#tw: blood and major injury

[giggly-squiggily]

Time Wasn't In Our Favor (Demon Slayer)

We're just going for the angst this week huh- kjajkearjkeajkr

Heyo everyone! I wrote this a while back and did a small poll with everyone on which Obamitsu fic they wanted to see: the super fluffy one or this. The fluff won. All this time later I finally decided to share this with everyone! :D I hope you like it!

CW: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR DEMON SLAYER MANGA. Angst, Heavy angst barely any comfort, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, mentions of past bullying, insecurity, blood and injury, death, food mention, almost confessions, just lots of pain and heartache y'all I cried writing this kjarjkekjarjek

Summary: Four times Obamitsu almost confessed, and the one time they finally did.

“Kanroji looks…uneasy.” Obanai mused out loud one day, watching the pink haired Hashira speak with the others. While she smiled and greeted everyone as per her welcome, there was clear discomfort on her face whenever she was alone. She was always clutching the ends of her uniform, tugging on it as if it would somehow get longer.

“I don’t blame her. That perv was the one who made the uniform.” Sanemi grumbled, referencing none other than Maeda- one of the many tailors in the Demon Corps. He was good at the craft, but notorious for his…revealing design choices. “I heard he tried to pull the same thing on Shinobu and her Tsugoku. She burned it before him.” The Wind Hashira snickered, clearly pleased with the thought. “Shame she didn’t get to him a third time.”

“He designed yours too, yes?” Obanai eyed the bare chested Hashira, his scars gleaming brightly against his skin. “I assumed he only did that for the woman.”

“Ay, eyes up here, buddy.” Sanemi snapped his fingers, focusing the other. “And yeah- I told him to make mine like this. Makes the whole bleeding thing easier.”

The ‘Bleeding thing’ was what Sanemi called his Marechi blood- a rare type that demons craved like an addiction. He often used said blood to kill his targets, luring them in with the smell and cutting their heads off clean. It left him with scars all over, but the white haired man didn’t seem bothered by it.

Obanai was about to remark on Sanemi’s other intentions regarding the choice of clothes when his eyes went back to Mitsuri. She was now talking to Shinobu, her stance relaxed once more. It must have been comforting, having another woman on the team to talk to. While he hasn’t seen any of the Hashria leer at Kanroji, he wouldn’t be surprised if those outside their group have, taking in her entire being like a piece of meat.

The thought alone made his stomach turn. He wanted to hunt them all down and gut them.

“Ayo, your bloodlust is showing.” Sanemi reached up and nudged his foot, bringing him back to reality.

“Says the man with the most bloodlust here.” Obanai retorted, earning a snort.

“I save it for demons.” A half truth. Sanemi followed his gaze, humming softly. “She’s a tough woman. You don’t have to worry about anyone being gross to her. She’d probably knock them out with those killer biceps.” He nodded approvingly, flinching when Obanai punched his shoulder. “Ouch, damn- what the hell?”

“Don’t be cruel.” He growled, feeling protective. He didn’t know much, but they seemed to be an insecurity for her- her arms. The way she tucked them in when in groups or kept her hand gestures close to her chest. It was like she was trying to shrink in on herself.

“I wasn’t....” Sanemi rolled his eyes before turning back to the girl in question. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like her arms. I think they're great.” He nodded. “Don’t hit me again- I’m not trying to steal your girl.”

“She’s not my-”

“But she does look uncomfortable.” He carried on, furrowing his brows. “Especially with the skirt. Think she’d feel better if we force Maeda to make her a longer one?”

Obanai doubted it. Not only would it not be ready for a while, but the implication felt…wrong. Like he was telling her what to wear, or that he was only looking at her legs.

