeats the promises that they're okay.

desperately, grian tries to hold onto that.

he chirps, still distressed but now also pleading, a sound meant only for scar's ears but all too loud and grating to not be heard by anyone else in the vicinity. 

his wings still feel so horribly bound. 

he chokes on a sob. "scar, help." 

he needs to be freed and— and they need to run, right? they need to go? scar says they'll go upstairs. grian tries to get his hands free, wanting to hold onto him, but he's bundled up too tight in scar's arms to really manage with his feeble strength.

his stomach churns, acidic, turning and twisting with the uptick of stress and panic. he sobs again, terrified that they're about to be caught.

--

SCAR / OTHERS

Focus, Scar thinks frantically. Focus, focus. 

He can’t let the anger from the intrusion overcome him. He can’t get defensive here, even if he’s certain one unwelcome step into their makeshift nest will set him off. 

Grian is squirming in his arms, chirping as he relives some phantom experience, and Scar knows this can’t look good. He has to stay calm, he has to keep him under control.

But then Grian begs for his help and it’s like the mirage shatters around him, except this time it’s reality fragmenting before his very eyes, twisting and mutating into something horrible and so much more dire. 

Grian’s sobbing, but for a second Scar sees him despondent, face torn open and wings drenched in blood. He hears voices and it’s like white noise, a vague threat, unwelcome. 

Scar looks around frantically.

He doesn’t know which way Nadia is—

“Scar, buddy, hey, why dontcha just put Grian down and we can aaaaaall relax—“

Scar’s wings flare out to their full span, one dipping over Grian as a shield. No one can see him. No one can ogle those feathers. No one, no one.

“Sc–Scar, what’s going on?”

Scar sees movement. Someone jumps down and instantly he’s crouched low, holding Grian tighter as his eyes glow blue.

“Scar…”

He’s supposed to be calm, he’s supposed to be gentle, he’s failing, he’s failing, but he can’t let them near—

Scar’s entire body flickers blue and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Stay back,” he strains through sharpened teeth, voice low like a snarl. “You—“ 

(You aren’t welcome here.)

(You’re making things worse.)

(You’re lucky I don’t slay you right here and now.)

Scar’s voice breaks, desperate and frightened by his own shattering psyche. “You’re scaring him.” 

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

the sense of danger continues building up around grian, fueling his fear, overexerting his already sickness-weakened body. his heart continues ramming a fast, painful rhythm, and the ache across his chest just serves to make grian more scared.

scar's hold on him is firm, and grian doesn't know whether to feel comfort (he's protected, it's okay, scar's got him), or more panic (there's a threat, scar can't fight if he's gripping grian, why aren't they running?) choking on sobs that he's unable to stop, grian presses his forehead into scar's shoulder; the heat of his fever can surely be felt through scar's shirt, scalding hot. there's a familiar, faint tingling, something grian's learned to attune himself to and recognise—the electrifying current of scar's magic, a warning, a preparation. a wing slings in front of grian like a glowing shield.

mumbo's standing in the bunker, jolting still at scar's accusation and the display of his vex magic. "i'm scaring him?" he stammers, incredulous and not understanding. "mate, i think he's asking to be let go," he hazards, navigating the distressing pitch of chirps and sobs with anxious misguidedness. 

tango's now crouching at the edge of the hole, also intending to descend. "yeah, just let us see him. you've got nothing to hide, right? why make this worse?"

a third pair of footsteps makes it to the unfinished skylight, peering down at the situation with a tense "uhoh," trying to read what exactly is happening here. he isn't sure yet, but some alarm in his head goes off.

with straining breaths through his sobs, grian's dizziness only gets worse. even as he's securely held, he can't escape the violent sensation of the world spinning fast. his stomach tightens, burning with acid, stress overloading all of grian's already muddied senses. there are voices around him, louder, closer, but they don't process right; they're just an incoherent noise, a call of hunters saying we found them, making everything collapse in on him and scar. it feels like they're surrounded and, fearfully, grian presses himself further against scar, burrowing in as much as he can with all his limbs still tangled into the blanket net. 

he should've been more careful.

he shouldn't have triggered the trap.

his eyes are tightly shut, overflowing with tears. behind his closed eyelids, he can see, vividly, avi's terrified look as he's caught in another trap.

a vile kind of panic spreads through him, sharper and more damaging than the previous one, drawing a terrified chirp out of him. the sound breaks on a sob like waves violently crashing into a jagged cliffside, and he desperately tries to take a breath through it all. to speak. 

it's awful; he's so horribly lightheaded and nothing makes sense. but he has to— he has to say this, has to make sure scar hears, has to beg for this one thing above all else. he chokes out, wobbly and halting and small enough to be coherent only for scar, and only if he can spare enough attention to listen. "ple— please don't— don't le— leave him behind—" 

--

SCAR / OTHERS

Scar tenses, briefly glancing down at Grian as he wonders whether or not he truly has been misinterpreting it all, if Grian wants to be let go like Mumbo claims. But no, Scar can feel that feverish haze pressed into his shoulder, desperate and clingy, and his expression sharpens, eyes narrowing in Mumbo’s direction. 

No, Mumbo knows nothing. 

Still, Scar shrinks under Tango’s accusations, reminding him that he ought to have nothing to hide. He doesn’t, just— he can’t let them see. He can’t let anyone see the tears and the panic and the bright violet hues. 

Scar knows he’s being irrational but his wings simply won’t budge, one flung out in some innate danger response and the other curled around like a very necessary shield. They twitch but don’t move.

All Scar can manage is to turn them slightly transparent. A barely willing compromise.

Even his vision is flickering blue.

…Grian’s words make him see white.

He’s vividly tossed back in time, hobbled over and bloodied, barely hanging on, watching as [REDACTED]

Grian’s begging him not to let history repeat itself, he knows, he—

Scar takes a stumbling step backward, blankets curling around his feet and threatening to drag him down. 

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not go going anywhere, pal,” Tango insists as he leaps down to join Mumbo, carefully touching his shoulder in solidarity. He’s jittery here, not liking he prospect of staring down an angry vex in the slightest, a totem gripped in his other hand. “We’re just here to help.”

Tears break past Scar’s eyes and he hiccups, struggling to stay above water, barely grappling with reality as it continues to shatter before him. 

He can’t do this alone. He’s scared, he’s slipping, he’s making it all worse. 

He… he should have nothing to hide.

“He’s sick,” Scar pleads again, voice hoarse and not at all his own. Blue wisps escape with every word. “He–e has a fever, he’s not— he’s not thinking straight.”

God, are they going to believe that?

Do they believe anything he says? That a crazed vex says?

Scar looks at Grian again, desperation hanging off his tongue. “Grian, you— I—“ He doesn’t even want to suggest it, but they probably need to hear from him. “We…we’re safe, okay? I promise, I… d-do you want me to put you down?”

--

US

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

scar's suggestion is the only thing grian hears with any semblance of coherency, and it makes his lungs spasm and his heart ache. he shakes his head in panic, forehead still pressed against scar, the sharp motion rapidly destabilising the world around him until it spins in a nauseating blur. "no no no don't leave, please, don't don't don't," he chokes out, crying.

the sharpness of that reaction freezes mumbo, sends everything in him careening into doubt.

it's this moment impulse takes his cue to join in. he jumps down, touching tango's arm just as tango is taking a breath to speak, feet moving to step forwards. impulse stops him, gently, even as tension drips from his voice. "tango, wait."

grian's sobs fill the air; the transparency of scar's wings doesn't offer much more clarity. all impulse can tell is that the avian is shaking.

but his eyes draw higher, meeting scar's. his gaze softens at the sight of tears, and he lifts his hands up placatingly, the gesture feeling like lowering of a weapon. "scar." his voice is quiet, just loud enough to be heard. he tries to keep it calm, even as his nerves are fraying with the situation. "you aren't going to run off with him anywhere, right? it's okay. we won't hurt you guys."

mumbo's eyes widen at that, gaze whipping from impulse to scar—for the first time noting the tears in the vex's eyes. "oh, gosh, no, we aren't here to hurt anyone!" he echoes, distraught. 

--

SCAR / OTHERS

Scar tightens his grip, pulling Grian up higher and whispering soft nothings, assuring him that he’ll stay, that he hears him, he wouldn’t leave him, not ever. 

Scar tenses up when yet another person enters their space, but visibly relaxes when he recognizes Impulse’s voice, something steady and yielding to the way that he speaks. It’s the only voice that doesn’t distort into that of a hunter’s call in Scar’s rattled mind.

Slowly, Scar pulls his leg back in, shaking as he gives up on the half-step he was taking away. “I… I know that,” he fibs, because part of him doesn’t believe them. “But Grian doesn’t. N–not right now.”

Tango appears unconvinced, making a short grumbling sound that Impulse cuts off with a light shove. 

Impulse recognizes this scene. Maybe it’s just the flicker of Scar’s wings, but Grian appears to have that same glossed over look in his eye that he had the day they found them— unrecognizing, inconsolable. 

It isn’t good.

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

grian's sobs quiet down a little at the soft assurances, but the world keeps swirling and swimming. 

mumbo lets out a choked noise, not willing to reconcile with the idea that grian might not recognise them as safe—despite all the hints of their early days on the server post-rescue. he thinks of grian, bruised and bitten and flinching, and he can't let this go. he can't. "please," he begs. "i just want to see him."

impulse looks at mumbo, then back at scar. he's holding out his arm, in case the others would have the stupid thought of moving forwards.

he needs to bargain here, and it's hard.

he tries to hold onto the way scar let pearl at least somewhat close, that day when they pulled scar and grian from that awful world, grian's wing tangled in a horrible trap that tore at it. pearl wasn't allowed to touch, but she was allowed to help, and maybe they could arrive at something similar here, too.

"scar...?" impulse says, gentle and calm again. (it's only the smallest of wobbles that betrays him.) "do you think you could sit down? you don't have to let go of him, just, let us see? we don't have to come close." and then, after a breath, he tentatively pushes with another suggestion: "i think if you're calm about it, it might help him calm down too. you don't have to get away from him."

"yes he does!" tango protests.

impulse whips to face him. "tango!" he snaps back. 

grian flinches in scar's arms at the raised tones, letting out another loud, terrified chirp, curling into scar for protection. he's back to sobbing louder, all of scar's comfort undone in one swift go.

--

SCAR

Scar’s wings sag the slightest bit, drawn in by the soft promises Impulse is laying out, but still hesitant to follow. 

Sitting down would mean giving up an easy escape route. They could be lying. He could be cornered. This could all be a ploy to get him to lower his guard.

Tango’s outburst does not help settle that fear.

Scar grits his teeth together, a few stray tears falling as he struggles to form words. “Stop yelling,” he demands, light blue magic slipping past sharpened teeth. 

He’s back to soothing Grian, not yet yielding and not at all regarding Mumbo’s request. 

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you, okay? I’m—“ He looks over the three pairs of eyes— fearful, disdainful, concerned— and focuses in on Impulse. “They’re… friends.” (Not flock.) “I’m just gonna… kneel down here, okay?” (A small compromise.)

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

grian continues crying, albeit a little bit quieter again. just a notch. it's hard to tell if scar's soothing is working, or if he's just tiring himself out.

tango, to his credit, seems a bit alarmed by the reaction he's gotten. but he is still relentlessly wary, suspicious of this whole situation.

impulse can tell, and it keeps him tense. he wishes he could just tell tango and mumbo to leave, but he knows they wouldn't budge. not now. not when things are like this.

he holds back a sigh, looking grian's way. "yeah, we're friends," he echoes, soft, trying to sound harmless and encouraging.

he isn't even sure grian's listening to him. he isn't sure he can recognise his voice. it feels awful.

he doesn't think tango and mumbo realise the extent of what's happening. that if grian's mind is scrambled with the sickness, he might not be mentally present here. on hermitcraft. he might be stuck somewhere else entirely, and the thought of it pains impulse. 

the least they can do is play along.

the least he can do is try to deescalate this whole thing.

"c'mon," he tugs at tango and mumbo, voice low. "let's sit down."

"wh— i don't want—" tango starts in protest, but impulse holds his gaze, steady. 

"shh," he reminds him, shutting tango up.

"oh gosh," mumbo lets out, wobbly, and slowly lowers himself down to the floor.

impulse does the same, dragging tango down with him.

"see?" impulse looks back at scar, trying to offer a small smile. "we're not gonna go closer if you guys aren't ready. we're at the same level here. it's okay." he's willing to be patient here, but he worries that tango and mumbo might not be. 

--

SCAR

Scar stares for a long moment, fidgeting between trust and opportunity, wondering if he could run. If he could take them down if they’re going to make themselves vulnerable like this.

His ears twitch with alarm at the mere thought, catching himself before he can spiral further into delusion.

Carefully, he lowers himself to the ground, knelt down on both knees so he could easily spring back into action. 

“We aren’t ready,” Scar confirms, warily eyeing the lot of them. 

His eyes are still bright blue, though slightly less fiery. His chest flickers occasionally, a warm white light. His wing lowers by only an inch. 

He allows himself one moment of weakness, eyes flicking back down toward the shivering avian in his arms. “… I promise a warm bath after this, okay?” he whispers, though his voice carries, still too ragged from pressed together fangs. “W–we’re gonna be fine.”

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

impulse nods. he knows they aren't ready, but he hopes hearing that helps the others settle too. "we'll wait. take it slow. make sure he's okay," he coaxes, tone soft. hoping, desperately, that tango and mumbo won't mess this up. that they understand and will follow his lead. "we're not getting any closer. you have space." he pauses, and then he adds, a bit of heartache slipping into his voice: "you're safe, i promise."

grian recognises that they went down, slow and controlled. scar's hold is still tight and secure, and he's talking to him softly, and grian scrambles to understand what's happening. they're... not in danger anymore? scar says they're going to be fine. 

with a tired coo, grian nuzzles into his shoulder. he trusts him, even as he still sniffles, tears dripping down. 

his body feels awful, and his wings twitch, only to find themselves still tangled. it's that sensation that prompts another miserable sob from him, albeit less panic-driven. "take it off," he pleads, begging scar to untangle the trap that restricts him. "take it— scar, hurts," he whines.

the blanket doesn't actually hurt. his body aches from the fever and extertion, but his head tells him that pressure against his wings ought to be painful, and so that's what it is. the fear mistranslates into pain—or maybe just inevitability of the pain if this goes on, he isn't actually sure—the memories more vivid than reality itself.

--

SCAR

Scar nods slowly, wings lowering just a little bit more. He can see the tension actively begin to roll off of Mumbo, but for some reason that doesn’t comfort Scar in the slightest. 