Legs…wait a moment…

“Don’t. It’ll make things worse. But I do have an idea.” Obanai mused, starting to perk up.

~~~

“Oh wow…Iguro-san, these are beautiful!” Mitsuri gushed as she held up the socks. They were knee high, light green with stripe detail down the legs. Thick enough for coverage but light enough so she won’t sweat. They matched the tips of her hair, she realized- a detail she hadn’t even thought of herself. “I love them!”

“I’m glad.” Obanai smiled behind his mask, fighting down the blush threatening to spread over his cheeks. He looked away politely as she pulled them on, Kaburamaru hissing in approval as she squealed with delight. “They’re on! How do I look?” She asked, striking a pose. Already she looked much more comfortable in her own skin.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Obanai almost said it as he took in her smiling face, the look of utter joy in her green eyes as she fluttered about- beyond pleased. It was like the sun was eclipsed until this moment- finally peeking out behind a mass of dark matter to shine down on them, enhancing the world around them. Obanai nearly forgot to breathe when she smiled at him like that.

“You look wonderful.” He got out, making her blush and shine more.

One day, he’d tell her.

One day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mm! Mm, mm mm! The smell is amazing!” Mitsuri was in heaven- her cheeks flushed with absolute joy as she breathed deeply. She had gotten back from a particularly long mission, and she was starving. The plan had been to go home and make something, but she ran into Obanai along the way. The first thing to greet him, much to her horror, was the growl in her stomach.

“Hungry?” He asked, voice teasing. Her face burned.

Now they were here- a small restaurant that Mitsuri knew well. The shop owner loved her- she tipped well and always made his day better. When she walked in, the old man greeted her with open arms and a bright laugh. “Welcome back, Miss Kanroji! Ah, I see you brought a date!”

“Oh, this is Iguro-san! He’s a fellow Hashira.” She reassured him, her cheeks bright red as the man and his wife came around to properly say hello. She dared a peek- Obanai looked rather flushed himself. Don’t let this get awkward, Mitsuri. “I’ll have my usual, though er…keep it to one serving.” She shifted, forcing a smile.

“Just one? But we made a whole pan-” The kind man began, cutting off when his wife pinched his arm. “Alright then- a serving of Curry rice for the lovely lady, and for you sir?”

“I’ll have the same thing.” He nodded, his voice quiet. The couple faded away as Mitsuri and Obanai took a seat, side by side along the table. She knew she should sit across from him but…”Sorry- is this weird? I’ll move.” She offered, starting to stand.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He patted her hand, keeping her there. He didn’t look uncomfortable- even if he seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Oh dear, did she take too much space? She wasn’t exactly slender. Was she crushing him?

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind-” She began again, only to stop when the restaurant owner came by, placing their bowls before them.

“Here we are! I added half an extra serving for you, Kanroji. I know how much you love our curry rice!” He winked playfully at her before heading back, ignorant to the way her soul dropped to her stomach.

“Kanroji? Are you okay?” Obanai asked, brows furrowing as he took in her pale face. “Is there something wrong?”

“No! No, not at all!” She squeaked, shaking her head as she gathered her chopsticks. “I’m fine! Totally fine! Let’s eat, shall we?”

If she were completely honest- she wasn’t fine. When she usually came here, she was either by herself or with Rengoku. The Flame Hashira ate as much as she did, so she never felt weird polishing off so many bowls of the delicious curry rice.

Awful as it sounds, being here with Obanai- it reminded her of her ex fiance.

“You’ll never find a man who will welcome your presence for the rest of your life.”

“You eat like a boar. What man would want you?”

“Your hair is hideous. And your arms? God- it’s like you're more monster than woman.”

All this time later, and those words still stung. She felt them clawing up her throat, choking her. Her eyes burned as the shame she felt coated her skin like oil, sticky and suffocating. She couldn’t let Obanai see her eat that way. It was bad enough he saw her hair. He saw her fight demons in a way that was without a doubt not fit for a lady.

If he saw her eat like a monster- like a demon…

“Kanroji, are you okay? You look like you're gonna be sick.” Obanai sounded so concerned. He looked at her bowl, taking a sniff. “Is there something wrong with the food? You haven’t touched it. Do you want me to get you something else?”

I want to disappear. She thought helplessly. I want to fade away. I want to be more what the world wants. I want to fit in, to blend in. To go unnoticed. I want to be forgotten.

“I…” She began, freezing when she saw the chopsticks before her, holding some of the rice.

“Erm…sorry if this is…eh…” Obanai seemed flustered as he offered the food, his cheeks red behind his mask. Still, he held her gaze. “I think…I think eating something might make you feel better. Sometimes we get stomach aches from not eating…at least, that happens to me.” He nodded at the rice. “Erm…this is kinda awkward, if you want me to put it down I’ll-”

Her lips closed around the chopsticks, the rich flavor melting on her tongue. It was a little embarrassing, being fed, but… “Thank you.” She smiled, taking the chopsticks from his hand. Taking a breath, she looked at her bowl. She wanted so badly to dive in and eat, but…

“Kanroji, please.” Obanai nodded. “You should eat. If you want, I’ll keep feeding you-”

“Oh no! I got this!” She tried to eat slowly, but before long she was devouring her bowl, lost in its flavor. When she finished, there wasn’t a grain left. “Mm…mh!”

Oh no. Oh god. She forgot. She forgot he was-

The untouched curry slid into her view, Obanai’s eyes kind. “If you’re hungry, eat. A Hashira needs their fuel, and you especially.” At her questioning gaze, he nodded. “Love breathing is a branch of Flame breathing. Those types of moves burn through calories like nothing. You need to restore your energy, so eat what you want.” He nodded. “Besides; I think the restaurant owner here would be pretty sad to let that pan go to waste.”

Her eyes grew misty, but not from hurt. She smiled wobbly, taking the bowl. “Thank you, Iguro-san.” She paused then, suddenly feeling bad. “But your food…”

“I already ate.” He dropped casually, making her stare. “Really. I had those snacks you left me. They were amazing.”

“You really liked them?” She asked, her heart starting to swell. As she turned to her bowl, she heard Obanai ask the old man to bring Mitsuri her usual order. “And some Sakura Mochi. They’re her favorite.” He nodded, making her heart race within her chest. He remembered.

~~~

“That was amazing!” She sighed, patting her belly as she and Obanai left. The restaurant owner and his wife saw them off, smiling at eachother knowingly. She had a feeling she was never gonna hear the end of it from them next time she came. “Thank you so much, Iguro-san. You really didn’t have to pay though! I know my order can get…expensive.” She almost cringed at the amount of bowls she tucked away.

“It’s no trouble at all. You were happy, and that’s what matters.” He nodded, not quite looking her way as he tugged on his mask. His ears were red now, something she found rather cute. “Please never feel the need to hide from us, Kanroji. We’d never judge you for how you live.”

The unspoken “I” was there. It made them both blush.

“Thank you, really. I…” She wanted to say more then. It had been a long time since someone made her heart race like this. Someone who looked at her only fondly as she ate, no judgment in sight as she finished off bowl after bowl. He never pointed it out, only kept the conversation going; talking about missions and life and friends.

He made her feel…normal.

She wanted to tell him that.

She wanted to tell him more.

“Hm? What is it?” Obanai asked, looking at her curiously.

No. Not yet. She swallowed her heart back to her chest.

“Nothing. Just…thank you again.” She smiled, tugging at her hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obanai was more careful than this.

As the Serpent Hashira, he was rather fast on his feet. He moved like his breathing style, slithering and evading demon attacks as he brought them down one after the other. At best, he walked away without a scratch.

Today, he wasn’t so lucky.

“Iguro-san! Oh no, you’re hurt!” Mitsuri was beside him before he hit the ground, the demon fading into ashes behind them as her hands steadied him. His entire body hurt, and his face felt wet. When he blinked, nothing fell from his eyes- it wasn’t tears.

Which meant it must have been blood. Lovely.

“It’s alright- are you okay?” He grunted, the smell of Sakura Mochi telling him she was rather close. Her hair was frizzy from the fight, and her eyes were wide with worry. She had a bruise along her chin, and her clothes were frayed at the sleeves.

Bruised and dirty, but she was alive. Good.

“Nevermind me, you’re bleeding!” Her hands reached out, hesitating momentarily before she took his chin, gently turning it to look at the cut. “It doesn’t look that bad- if Kocho-san was here, she’d know exactly how to handle it.”

“It’s alright- I can take care of it.” If anything- he’d prefer to. The cut ran past his mask, cutting it to the middle. In order to clean the wound, he’d need to remove said cover.

The cover that hid his scar and the painful memories it carried.

“You’re so strong, Iguro-san.” She smiled, cheeks pink as she wiped the blood away with a portion of her Haori. “That’s what makes you so great- you can handle just about anything.”

The words made his face heat up, and he was about to tell her not to use her Haori on him. “The blood will never come out!” He was about to say.

Only for the words to get caught in his throat when he felt his mask slip.

“Oh!” Mitsuri caught it before it could hit the dirty ground, the damage it took was more severe then they realized. “I’m so sorry- I must have worsened the damage! I’ll fix it up-” When her eyes came back to Obanai, he looked stricken, pale and shaky as he clamped a bloody hand over his mouth. “I-Iguro-san? What’s wrong? Are you about to be sick?”

He didn’t answer, his throat closed with fear and his mind racing a million miles a minute. No- no no no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! She can’t see it- she can’t!

His fingers pressed tightly against the scar tissue stretching past his lips, reminding him of that horrible day. The knife glinting in the candlelight. The pain stretching along his face. His tears as he begged and begged them to stop, to let him go, to kill him.

All for that horrid Serpent Demon. All to keep the stolen riches the demon provided.

He wished he could forget it. How he was almost given to that horrid beast, and the consequences that came when he escaped.

All of it, there on his scarred mouth. If Mitsuri saw it…she’d know what he was.

A coward. A monster.

“Iguro-san…” Mitsuri bit her lip, eyes wide with worry as she took in the shaking Hashira before her. Then her eyes grew clear. she grabbed her sword. 

Before Obanai could stop her, she sliced through a clean chunk of her Haori, the strip long and thick. Folding it, she brought it up and pressed it over the hand covering his mouth, her touch light.

“It’s not much, and it probably smells weird, but it’ll have to do for now.” Her eyes were so gentle, so kind as his hand fell away, his mouth once again secured. Her hands came around and tied his new makeshift mask into a secure knot, careful not to catch any of his hair in the process. “There we are! Feeling better?” She asked.

The mask smelled like sakura mochi and tea and home. Even with everything that happened, she never lost that scent. Tears burned his eyes and cut off his voice, making it impossible to speak. Instead, he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. He hoped she’d hear his silent thank you.