He tries to offer gratitude toward Impulse in some way, but then his attention is dragged back to Grian, ears flicking as he grows rigid and attentive once more.

“Take…?” Scar questions, looking Grian over in confusion before it finally clicks. “The— oh.”

He shifts a little, resting Grian’s weight firmly on his legs, and slowly peels away a few layers of blankets, trying to simply loosen them up and allow for his wings to slip free. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Scar assures him, voice already growing much softer, no more wisps escaping when he speaks. “There you go… ‘m sorry.”

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

it's the word hurts on grian's tongue that has mumbo jolting, and impulse has to react fast, grabbing him and keeping him still. "stay calm," he hisses under his breath, quiet enough to be intended only for their trio.

"do you really expect us just to sit here," tango hisses back, "when grian just said he's being hurt?"

impulse exhales, long and tense. "that's not what he said. and he asked scar to fix it. he said," he stresses, somehow still managing to keep his voice hushed and low, "he wants scar to stay near him. so sit. still. and wait."

grian, in the meanwhile, squirms as the blanket layers gets peeled off, feeling the pressure relent. he breathes out, a bit more steadily, forehead still firmly against scar. some of his crying tapers off once he can twitch his wings and feel no resistance—and the loosened blankets let his hands free, too. he uses this immediately to grab onto scar's shirt, depletedly holding on. 

"thanks." he sniffles. and then he asks, feeling small and vulnerable, his heart still frightened: "are we safe...?"

--

SCAR

“Yes,” Scar replies, even if he doesn’t feel safe in the slightest. He feels under attack, though perhaps at least not physically. “…we’re having a sitting party.”

It’s a bit of a nonsensical thing to say, but Scar is trying desperately to reel himself in here. His eyes are only barely green, a blue sheen still hiding them away. He feels tense and uneasy, watching Tango in particular now with narrowed vision.

It flicks to Mumbo, accusatory in his stare. “I said we didn’t want visitors,” Scar states, guarded. “So why are you here?”

--

GRIAN

it is a bit nonsensical, the words sitting party taking a while to slot in grian's mind. but if they're having a party, that means there is someone else, right? the memories of the confusing, threatening voices feels fuzzy to grian. the danger has passed, the hunters are gone. they wouldn't be sitting down, wings released, having a party of all things otherwise—and scar confirmed they're safe.

which means...

maybe scar called them over, like grian asked?

he relaxes a little bit more, even as he still continues to wade his confusion. "flock...?" he asks in a tiny coo. 

he's leaning his head on scar's shoulder, staring blankly off in the direction of scar's other shoulder, not focused on anything in particular. his vision still swims. 

--

SCAR

“… Friends,” Scar corrects, because they’re not. “… They’re just—“ Scar swallows down some bitterness, trying to stay calm. “—worried about you.”

And then he looks back to Mumbo, eyes glowing a bit brighter again as he waits for his answer.

(They’re worried about Grian. Not him. Unless being worried of him counts.)

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

"mhn?" grian makes a confused sound at the word friends. it doesn't want to slot anywhere in his head. who?

mumbo, in the meanwhile, shrinks under scar's sharp attention. "we were worried," he offers, nothing more than a repeat of what scar's just said himself. 

tango steps in, pointing out: "you said he was sick. we wanted to check in on him."

--

SCAR

Scar’s ears droop at Grian’s clear inability to recognize the concept. But frankly, he doesn’t blame him.

With a sigh, Scar scans the three of them again, looking them over for any sign of trouble, but he notes a distinct lack of anything, which makes him frown.

“So, what? Did you bring medicine?” he asks rhetorically, because he knows the answer. “Soup? Blankets? Bath salts?”

His eyes narrow with each question.

--

OTHERS

there's a very clear faltering across the whole group. they exchange glances, slightly nervous. 

"i— we—" mumbo stammers, face flushing. he's suddenly feeling very uneasy. chastised. he stares at the bundle scar's holding, what he at first was so sure was a distressed avian probably really just a feverish one, and it makes him deflate. he didn't think past the anxiety enough to consider that scar might be telling the truth. (he's still not sure. he still needs to see grian, properly. he still wants to check.) (but the scales of probability are tipping in a way that makes him feel off balance and out of place.)

impulse sighs. he didn't have time to stop them long enough to ask them to be sensible and bring something for grian if he truly is sick. he is here as a chaperone and—oh boy is he glad he came. he can't imagine how this would've panned out otherwise.

"you weren't replying on the comms," tango soldiers through, still frowning, still a touch confrontational. he doesn't like the way scar's looking at him. doesn't like all his sharp edges. doesn't like the feeling that scar's still hiding something. "we didn't know what you need." he pulls slightly back, straightening up. "do you need anything?" he challenges. there already was a soup delivery by the front door, and it certainly doesn't seem like they're low on blankets.

--

SCAR

“I was a little preoccupied,” Scar replies dryly, frustrated that he’s still being questioned. “I’d think it’s customary to bring at least some sort of gift,” Scar continues to pry, not letting it go. Not letting it slide that they clearly came here out of fear instead of assistance. “But sure, sure, we certainly wouldn’t say no to some minty bath salts or some tea leaves.”

Scar briefly wonders if that’s all it would take to make this unwelcome trio leave. He doubts it.

“Or, you know, some peace and quiet so he can get some rest,” Scar concludes, tight jawed and eyebrows furrowed. At least his eyes are back to green.

--

OTHERS

mumbo recognises that they're being thrown out, but it just makes him dig his heels in. "we can bring some tea, but— but scar—"

it's tango who breaks this line drawn in the sand again, encroaching on a minefield territory. "we still haven't seen grian." because this sliver they can see right now doesn't count. it doesn't say anything about whether or not grian's hurt, underneath it all. even if grian begs for scar to be close. honestly, tango doesn't consider grian the best judge of that right now. unhealthy attachments exist!

--

SCAR

Scar exhales through his nose, slow and barely steady. 

Reluctantly, he lowers his wing, allowing an unobstructed gaze, though he makes no effort to close the distance between them. He doesn’t want that line broken.

“…happy?”

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

grian registers scar's wing falling away, and it makes him feel oddly exposed. grian isn't sure to whom; scar said their flock isn't here, but that they're safe. still, he ducks, hiding his face in scar's chest. that way, he can pretend he's still shielded. that way, he can pretend the world can't hurt him. (the way he can feel scar's breaths is just a nice, soothing bonus. scar's right here, alive, right next to him. perfectly in reach, as grian's fingers tug at him.) (he closes his eyes, willing the surroundings to stop tipping around them. his feathers fluff up lightly.) 

mumbo makes another strangled noise, and he moves as if to stand up, compelled to go closer. to check. to— 

to be there. 

grian's his friend, and there wasn't a time when mumbo wasn't allowed to be near. to take care of him when he feels unwell.

with blankets and grian's wings still firmly in the way, and grian's whole body turned away from them, mumbo still can't see anything. so no, he isn't happy.

"... grian?" he tries, calling out to him, coaxing him to look his way as he gets up to his wobbly feet.

--

SCAR

Scar bristles again, wings twitching as he instinctively growls, low and mercifully non-threatening, but it certainly doesn’t sound that way to an untrained ear. 

These are untrained ears. 

Scar registers the flinch in varying degrees from all three of them, and his ears twitch, then droop again in shame.