When she squeezed back, fierce and kind- she squeezed his heart as well.

~~~

Later- with his face newly cleaned and his clothes fixed, Obanai found a small parcel waiting for him. The note on top was written in curly strokes, a heart dotting her name.

Iguro-san, I fixed your mask! It was kinda dirty, so I cleaned it as well.

With love- Mitsuri

He held it close to his chest, his newly stitched and clean mask. It still smelled just like her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Master Ubuyashiki was gone.

He gave his life so he could end this Demon war once and for all.

Mitsuri wiped at her tears, running through courier after courier as she searched for the demon in sight. She would not let Master’s parting gift go to waste. She would make his dream come true!

Now if she could only find the freaking thing!

This particular one- an Upper moon she believed- was rather elusive. Anytime she got close enough to cut her head off clean, she’d strum her Biwa and the room would shift. One minute Mitsuri was above her, the next she was free falling into yet another part of the tower.

“THAT IS IT!” She raged as she stood, racing through more hallways. The changing made her head hurt, and she was sure if she saw another Biwa after this the instrument would only play sour notes. Still- she had to pursue!

Flying high, she raised her sword, the witch once again in sight. “I’ve gotcha now-”

And then there was a door.

Smacking her then and there, pain exploded across her body as Mitsuri flew off the edge. Her nose was bleeding- but she didn’t know if it was from pain or embarrassment.

Or both. Most likely both.

Falling backwards, she knew it was not gonna end well. Her body was already sore from crashing into various walls and floors. This time she suspected she wouldn’t make it.

Suddenly, arms were around her, and she was flying. Blinking, she barely registered her savior before they rolled onto a nearby column. “I-Iguro-san!” She gasped, staring up at him. Her heart did a hundred funny things then as she looked into those concerned mismatched eyes.

And then her face burned, shame bringing her back to reality. “I’m so sorry- I got ahead of myself.” She moaned as she covered her face. “Forgive me!”

“It’s quite alright, Kanroji.” He reassured her, helping her to her feet. “You’ve done well. Please be careful- we don’t know how this Upper Moon works or what her abilities are. She very well could have more than we expected. It’s better to analyze her now and look for any openings.”

“Right!” She nodded, the logic in his voice soothing away her nerves. “You be careful too, Iguro-san. This whole room shifting thing isn’t fun to deal with.” Her bruises screamed in agreement, making her wince.

Obanai nodded, a picture of preparation. “Very well. Let’s-” Suddenly the floor split, sending them in different directions. “IGURO!” She cried, barely breathing as he dodged the column. Obanai called out something to her, but before she could react, she was suddenly flying once more, this time towards the ceiling.

With a wall jump and a slash of her blade, she was safe- barely. She shook it off as she turned to glare at the Upper Moon. “You won’t be able to attack me with the same move twice!” She cried, going for an opening.

The room changes, a door opens. She’s falling again.

Well damn.

“GAHHHHH!” She raged as she fell. She was so mad she nearly forgot what Obanai called out to her.

“MITSURI LOOK OUT!” Was what he called.

Mitsuri.

Mitsuri.

He said her name.

The realization motivated her, pushing her to her feet. “He said my name…I have to live, so I can say his.” She nodded, running once more.

And then…

“Later.” She decided. “I’ll tell him it all later.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rain would have been appropriate in a situation like this.

Footsteps she knew like the back of her hand came towards her. Gentle hands pulled her up, resting her against a bloody chest. “Kanroji..I’m back.” Obanai’s voice was raspy. He didn’t have long left.

“Please…call me Mitsuri.” She breathed, the phantom pain of her missing arms nearly choking her. There was blood everywhere. She didn’t know who it belonged to. At this point, did it really matter? “Did we…did we do it? Is he dead?” She had to know. She needed to know.

“Yes. He’s gone.” Obanai breathed, blood dripping from the cuts where his eyes once were. She wanted to see them. To run her once there hands along his cheek, brushing away the blood that coated his face and just feel him.

Muzan took that away from her. She hoped he burned wherever he went.

“Good…hey, I can’t feel anything.” She laughed up blood, shaking her head. “I guess I’m dying.”

“I’m dying too.” The words cut, even if she knew it was true. “So you won’t be alone.”

“No…don’t die yet.” She breathed as her eyes filled with tears. “You can’t die yet.” Her voice grew sad then. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t much use in the fight.”

“No, don’t say that. It’s not true.” His voice was so gentle as his hand came up, running through her shredded locks. “Do you remember that day? The day we met?”

“Of course. I got lost in the mansion.” She giggled at the memory, it felt so far now. “You helped me then. Thank you.”

“It’s the other way around.” His voice grew soft as he reflected on all their moments together. The day they met- how she laughed like bells and smiled so warmly at him. How their time together made him feel like they were just normal people living their lives.

“You’ve saved so many people with your bottomless kindness. You should be proud, Mitsuri. Thank you. Thank you so much for letting me stand by your side.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she let out a sob, shaking her head. “I’m so- so happy Obanai. Thank you, for always making me feel loved. Meals tasted better with you. I just- I want to do it all again.” She looked up at him through the blurriness, and it was like she could see him for all that he was- human and the love of her life. “If we are to be reborn, please- make me your bride!”

“Of course. If you will have me.” He pulled her closer, his lips brushing hers as the last of her breath faded away. “This time…I’ll be sure to make you the happiest person alive. I won’t let you die next time…Mitsuri, my beloved.”

Thanks for reading!

[yabusunny]

morpho butterfly

[nowimjustastranger]

just a fun little angsty idea: STMCO Ford trying to intervene for a Stanley whose Stanford got there too late to stop a critical injury but soon enough to hold his wounded brother while he fades, who won't let Ford near if he can help it - clinging to his bleeding twin and wary of the stranger approaching them

You can't give me a scenario like that and expect me not to take off running with it, lol.