He can’t do this. He can’t let someone else close. It doesn’t matter how fidgety and awkward Mumbo is, Scar doesn’t trust him to come close.

Mumbo who says foolish things; Mumbo who looks at him like a stranger; Mumbo who cares so much that Scar can’t help but feel strangled by it as it weaves around him, passing him by and threatening to smother Grian in his disturbed state. 

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

grian makes an inquisitive mewl, a soft and small sound, unworried at scar's growl. he knows it's not threatening, so he just gently prods, inquiring as to what's wrong. what's bothering scar?

pointedly, he doesn't react to mumbo's call at all. as if he didn't even register it.

tango's rising to his feet now, too, but impulse puts a hand on his shoulder.

it doesn't deter tango, and they both stand up. still far away, but in a way the three of them are now towering over kneeling scar, looking down with varying emotions. 

"we'll get you some tea," impulse says, quiet, measured. he's looking directly at scar. he's trying to tell him that he sees him. that he doesn't blame him, no matter how stifling and explosive this situation is turning out to be.

"impulse!" tango squeaks, indignant, protesting. "he's hiding something!"

impulse's gaze cuts sharply to tango. "keep your voice down!" he hisses, frowning, then sighs. he understands they're anxious, but lines do need to be drawn.

for grian's sake as well as for scar's. 

impulse looks back at scar, tries to soften all the jaggedness from his pooling tension. "do you think you can get him to sleep? rest a little?" he suggests. "we will come back with the tea. if grian's asleep— we can look at him then? so he won't be scared of us?" he bites at his lip, and then adds: "just look. and we can help if you'll need anything else from us, yeah?" it's a gentle proposal, an attempt to find a tightrope that won't send them all careening towards some awful abyss.

--

SCAR

Scar feels so horribly small knelt down like this in front of people that are seemingly hellbent on misinterpreting his every move. His wings fall to the ground at the insinuation of him hiding something once again.

He’s not. He’s hiding Grian maybe, but he was scared— he asked for help and this is how Scar would help…

Scar trembles under the spotlight of their gazes, even if Impulse’s is softer. He feels like he can’t move— like he isn’t allowed.

“I… I want him to rest,” Scar agrees weakly, nodding once in exhausted misery. “You… yeah. You can check on him then.”

He still hates it. Hates the idea of someone in their nest. Hates that he’s still being more or less monitored, hates that he can’t be trusted with what he knows best.

Scar looks down to Grian, eyes big, barely holding back the fear that seeps into that forest green. “Can I take you upstairs? …nest?”

--

GRIAN / OTHERS

impulse softens further at scar's agreement, hearing the fatigue and defeat in his voice. it makes his heart ache, even more when he thinks about everyone else overlooking that. "alright... thank you, scar," he says gently.

then his eyes flick to find the exit, realising they're going to have to walk past. 

"can we... leave? or do you want us to wait until you go first?" impulse checks nervously, gaze jumping between scar and the avian he's cradling. he has a feeling scar doesn't want them here any longer than necessary, but impulse isn't sure if getting closer only for the sake of walking out is what he needs.

"or we can dirt pillar up," mumbo suggests with a nervous little laugh, attempting nonchalance and jokes, even as everything in him still rails against this. he's drawn forward, towards grian, like a moth to a flame. he wants to check him over, touch his skin, care for him. he doesn't realise he's completely disregarding scar in this scenario. doesn't realise he sees him as nothing but a mad guard dog, standing in his way for no reason. 

"you're giving up?" tango huffs, tail swishing. 

"i— what?" mumbo laughs again, more nervously this time. "we'll be back."

"what, so he can cover up his tracks?" tango pushes, frowning. all too aware that a potion or two are enough to hide most injuries. and an asleep grian can't answer any check-up questions.

it's impulse who growls now. "tango. scar isn't our enemy. he's our friend. maybe you should start treating him as such."

"i— wh— but—" tango stammers, completely taken off guard, ears pulling low.

grian, in the meanwhile, reacts to scar's careful, gentle question. his unfocused gaze lifts up, seeking to anchor in familiar green, feeling fragmented and vulnerable and still sick. "nest," he echoes, impossibly sad and hopeful, yearning. he sniffles, not paying their surroundings any attention; the memories still swirl through him, and nothing quite feels real.

nothing but scar.

he tips forward, wraps his arms around scar's shoulders in a weak hug, clinging to him in a position that makes it easy to carry him. 

"... can the bucket come with us?" he half-jokes hoarsely.

--

SCAR

Turns out it doesn’t feel good being spoken about like he isn’t right there, and Scar finds himself slumping forward in defeat, misery seeping deep into his bones.

His chest flickers once more, eyes clouded with a blue fog that only fades when Grian wraps his arms around. Grian, who does trust him and is deserving of his love and attention.

Wretchedly, Scar swallows down his anxieties, does his best to ignore the unwelcome surroundings. He doesn’t even provide them an answer, instead leaning down to kiss Grian’s (still dreadfully warm) forehead.

“Anything you need, G,” he croaks, rising on incredibly wobbly feet and hooking the handle of the bucket with his pinky. 

Wordlessly, he turns his back to his intruders and begins walking upstairs, unable to bear their presence any longer. His wings flick and tremble, uncomfortable being exposed to what he still inevitably seems as enemies. 

(It’s only fair considering how he’s actively antagonized.)

“So sorry about all this moving around…” Scar continues murmuring, feeling entirely off balance, but managing to stay steady only because Grian is in his arms. “We’ll get nice and comfy, alright? And our guests can bring the soup in.”

That’s the only acknowledgment they get.

--

GRIAN

grian lets out a soft noise at the kiss, a mix of comforted and still absolutely miserable. he isn't sure if he feels hot or cold, and his body aches. the nausea is ever-present, making any move a wretched matter, especially when coupled with his still spinning head.

he tries to hold onto scar a bit firmer, but his strength isn't there. he groans, whimpering. "slow," he pleads, not knowing how else to mitigate this.

he really doesn't want to puke if he can help it. although maybe having it over would feel better than this.

--

SCAR

“Slow,” Scar parrots, purposely stilling himself for a moment before continuing at a steadier pace. He didn’t realize he was rushing, honestly, but it makes sense.

He wants those eyes off of his back.

He thinks he hears the sound of pillaring blocks, and that’s likely for the best. 

“Nice and slow,” he confirms again, trying to keep Grian level once they’re past the steps. 

--

aaaand i’ll wrap it up with that. :3

[azapofinspiration]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya & Ozaki Kouyou (Bungou Stray Dogs), Izumi Kyouka & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Akutagawa Ryuunosuke & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya & Nakajima Atsushi (Bungou Stray Dogs), Hirotsu Ryuurou & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Armed Detective Agency Ensemble & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya & Port Mafia Ensemble (Bungou Stray Dogs) Characters: Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Izumi Kyouka (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakajima Atsushi (Bungou Stray Dogs), Akutagawa Ryuunosuke (Bungou Stray Dogs), Hirotsu Ryuurou (Bungou Stray Dogs), Ozaki Kouyou (Bungou Stray Dogs), Yosano Akiko (Bungou Stray Dogs), Edogawa Ranpo (Bungou Stray Dogs), Akutagawa Gin, Armed Detective Agency Ensemble (Bungou Stray Dogs), Port Mafia Ensemble (Bungou Stray Dogs), Sakaguchi Ango (Bungou Stray Dogs) Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Flashbacks, Like Half of It Is Flashbacks, Temporary Character Death, Soukoku | Double Black (Bungou Stray Dogs), Ambiguous Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya Relationship (Bungou Stray Dogs), platonic or romantic, Or even Queerplatonic, They Love Each Other But Who Knows What Sort It Is, the book, Swearing, Drinking, Nakahara Chuuya Has Chronic Pain (Bungou Stray Dogs), Chronic Pain, Mentions of chronic pain, Nakahara Chuuya Uses Corruption (Bungou Stray Dogs), Corruption, Smoking, Tripartite Alliance, plot hole - Freeform, Depression, Grieving, graves, Funerals, Don't copy to another site Summary:

Every story must come to an end. And when the Armed Detective Agency, Port Mafia, and their allies come together to finally retrieve the Book, they have a plan to do just yet.

But Chuuya has a plan of his own when it comes to taking care of things.

And everyone will have to live with its aftermath.

(Life, Death, Love, and Humanity as it relates to Nakahara Chuuya and the bonds he shares with those around him.)

[st4rsinthenight]

★Y'know what I've been thinking about lately ?? Tinies witnessing crime scenes.★

TW: MURDER, KIDNAPPING, VERY BRIEF MENTION OF SOMEONE BEING CHAINED, MENTION OF WOUNDS, MENTION OF STARVATION, THIEVING, MENTIONS OF HOLDING SOMEONE AT GUNPOINT

|☆| A tiny being a witness to a murder, silently peering in horror as they find themselves heaving at the sight of the innocent victim on the ground, all bloodied and wounded thanks to the killer's vile attacks. Though they know for a fact that they can't do much to prevent the innocent citizen from dying, so that leaves them with the option of running to prevent themselves from being yet another addition to the killer's hit list. That is, unless the killer did notice them- and is now on the hunt for the tiny little creature that knows that they committed a murder.

|★| A tiny hearing the screams of a human who is pleading for help to get out of a kidnapper's grasp- or maybe they happen to live in said kidnapper's residence, being exposed to the horrific sight of the poor, and perhaps tortured victim who is kept away from the outside world by a human with ill intentions. Though, the tiny could try and help out on their situation, for instance trying to sneak in couple small bags of snacks to give to the hostage in order to fuel at least some of their energy if they are being starved- or swoop around the house to try and find a key to unchain- or unlock the victim. However, if they just so happen to be outside, the feeling of being helpless and at loss would be quite overwhelming for both the tiny, and the victim.

|☆| A little borrower staying hidden as they watch a thief break into the human's house that they live in- maybe they saw them while they were out hoarding for their survival and they just saw.. a bigger, more intimidating hoarder pick locking the front door. Who is also thieving either for survival, or pleasure. Now, this could be a little silly scenario— if the thief is not willing to harm anyone and is just there to take stuff, and the borrower would see it as a bit of a competition between them two, or maybe even view them as an aspiration, enging them on to continue their 'borrowing missions'. However, where it would be quite disturbing— is if they overhear said thief yell absurdities and threats at the human if they are awake, demanding to hand over all their belongings while having them at gun point. Now, if the borrower does not care about the human, they could just remained secured inside the wall until the hoarder left, though if they developed a little relationship with them, they could try and sabotage said thief with the help of little distractions and such, maybe knocking over something off of a shelf to catch the criminal's attention as their human friend takes the opportunity to call the police.

I might add more to this but. guys. guys. I am quite normal here. I do swear that I am quite normal about these type of tropes, honest guys.★

[deepfriedtrout]

snippets of a life post-storm and rayashki is back from being reversed and windsong gets a fuck-ton of letters from them wherever she is in the world

[thr4shit]

Hear me out, (sort of AU-ish but not really, just my mind filling in blank spots with headcannons.)

the period between A Summoning and Wake Up where Evan just slowly sinks further and further into a depressive state because he basically has nothing.

He finds himself doing things for STEPH rather than himself.

Things she loved.

Things to keep her memory alive.

He drowns himself in her interests as if it was their first two dates all over again.

Even though he'd rather be dead, he doesn't know what else to do.

He falls in love with her over and over again, more and more and more.

Maybe he's even constantly looking at the ring he got for her... Imagining what could've been.

(I personally think Evan was going to propose soon, if he hadn't already. That's why I say ring.)

Because it's all he has left at this point.

All he can do is try to drown out the memories, but it won't work.

To suffocate himself in the GOOD, to ignore the BAD.

None of it works.

Eventually he just gives up.

He doesn't care anymore.

Well... he does, but he doesn't have the energy to deal with any of it anymore.

So instead he just internally rots away, stuck inside his own guilt.

After all, what's the point of caring about ANYTHING if HE'LL just ruin it?

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia

I've just started reading Captive Prince. I've heard great things about the series but I'm admittedly a little nervous lol.

Just curious. .. is there a reason you never wrote any fanfic for Captive Prince? Was it something you wanted to do?

Anyway I'm on the third chapter and things are getting angsty 😬

Hi anon,

I never wrote fanfiction for Captive Prince because tbh for the most part I never felt like I could contribute to something that kind of felt so well-written and complete on its own?

If I were to write any fanfic for it now, it'd just be a minor hurt/comfort storyline and a bit of a 'fix-it' for one thing I felt was slightly incomplete at the end of the third book. But I don't need that, and so yeah.

I've never really read much Captive Prince fanart either. The books are enough for me. :D

I don't always fic for things I love the most! In fact sometimes it's easier to write fic for things that are pretty mid dskljfas

[karihighman]

CHENFORD VALENTINES DAY INCOMING FEB. 21 AND SAME FOR THE ROOKIE FEDS💕

Full chenford article blurb below ⬇️ (click link)

[waluigis-837th-testicle]

Sentence Prompts: Lovers -> Enemies

"What a shame. You used to have a spine."

"Hit me like you mean it!"

"Stop holding back!"

"You can't be serious."

"I thought you were better than this."

"So. This is how it ends, huh?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"I love you." "Not enough to stay."

"Do you even care?!"

"I could do worse than that, you know. I could destroy you."

"You lied to me!"

"Fight back!! Fight back, you coward!!!"

"You're still pretty, you know. Even with the scars."

"You've changed." "I've grown."

"You never could handle the truth."

"Still as childish as ever, I see."

"Don't make me strike the first blow."

"That's your problem. You think you can save everyone." "Yeah? And you only saved yourself."

"I don't need to be saved, little bird."

"You brought this upon yourself."

"Don't try to get up. I already broke two of your ribs."

"After everything you've done and you offer me friendship? Fuck you."

"Kill any survivors but bring that one to me. Alive."

"I wish we'd never met."

"Can't you bear to look at me?"

"You were right, (character name). People don’t really change."

"As a final act of kindness, I'll let you escape. Don't come back for me."

"Silence won't get you out of here."

"I don't want to hurt you!" "I do."

"What makes you think I won't kill you?"

"Don't be stupid. You were a means to an end."

"They were right about you."

"The more you move, the tighter it becomes. Stop fighting."

"I'm NOT you!"

"I never ASKED for any of this!"

"Please, come home." "I can't go back. It's too late."

"I could kill you." "So do it."

"You KILLED THEM?!?" "I did what was needed."

"If you walk away now, I won't have to kill you."

"Please. Please, don't make me do this."