“Put it down.” Ford barked, throwing his quantum destabilizer aside.

The gun landed in some nearby brush with a rustle, barrel still smoking from its recent use. The mutilated body of an unnaturally large grizzly bear laid still a few feet away, its neck nothing but a bloodied stump. There was red everywhere, splattered on the surrounding vegetation and collecting into puddles on the ground.

“Stay away from him.” Stanford snarled, adjusting his grip on his unconscious brother –who was half sprawled across Stanford’s lap– the triangular gun in his other hand unwavering in its aim even as the rest of him trembled. Shock was setting in, understandable considering that his brother had just been mauled by a mutated bear during what was supposed to be a routine creature hunt. Luckily, Stan seemed more or less intact, no chunks or limbs torn off.

Ford hadn’t made it in time to do more than damage control, squeezing the trigger before he could even process what he was seeing. His ears still rang with Stan’s shouting, demanding that his brother run even as the bear sunk its teeth into Stan’s arm, the bite force fracturing the bone. The cry that escaped through Stan’s grit teeth had Ford firing three more shots with precision into the neck of the beast, his counterpart shooting in tandem.

“He’s going to die! Just please–” Ford bit out, slowly sinking to his knees. The barrel of the gun followed his movement even as the man holding it could hardly tear his gaze away from the prone figure in his arms for longer than a second. Ford risked inching closer, pausing when those wild eyes darted to him every so often before snapping back to Stan.

Ford made a grave mistake when he stepped on a small twig, which snapped under his weight and drew his counterpart's attention back to him. Stanford’s glazed eyes struggle to comprehend that the distance between them has closed for several moments, but when it inevitably clicks and his finger tightens on the trigger, Ford presses himself closer to the ground to make himself look as harmless as possible.

“Not another step!” Stanford shouted, panic making his voice two octaves higher than usual. Ford obeyed for the moment, staying perfectly still.

“I can save him.” Ford insisted, all but begging. His helmet scanned Stan obsessively, the hud blaring red as Stan’s vitals nosedived into critical condition. Ford had to do something now or Stan would die. So, his hands left the ground to unclip the strap under his jaw, pulling his helmet off and setting it aside. He hoped that a familiar face would be enough for his counterpart to let him close. It had to be enough.

“What–” Stanford spluttered, the gun finally wavering. Ford took advantage of his counterpart’s confusion and edged closer, fingers twitching with the urge to get his hands on Stan now that he no longer had the security that the helmet gave him with the constant scans of Stan’s person. 

“Shoot me if you want, but I’m not letting him die.” Ford grunted, ultimately deciding that getting shot paled in comparison to Stan dying while Ford uselessly watched from the sidelines. Ford wasn’t going to let Stanford’s paranoia and trust issues stop him from saving Stan, he’d sooner take the gun from Stanford’s hands and shoot himself in the head.

“You– you’re me? How is this possible?” Stanford demanded, the cogs in his head turning as he watched Ford with a perplexed stare that seemed a little muted due to the shock. Stanford’s arm was still extended, gun pointed at nothing but trees. Meanwhile, Ford carefully tugged Stan away from Stanford’s lap to gently lay him on the ground before setting to work on his wounds. “The portal. You’re from another dimension.”

“Yes, definitely what you should be focusing on right now.” Ford said dryly, stitching the jagged gashes on Stan’s chest closed with sutures that would dissolve on their own in two weeks. The healing itself was sped up with the penlight, its output cranked as high as it could go so the bleeding would stop as the damaged skin rapidly repaired itself.

As the last gash sealed into a fresh scar, Ford realized that Stan was no longer breathing.

Ford glanced at Stanford and immediately wished he hadn’t; witnessing the exact moment that Stanford noticed his brother’s state, his eyes welling with tears as his expression crumpled with overwhelming grief and self-loathing. Ford’s heart ached with pained sympathy at the sight. Stanford’s grip tightened on Stan before he dragged his brother closer, head bowing as his back heaved with sobs.

“No… no Stanley please. Please wake up.” Stanford choked out, pathetically nudging Stan’s pale and slack face with his nose. “I’m sorry. We never should’ve left the boat. I should've listened to you when you said you had a bad feeling about this island. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Stanley–”

Stanford was cut off with an alarmed yelp when Ford seized a fistful of his bloody turtleneck sweater to practically throw him away from Stan. Ford didn’t have time to coddle his counterpart and explain what he was doing. Stanford needed to be out of the way so Ford could rectify this horrible tragedy, so manhandling was the best option.

Stanford made an entirely animal sound of pure rage when he landed on the ground with a meaty thud, scrambling to all fours with his teeth bared. Ford ignored him, injecting Stan with a serum of his own design before retrieving two rectangular metal plates from a pouch. He rubbed the plates together before pressing them to Stan’s chest, making sure they were in position.

The paddles glowed blue when Ford hit the button on each handle, crackling with a surge of electricity that made Stan’s body lock up. The buttons popped back up and glow dulled, Stan going limp. Ford checked his pulse, forcing down the immediate swell of panic when he found nothing. He simply put the plates back and administered another controlled shock, begging the universe to let this work.

By the third round, Ford found a pulse.

He felt like he could suddenly breathe again, watching Stan’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths as he set Stan’s arm. But he was breathing, he was alive. Ford startled when a body slammed into his back, tensing on instinct. The fight drained out of him just as quickly as it had surfaced when he realized that he wasn’t being attacked, but hugged.

“Thank you! Thank you! He’s alive, you saved him, thank you!” Stanford sobbed, clinging to Ford as he buried his face between Ford’s shoulder blades. Ford awkwardly patted Stanford’s hands, which were gripping the front of his trench coat, before he went about stabilizing Stan. Ford would have to walk Stan back to the boat, unwilling to risk putting Stan’s body under duress by using teleportation.