"You should have thought about that before you chose the wrong side."

"No. This is MY kill."

[samlacy]

Don’t leave me here (shivering in the disappearance of your warmth)

these characters do not exist and are completely made up!!

following fiction contains: Angst, Male x male relationships, cheating, mentions of alcohol, pool party goes wrong, falling inlove all over again, one sexual scene but it’s short so dw, mention of sexual assault, toxic relationship, self-blaming ish

Enjoy❤️❤️

+x+

Dyson was laying down on the couch in the living room. His cheeks had dry tears on them, following with lips being dry, eyes half open and whole body still shaking since an hour ago.

You may ask, how did Dyson end up like this?

Well,

Let’s take a look, shouldn’t we?

“Oh cmon, dude. Just join us at the pool party! Look, your boyfriend will also be there”, Ken tried convincing the boy who was pissing on the other side of the door.

Ken was trying to talk with Dyson for five minutes now. The boy just wouldn’t give him an answer. That didn’t last long as Dyson let out a loud enough sigh to make Ken be glad he didn’t die there or something.

“Fine”, Dyson almost yelled out as he flushed the toilet behind “I will fucking join your silly pool party this night.”

That was enough for Ken as he triumph with joy and left the bathroom door alone, finally.

Dyson smiled slightly at the silliness of his friend, while pressing soap and washing his hands. He rubbed the wet hands on the towel that was hanging as he unlocked the door to walk out.

To his surprise, He saw a pair of feet in front of the door. He looked up and saw his boyfriend, Wart. The taller boy yelped as he went to a hug. His boyfriend hugged him right back as his hands slides down to Dyson’s ass, for support.

Dyson lets go as he has a wide smile on his face, and proceeds to kiss Wart. Only to get pushed back slightly, getting rejected to kiss his boyfriend.

Wart left Dyson confused, as he pat his shoulder before leaving to go to the kitchen where Suri and Ken were.

Dyson didn’t think much of it, since Wart was not a physical touch lover. It was only a try to kiss anyway, he could get that anytime soon.

As soon as he entered the kitchen he saw the three boys packing out the stuff Suri bought for the Party.

Alcohol bottles, sided with beer brands from germany and a few snacks like Chips and crackers.

Suri was a really nice guy.

No one even suggested him to buy stuff, he did it all by himself with his own money. Surely someone’s type.

Dyson smiled slightly as he walked up to them at the counter, checking out the stuff they bought. Sneakily throwing a chip in his mouth.

Or not so sneaky.

“Stop eating! These are for the party, you can’t finish it already”, Wart scolded Dyson, kinda in a joking way, but not quite.

Dyson just nodded slightly as he put his hands on the counter, fidgeting with his fingers.

“Let him, Wart. I bought a lot anyway, it won’t finish anytime soon”, Suri assured the stubborn boy, making Dyson shoot his head up to look at him with slight widened eyes.

Dyson grinned before looking back down at his hands. Now fidgeting again, not because of embarrassment. Just because of the joy of someone defending him.

It really feels nice, doesn’t it?

But this didn’t. Dyson felt betrayed, totally betrayed

He was sitting behind the kitchen counter with his knees on his chest, tears rolling down his face onto his clothes and the floor. His hands clenched onto the fabric of his clothes. Nose scrunched at just the thought of what he saw.

What exactly happend?

Dyson, Ken, Suri and Wart were playing a game of UNO with some other dudes in the party. When Wart finally won, he jumped in joy and laughed a lot.

Dyson thought it was the cutest thing ever to see his boyfriend like this. All smiley and giggly. Cute.

Wart stopped messing around as he sat back down and whispered to a guy next to him.

Dyson thought of it just being a plan for the guy to mess everyone else up at the game. What else could it mean when the guy smiled right after?

How wrong he was.

“I gotta take Siwon to the restroom real quick, we will be right back! Y’all can play without us”, Wart notified the group as they all nodded in understanding. Expect Dyson. He felt his brain being too loud to even focus on the game. Something was not right.

“I have to get something, play without me”, Dyson notifies everyone immediately before storming out of the garden into the house. He speed walked to the restroom, making sure not to make any noise when he was getting closer.

To his luck the door crack was open wide enough for him to see what was happening.

Oh, he should have stayed curious.

Wart was leaning onto the sink, his head thrown back as the guy from earlier was on his knees.

Sucking his boyfriend off.

Dyson’s boyfriend.

Right at that moment Dyson felt his heart get ripped out of his chest and thrown in the toilet to flush away. As if it got chewed into pieces and then thrown away.

Was he this naive?

How long has this been going on?

They seem close.

“Fuck.. you are doing so good, pup”

The nickname, the pet name, that Wart just moaned out,

Dyson was the only one that Wart called that name.

Or so he thought.

Fuck, why is he still watching?

As soon as Wart came down the boy’s throat, Dyson started moving from his frozen position to the kitchen. On his way he accidently hit a shelf, knocking a picture frame off it, glass all over the floor.

“What was that?”, the muffled voice came from the restroom and Dyson ran as fast as he could behind the kitchen counter and slided down onto the floor.

He knew that Wart properly left the bathroom to see what the noise was, only to see a knocked over picture frame on the floor.

Probably not giving a shit, just like he doesn’t give a shit about Dyson’s feelings.

Fucking jerk.

Dyson felt like killing him. Just to choke him while he punched Wart multiple times, showing what he felt as soon as he saw that scene.

That scene that was not even worth doing.

But how could he? He loves Wart way too much. His precious face was not his to destroy. He was not even worth kissing Wart this morning. How can he lay a hand on him?

Fuck men. Fuck men. Fuck men.

Those two words filled Dyson’s head as the tears started rolling down his cheeks.

Was he really worth cheating on?

What did that boy have, that Dyson didn’t. He did everything to please Wart.

Including those times where Dyson was on his knees begging for Wart to touch him all over, clearly not even wanting it, but he had to please Wart.

Or else Wart wouldn’t even think before leaving him in the snap of a finger.

All those times Wart’s hands caressed his body, slapped it, squeezed it, pushed it and more. The amount of times they groped him inappropriately. Without his will.

Dyson was too love dizzy those times, not caring what he did to him as long as he felt his presence around him, knew he was pleasing Wart and heard him talk or make any kind of noise.

He really was head over heels for a man, a man who wouldn’t even do anything for him.

The thoughts rushed through Dyson’s head fast and loud enough for the boy to start grabbing his hair while he cried more and more.

His heart was beating so fast, it felt like exploding. His breath was faster and shakier, not in a rhythm. Dyson felt the pain just taking over his body.

What could he have done for Wart to be loyal to him?

What didn’t he do?

Dyson woke up laying on a couch, the blanket what he suppose was on him, fell on the ground. Nothing warming him up anymore. As if anything did.

He felt the dry tears on his cheeks and his eyes hurting from all the crying. His shirt stretched out from the grabbing and pulling.

The window by the living room was wide open, wind storming in. It was freezing in here.

The only real question he had was, how did he end up here?

Did someone carry him here or did he drink so much yesterday that he somehow walked here and slept?

But he really doesn’t remember drinking anything except a half can of beer, the other half probably cold outside.

His eyes focused on something at the other side of the room, another couch. It was common sense that Ken had two couches in his apartment, but that one had a person on it.

He put his feet on the floor, stretching his legs to get some sense of touch before standing up and kinda getting closer to the other couch, it was dark so he really couldn’t see anything.

The floor was creaking since it was a really old wooden floor. But that sound made the person on the couch twitch out from their sleep as the head turned to Dyson. With a deep, but gentle voice, the person spoke up.

“Dyson?”, the tone was questioning and Dyson knew that voice. It was oddly familiar. But his head spinned too much already from the crying as he tried to take a step forward, he felt weak and tripped over a pillow on the floor.

The person had quite good reflexes, it seems. Because they immediately sat up and opened their arms to catch Dyson, which was successful.

As soon as Dyson got conscious, he shook his head before looking at the unknown person.

“I’m so” he cut himself off as he realized it was Suri. They were so close to each other, faces inches away from touching. Suri’s head was between Dyson’s lengthy arms. The younger’s hands were wrapped on his hips, holding Dyson steady. Those sparkly eyes looked up at the older with worry and care.

Something Dyson got lied about.

‘What are you thinking, get off already’ Dyson startled himself as he stood up straight, Suri’s hands holding his hips still, which felt oddly… good.

God, fuck off.

Dyson stepped back, hands releasing the grip as Suri didn’t cut off the eye contact, but Dyson did.

Dyson looked at his feet as arms were on his sides. No clue on what to do.

“Did you lay me down here?” Dyson asked quite shy as he still avoided the eye contact, or any physical contact.

Just how Wart always did.

Suri cleared his throat with a cough “I found you laying down on the kitchen floor and didn’t want you to get a cold. So I made you comfy here while keeping guard by sleeping here also.”

Dyson nodded. So he did this out of pity, of course. That’s normal, it’s his best friend right?

“Thank you”, he whispers, but it was loud enough for Suri to hear and shoot a smile at him right where Dyson looked at him.

He smiled back.

Dyson immediately sat back down at the couch he was sleeping in as he wrapped himself with blanket on the floor and dropped himself down to sleep.

Suri just chuckled as he also tried drifting into sleep.

Dyson felt cold when he woke up, but now he kinda warmed up. It was surely not because of the blanket, it is thin.

The way Suri just.. cared about him. The way he touched him with worry and not in a sexual way.

It lightened Dyson up and made him forget about everything at that moment.

[fandom-trash-xl]

Hit and Frost Headcanons (Kinda Angsty in Bits) Set (What's the Occasion? IDK)

(Okay, back to the old grind, note to self, NEVER Ctrl-Z on a Tumblr post. Decided to do a headcanon set here with Frost and Hit. Don't know why I decided all of a sudden- might be the Frit resurgence brainrot... and the Puss in Boots brainrot. Anyway, here we are, some may be shippy (Frabba/Shattered Ice isn't going anywhere don't worry) but mostly just character focus here. A bit angsty/whumpy in some spots, so let me know if I need to tag anything.)

FROST

Frost can inject himself with his own needles if need be. Just one stab to the thigh Epipen style and he can use the stun variety to numb his wounds.

For a time, on the lam, Frost's usual poison needles were swapped out for a sleep brew (kind of like a very strong liquid melatonin), basically to help him knock out foes less suspiciously than with poisons, which would leave more obvious traces. Once he finds a suitable hiding place and still finds himself restless, he may inflict it on himself.

When uneased, Frost will try to give himself his motivational mantra (the "No matter what happens, never give up, get back on your feet" one from episode 33) to settle his nerves. Often he can't get through it without panting harder.

Before he trusts that Hit is sparing him for the time, encounters with the assassin can put Frost on the verge of or into a full-blown panic attack. All senses on edge, hard to breathe, heightened pulse, trembles all over. He often mislabels the symptoms as simply restlessness from being on the run.

Even as he starts to develop trust with Hit... he can say "I trust you" with his mouth, but his residual fight or flight and panic disorder say otherwise. When you get into the shippy side, he brushes it off as giddiness, "my heart's supposed to speed up when I'm with you", but Hit is attentive enough to know that something here isn't healthy.

Despite there being no fur or anything similar there, Frost's tail will still "bristle" and straighten when startled or fear-paralyzed, almost like a tiny rush of trembles. Almost like when the hair on your arms stands up.

Frost has a distinct shaky choked laugh, making it easy to tell when he's faking confidence.

Frost will attempt to tug the hood of his cloak closer to his face when trying to ground himself.

As a little Frabba bonus, Cabba can bounty hunt Frost, as a treat. A bit of Puss & Kitty-esque pettiness. However, Cabba, as he attempts to sever ties with Frost, will learn that he can try, oh but "I love you" means he's never ever ever getting rid of him~

HIT

Hit can whistle REAL ominously. Think the wolf from Puss in Boots.

He often never has a need to, but Hit is well-trained in a variety of weapons and blades. He can effortless spin a knife in his hand without nicking himself- often it plays off as a reflex in response to simply holding the hilt.

Hit tends to play the caretaker role in a caretaker-whumpee scenario, but he often forgets to put his own health first sometimes and may brush off his own injuries if they're not dire. Even if there isn't a whumpee he has to take care of, he's still neglectful. If it's not critical, the blood can dry.

Lighter subject but, Hit is a fidgeter and will often stim by rustling his hands in his pockets. He has learned to artfully mask this on the job, however, and will only do so if the situation has settled enough that he can unclench his jaw.

Hit has several medical matters memorized to the letter from anatomy to pressure points to wound dressing. He can very precisely sew closed gashes, including his own.

Hit can very easily pick up the slightest traces of blood scent in the air, more precise than a bloodhound.

Hearing Hit's voice turn genuinely soft and concerned is such a drastic contrast that it's almost scarier than hearing his stone cold gruff voice.

[urlocallesbiab]

ok the initial post for brotzly fake couple's therapy au has already gotten way too long, so i take this as a sign i should start posting things separately and establish a new navigation tag

so, either way, a lil background on the characters

todd: exactly the same shit as canon, just imagine that instead of the seer-of-universal-truths syndrome there's some regular non-magical neurological disease running in the brotzman family.

farah: mostly similar to canon, just a bit toned down. she's not exactly an one-woman army, but she is freakishly physically fit, combat-ready, and proficient with common types of firearms — significantly more than you would expect any random person to be; she had always wanted to become a part of the police force like her brothers and father, but never passed the screenings due to debilitating anxiety, ocd and autism (never tried to join the fbi or the military tho; both her skills and her family expectations aren't That high).

her father had gotten terminally sick when she was a teen, and that significantly cut their income and added to their spendings, usa healthcare system be damned; old family friend, successful enterpreneur patrick spring, had stepped in to support them both financially and morally. farah ended up being halfway raised by him, always hanging out at his house and playing with lydia; out of all her family, save for her father, farah was the closest to patrick.

some time before the main timeline events, maybe half a year or a year ago, farah, patrick and lydia were having a nice family outing — up until patrick had been shot to death in broad daylight. his history of rising to success hadn’t been exactly pretty, you see, and the organized crime eventually took what was due. farah still blames herself for letting that happen despite her training and her worrying habit of never leaving the house without her gun; but if you asked her, really asked her how would she go about preventing that, she wouldn't be able to give you a good answer — it's just that one second he was alive, and the next he was not.

lydia, as both the key witness and the fortune's inheritor, had been taken into the witness protection program; farah hasn't heard from her since. she misses her like crazy, possible even more than patrick. therapy was meant to help her cope with the ruinous ptsd from those events, and she's been slowly, slowly making progress. that day she was having an especially Bad One — after which she and dirk got shit-faced — was soon after her father's death.