“We need to bring him to your boat so he can rest. He’ll be unconscious for a few days.” Ford relayed to his counterpart, turning his head to look over his shoulder. All he saw was fluffy hair, Stanford still hiding his face against Ford’s back. Ford heard a loud sniffle before the man slowly leaned back, releasing Ford’s trench coat to scrub a hand over his face.

Stanford simply nodded, climbing to his unsteady feet to lead the way back to the Stan o’ War II as Ford scooped Stan up. Ford trailed after his counterpart, who kept looking back at them every three or so steps, clearly worried about his brother. Ford did his best to look calm and reassuring even though his heart had yet to slow down and he felt shaky, the adrenaline lingering.

After Stan woke up and was given a clean bill of health, Ford would go home to Lee and try to cope with his near failure. Granted, seeing Lee safe and happily keeping himself busy with some task or another would help him calm down, his body and mind finally releasing him from his hypervigilant state as Lee’s presence imbued him with a sense of safety and comfort.

But first, he had a mission to complete.

[purplepixel]

31 for the injury prompt?? 👀👀

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But its me to you, crow. I mightve killed a guy

CW: BLOOD, FATAL INJURY, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

Special thanks to @promptsbytaurie for the injury prompts

[frogandbird]

sorry about quality, tumblr killed it per usual T-T

this is not canon to sos!!1! i just wanted to use them for this re-draw

[linkedspirit-fanartfunart]

Warning: This page contains semi-realistic graphic injuries & discussions of character death

[Image Description: A 8 panel colored Legend of Zelda AU comic  “Linked Spirit”. Panel 1: Princess looks at a book, Hope hugging her from behind, looking over her shoulder. "Spirit, look over here," Princess says. Hero points their thumb at their self, "What? Me?" Hope looks at them flatly, "Yeah you Ghosty. Princess found a book about you." Panel 2: "This book has some details about how different spirits are created. Some are separated from their bodies by magic," Princess explains, gesturing at Hope. Hope stands next to her, eyes wide exclaiming "Don't tell them that-" Princess ignores him, "I've seen that before with Link." Panel 3: A dark purple ooze climbs into a purplish armor shoe. Princess continues "Others are lingering spirit s of the dead." Panel 4: A purplish Iorn Knuckle stands in the background, posed like a statue in the background by a window. Hope, in the foreground, is turned away from Princess, arms crossed, pouting. Princess holds the book up for Hero to see, "Unlike ghini you don't seem to be fueled by dark energy, rather... you seem more like these... strong, magically charged spirits who have a lingering role in the world..." Hero lifts a hand to their mouth, brows furrowed. Panel 5: "...I'm not dead..." Hero says, appearance changing to look like Rinku after Link's Awakening, "No. No. I'm- Im the first one. I-" Panel 6: Hope says "Look, my spirit experience was a magic accident. You’ve kinda got a knife in your back. Pretty sure you’re KERK” she gestures a slice along the neck with one hand, leaning against the table. Princess frowns, fist at her sides "LINK Don't say it like that?!" Hero looks on, one hand on their chest, eyes wide. Panel 7: Hero's appearance changes to look like pre-ressurection Breath of the Wild Link, heavily injured, hair cropped short in the back. They gesture at theirself with both hands, shouting, "This isn't what being dead feels like!" Panel 8: Hero's appearance shifts between LA Rinku, BotW and their usual look, looking down, eyes wide and startled, holding their hands loosely together against their chest "...How do I know that?" End ID]

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[kaiyiaa]

@foolondahill17 have my attempt at the prompt you put about Dean sprinting to Cas. It's not perfect and I ended it without a resolution as I wanna write this as a whole ass fic but I really wanted to share this with you since your idea inspired the hell out of me. ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ It happens in a moment. A heartbeat trapped between the milliseconds of time. Dean turns in the loose grip of his brother’s hands, green eyes trained on the golden crack of light that splits their world open to another, waiting for the sign of his angel. His heart is racing within his chest, adrenaline keeping him sharp and steady, as he waits with bated breath for his angel to emerge through the light. The image of Castiel stalking toward Lucifer as Sam pulls him to the portal is burned into his eyelids. He knows that it is almost a sickening parallel of the way that he had pulled Sam from his burning apartment all of those years ago but he can only pray that Castiel will not be killed. That he will not have to suffer the same agonizing heartbreak that Sam did when Jessica died.  He refuses to entertain the thought of something happening to the angel, of him dying or being hurt while in the other world. That will not happen. 

It cannot. 

Dean steps close enough to the portal that he can hear the rushing of the wind and smell the heavy scent of gunpowder on the breeze. It pulls at his clothing in a tantalizing lure, a promise of taking him to where his angel is, but he refuses. He will not step back through the portal and waste the safety that Castiel had given him. 

Sam’s voice is nothing but a gurgle of noises behind him but he does not need to hear him to understand what he is saying. Dean knows that he is too close to the portal for his brother to feel confident that he will not go through it to find Castiel. He knows that he becomes irrational and impulsive when his angel is in danger. That he has, in the past, openly let others be hurt and killed if it meant that those he cares about will be safe. Dean also knows that he has a history of suicidal tendencies, of throwing himself in front of others to take a hit or killing himself to trade someone else's life for his own, and that Sam has been witness to him doing that several times. And while he is aware that he would not hesitate to end his life if it meant that the angel would return safe and alive, he does not feel the need to do so. Not right now. 

“Don’t be stupid, Dean! Cas is capable!” Sam nearly screams the words to him, voice only barely heard over the rushing noise in Dean’s ears. 

And of course he is. Dean knows better than anyone what Castiel is capable of and how strong and intelligent the angel is. But even having the knowledge of that will not stop him from worrying about him. It will not stop him from desperately trying to keep the angel by his side where Dean is able to keep him safe. 

After all, how can anyone act normal and as though the world is not on the verge of ending when the living personification of their heart is facing off against an archangel?

The portal flares a brilliant gold that burns his eyes and Dean’s breath leaves his lungs in a shaky exhale as Castiel appears in front of him. There is blood stained along his trench coat, his black curls are covered in dust, and his face is streaked with dirt but Dean has never seen anything more beautiful. Exhausted blue eyes meet his own and something that Castiel sees on his face makes the angel’s brows furrow and him to step closer to Dean. They are close enough that he can feel heat radiating off of the angel and the exhalation of his breath ghosting across his face and, for the first time, Dean does not step back or snap at the angel. No, he only sways forward as he is captured by Castiel’s orbit. He surrenders to the feelings that he has in his chest, this desire to put himself out there and show the other how he feels. 

“D-” 

Castiel cuts himself off as an angel blade pierces through the bottom of his chest with a sickening squelch. The shining metal is clean as it slides through the angel’s body without resistance before it is yanked out violently. Crimson stains his white dress shirt and Castiel’s grace flares brightly through the gaping wound. Dean is moving before he can think, arms gathering the angel against his chest as he sags, and pressing his hand against the bleeding wound on his back. He does not see where Lucifer goes as the angel saunters off but he knows that Sam will watch his back. Something heavy and soft curls over his arms and back, engulfing him in the scent of honeysuckles and wildflowers, but when he looks there is nothing there. The smell of Castiel’s grace slowly begins to turn acrid as his grace begins to burn and Dean collapses to his knees. 

“Get away,” Castiel whines, weak hands pushing against Dean’s chest, “I can’t hold it back anymore. Get away!” 

Dean shakes his head and tightens his grip on the angel, “No!” 

A whine escapes Castiel’s throat as the light flares up brighter and hotter, escaping from his mouth and eyes. The invisible objects that he feels against him heat up rapidly, searing his skin even through his clothing, and the heat and light reaches its apex in a wave of agony before it shatters. A pained howl leaves his lips as fire scorches him, consuming him in a decimating blaze that he cannot escape. His eyes burn even through his closed lids and he turns his face away from the sharp explosion of light. It seems as though it takes forever before it clears, taking the scorching heat with it, and Dean weakly lays Castiel’s body down. He presses his forehead down against the soft cotton of his dress shirt as he processes the hell that he just went through. 

Castiel is dead. There is no denying that, not after what he just experienced. The angel is gone in a shattering of holy light and the smell of scorched feathers. His shaking fingers come up and tangle in the rough wool of the trench coat as he raises his face, desperate to see confirmation that Lucifer has murdered Castiel. He needs to memorize the pattern of his beautiful wings that will be burned into the dirt of this little home. Sliding his eyes open slowly, he sees…nothing. An unending wall of bright white light fills his vision and does not leave no matter how much he blinks or shakes his head. He panics, sucking in a startled breath, body freezing in fear at the implications of what this means. 

Turning his head toward where he remembers his brother standing, he asks, “Sam?” 

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean!” Sam’s voice is rough with anger as he stomps up to where Dean is kneeling, “You know what happens when an angel dies. You’ve fucking seen that happen so many times! So, what the hell were you thinking being right at the center of that? Didn’t you think for a second about what that would do to you?” 

“It’s Cas, Sammy,” his excuse sounds broken as it falls through his lips. He is in agony, arms and back still burning from the blaze that had licked across his skin, “I couldn’t just-” 

“How many times has he died before and you’ve stayed back from it? How many times has he been killed like this and you’ve not put yourself at the center of his grace exploding?” Sam is yelling now, anger making him sound almost terrifyingly like John, and Dean feels far too vulnerable here on the ground, “I don’t even know how we’re going to heal that. Or if we even can. Fuck, Dean, we didn’t need this on top of everything else!”

He takes Sam’s anger without question or complaint. He knows that he messed up and that he injured himself right when they are about to be dealing with Lucifer. He knows that his vision being gone, however temporary this is, will make him a vulnerability and a liability. It is now completely up to Sam to be able to defend not only himself but Dean as well. 

“I should be able to see again in a few days,” he responds once Sam pauses to take a breath, “We just have to lay low inside of the Bunker until then. I know I messed up, Sammy, okay?”

“You can’t see?” Sam is suddenly in his space, calloused hand gripping his chin tightly, and Dean stifles a flinch. His head is tilted back and forth and he feels his brother messing with his eyelids. It is incredibly uncomfortable to not be able to see what Sam is doing but he knows that he is in safe hands, “Is it just blurry or is it fully gone?” 

“I can’t see anything,” he admits as Sam wipes something off of his cheek, “it’s nothing but white.” 

Sam sucks in a startled breath, hands stilling against his face, before he moves and cleans off his other cheek. “Okay, I…I didn’t realize that you were blind.” 

“Then what were you talking about?” 

Sam does not answer right away and Dean huffs in frustration. He hates not being able to see his brother’s face and be able to read him. He has always relied on the fact that Sam is an open book to him, that he rarely hides what he is thinking and feeling, and now having that taken away from him makes him feel as though he is lost at sea without a life raft. 

The trench coat is warm within the grasp of his fingers but he forces himself to release it, to smooth it back into place despite the shake in his hands. His palm presses against the flat expanse of Castiel’s chest and something inside of him burns at the fact that he cannot feel his heart beating or the rise and fall of his chest. That he can feel the heat dissipating from his body, leaving it cold and empty. There is something within the cavern of his chest that feels just as hollow as the body in front of him, something along his soul that screams at the idea of Castiel being gone, but he can do nothing about that. There is no cure or bandage that can heal a broken heart. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches away from it violently, “What the fuck, Sam?” 