dirk: he grew up in the foster care system, and as a pre-teen was adopted by a kind and soft-bellied, if a little strict, ex-military man on a good pension, scott riggins. dirk had always been a bright kid, fascinated by complex mathematics (oh, the patterns! the beauty chaos and order! the language of the universe!) and some strains of physics (especially quantum studies; it all started with an article on shrodinger's cat and went downhill from there), quickly picking up on underlying logic within numbers (way quicker than his little undiagnosed autistic brain picked up on most social cues); teachers always promised him a bright future, even with the chronic lack of resources. scott had made sure dirk would get access to the best education possible, be taught by best tutors available, enroll into the best school imaginable; he gave dirk everything, and all the boy had to do is put in some effort. and he tried, oh god did he try; but he didn't do it hard enough. the new schoolwork load was multiple times bigger and harder than the worst he had ever experienced before, and he would often grow exhausted, distracted, unfocused and loose-minded (the adhd never got diagnosed either). some days a new and curious configuration would catch his attention and he would crack down on it with fervor, but some days he would just sit there and chew on the same three problems for hours on end to no avail. on those bright days scott saw his potential, his true and exciting and wonderful potential, and wanted the kid to live up to it; on the brain-foggy days, when he failed to do so, scott grew dissappointed. and whenever he felt disappointed, dirk felt it tenfolds on his skin. scott wasn't violent, godforbid, he's not a monster — just a little strict: it's just that he frowned, and tutted, and shook his head, and told dirk off, and didn't kiss him, and said things that dirk deserved to hear no matter how it felt, and took his books away (if there was anything the kid loved as much as math, it was thrilling detective stories, and sci-fi, ans fantasy, preferably all at once, read in one sitting) so that he wouldn't get distracted, and sometimes wouldn't call dirk down for dinner until he was done with the homework.

it hurt terribly to have the only person who'd ever cared about dirk, who had chosen him out of everyone else, who had chosen him and stuck by him, the only person in the world who loved him, be upset with dirk. for the longest time, dirk was convinced that he simply was lazy, and awful, and ungrateful, and hopeless, and the worst person to ever live, with how he let his father down time after time. but over the years, his self-hatred got so large he couldn't carry it anymore, and it spilled onto the mental image of scott, just so that he could breathe again; over the years, he grew bitter and disillusioned. as a young adult, he still couldn't tell if scott's demands and ambitions were fueled by simple materialistic hopes of fame and monetary grants, or a vain desire for glory, or some weird roundabout way of achieving personal fulfillment, but he knew for sure: scott riggins wanted himself a pet boy genius, not a son.

when the time came to attend college, dirk picked cambridge over harward, mostly because he would take any excuse to get an ocean away from scott. and he passed the exams — with flying colors! he was, after all, exceptionally smart. the teachers were delighted to have him; three months later he got booted because he missed half the classes and didn’t do any homework: drunk on the newfound freedom, stressed out by a trans-atlantic move, and lacking the only accountability system (however flawed) he'd ever had. he didn't tell scott, of course — he wasn't ready to go back home, he would do anything to avoid going there. so he took the college-student-allowance his foster father kept sending him, none the wiser, and set out backpacking across britain and then the rest of europe. soon it turned out that travelling cross-country is slightly more costly than living at the dorms, and there were only so many plausible excuses he could use to cajole more money out of scott, and coming clean about his strategical-omissal-of-crucial-information-that-wasn't-tecnhically-outright-lying was out of the question, so dirk had to cut some costs: skip a meal here, sleep on a train station bench there, get chased out by foreign policemen once or twice, a few times of staying overnight at some shady moldy place with some shady people whose language he didn't speak too well — nothing any other travelling young person hasn't seen, truly. he was coping alright. eventually scott caught wind anyway, and dirk, not that dirty and scrawny, had been forcibly dragged home. from there it's been a steep decline in the relationship: more harsh demands and more desperate pleading, more affection followed by more coldness, threats and promises from scott, and a few failed attempts at coninued education, a few move-outs followed by a few move-back-ins, plus a few ultimately abandoned career choices from dirk, who never seemed to grow out of whatever it was that was wrong with him, even as a decade slowly passed and gave way to another one.

when todd meets dirk for the first time and asks the inevitable "so what do you do for a living?", dirk introduces himself as a writer, which, combined with his rather frivolous spending habits and impressive disposable income, leads todd to assume that dirk must be some literary genius, top-nyt-bestseller, author-of-future-classics madly successful type of guy — but in reality, he sits on his arse and writes experimental-storytelling-style sci-fi/fantasy/whodunnit fusions that no agency interested in commercial success wants to look at, he's been published only once by a tiny indie house that paid him jack shit and a penny in royalties, and half his money still comes from scott. that financial dependence is the main reason dirk's in the us at the moment — he's been pulled from his latest bout of doing volunteer work for a queer nonprofit in eastern europe by the threat of cutting his whole goddamn allowance off. as a compromise, he returned to the country but not to the city, claiming that he needed fresh scenery to inspire his creativity and maybe actually write a profitable book for once; really, he just hadn't been mentally ready yet to be in the same town as scott so soon. so, settle, washington it is, why the hell not.

by the way, "dirk gently" is his pen name — legally, he's still dirk riggins. also, in the skype calls he's sometimes talked into having, dirk still calls him "father", but behind his back it's been "scott" for almost two decades now: at some point growing up he felt the need to put some mental space between himself and that man in order to stay sane.

after his fateful Big Talk with todd, where dirk admitted the less pleasant parts of his childhood and youth in most detail he had ever did in his whole life, todd convinces him to start looking for a better job to support himself, change his legal name, and someday cut riggins off for good. also get some therapy, for fuck's sake, god.

[godblooded]

i just gotta say peoples' obsessions with writing toxic relationships just concerns the shit outta me on this hellsite.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I just realized that I’ve never written any whumpy stuff with a character who uses it/its pronouns so here you go! Have a fun little extremely concerning queer whump thing.

…

Emanating from the locked bathroom door was the most agonized coughing Alex had ever heard. Leaf had been in the bathroom for almost an hour, unresponsive to Alex asking if it needed help, “I’m gonna unlock this door; hold on!”

But where did Alex keep the key? It dawned on them that they had never needed to get into the bathroom like this before. Frantically, they rummaged through both linen closets and all the drawers in the house until they finally found it. It was shoved all the way in the back of the junk drawer behind a pair of scissors.

“Hold on!” Alex rushed back to the bathroom door and unlocked it; what they saw would forever be burned into their mind:

Leaf was seated on the floor like a rag doll, propped up only because its cheek was resting on the toilet seat. Most strikingly however, were Leaf’s back and chest, which lacked the modesty of the clothing strewn on the floor around it, and were entirely swollen black and blue.

“Jesus Christ,” they knelt down on the floor beside Leaf, laying a tentative hand on one small uninjured portion of its shoulder. One alarming fact about the whole situation — as if it weren’t alarming enough — was that despite the amount of time Alex heard Leaf coughing and hacking, there was only a small amount of bile in the toilet bowl. Alex never head the toilet flush, either.

Tears began welling in Alex’s eyes. They held Leaf’s hand, “Leaf, honey, you don’t have to talk. But if you were hit in the head, squeeze my hand twice.” Leaf squeezed twice.