“You know how angel wings are burned into the ground when they die?” Sam asks gently, continuing when Dean nods in confusion, “Dean…Cas’s wings aren’t…they…they’re burned into your skin, dude. From the back of your hands, up your arms, and across your back to either side of your spine.”

“But I’m wearing clothes,” Dean argues weakly, “How could they have burned through that?” 

His brother exhales shakily, “Couldn’t his wings phase through things like that?” 

The fingers of his right hand skirt over to his left, drifting across the back of it, and a pained noise leaves his lips as his skin flares up in red hot pain at the touch. He shakes his head, refusing to accept what Sam is telling him. There is no way that he is carrying the shadow-burn of his angel’s wings on his body. He is not holy enough, not good enough, to carry the image of that burned onto his skin.

Castiel deserves to have something more than Dean Winchester acting as a living tombstone.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Sam's hands grip his elbows and pulls him to his feet, "Once we do that, we can get Cas and Kelly ready to be put to rest."

Dean grabs onto his brother tightly, resisting the guiding hand that is pulling him toward the house. He does not want to leave Castiel lying here, alone, on the dirt. There will need to be a pyre and Castiel's body will need to be prepped for that but he does not think he has the strength to leave him. Not anymore.

"I can't," His voice catches in his throat, "Sam, I can't leave him."

He can see the furrow of Sam's brow in his mind as his brother responds, "Why not?"

"I love him," it falls from his lips like water, easy and free-flowing, "I love him so much I don't know how the hell I'm able to breathe. I can't just..."

"Okay, yeah, I get it," Sam answers, "How long have you...?"

Dean tries to smile but it pulls at his face wrong, lips twisting into more of a grimace. He turns his face toward the ground and welcomes the white void that consumes his vision. It is much easier to be able to be this open with his brother when he is unable to see his facial expressions.

"Years," he exhales heavily, the word nothing more than a whisper on the breeze.

Sam does not answer him but he does help Dean back onto the ground by his angel's body. His hands are warm as they squeeze his elbows once before removing them.

"Let me go get the stuff to prepare his body, okay? You can do it here and I'll handle Kelly."

"What about Jack?"

Sam huffs, "I have no idea what we're going to do."

"We raise him. We give him the childhood we didn't have. He chose Cas as his father and I'm not going to abandon his child just because his sperm donor is Satan himself." Dean tells him, "We educate him, we tell him about the spooky shit and about the stuff that lurks in the dark. We make sure that he's able to handle himself if he ever winds up on a hunt."

"And we tell him about Cas."

He nods, hand reaching out until it lands on Castiel's arm, "Yeah, we tell him about Cas."

Sam leaves him then, footsteps trailing off toward the house. Dean is left in the dirt, surrounded by the sound of waves lapping at the shore of the lake and insects buzzing around him. It feels wrong, to experience this peaceful moment while he kneels at the side of his fallen person. Castiel should be here. He should be the one that teaches Jack about humanity and the world around them. He should be the one to choose what, if any, of the hunting world that Jack learns. He should teach him about bees and flowers and the names of the constellations in the sky.

He should be here, raising the child that he loves, instead of it falling to Dean.

But he is not. He is dead, killed because he ensured that everyone got to safety. And now it is up to Dean to raise Jack.

He spends the next hour gently cleaning Castiel's body with the warm water and cloths that Sam brought him. The dirt and blood is washed from his skin as best that Dean can while his vision is gone before Sam helps him wrap and secure his body in a soft fabric.

Together, they lift his body between them and Sam guides him to the pyre, leaving him to lay Castiel down inside of it alone. The angel is heavy in his arms and makes his wounds radiate agony as they are agitated but he does not care. There will be time for him to heal, for his wounds to be cleaned and bandaged. But not right now. Not when he is resting the love of his life inside of a tomb made of wood, waiting for him to be set ablaze.

The fire is hot on his face as he stares unseeingly in the direction of it. Jack and Sam are on the other side of the pyre, talking quietly to each other, and Dean wishes that he had the strength to go join them. To find comfort in knowing that they are mourning for the angel together. He could go to them, he knows that, but if he moves from this spot he is not sure that he will be able to keep himself from shattering. The reality of Castiel being gone has not fully hit yet and he knows that the moment the fire burns down, the moment that the only thing left of Castiel is the feathers burned into Dean's skin and the ashes on the wind, that he will he consumed by grief. That the only thing he will be able to feel is the hollow void in his chest that signifies that his angel is gone.

"Can I stay here with you?"

Dean flinches at the soft voice that speaks, turning his head in Jack's direction. He does not respond to him, too afraid that he will say something he does not mean or begin to cry if he does, so he nods his agreement. The kid steps closer to him and his hand slips into Dean's. He takes in a deep breath and squeezes that hand gently, leaving them clasped at his side.

"He loved you," Dean tells him hours later when the fire has died down to almost nothing. Sam had stepped away to handle something some time ago so it is only the two of them left by the angel's side, "You should have your parents here to raise you. You shouldn't have to grow up without them."

Jack is silent for a moment before he speaks, "I have you."

"Yeah, kid, you do."

"He loved you, too," Jack tells him, as though those words do not sends spiderweb cracks along the wall holding his emotions back.

He stays quiet, unable to respond even if he desired to, and they stand there together until Jack tells him that the fire is gone.

Today he will kneel in the ashes of his lover's pyre, gathering the remains of him with clumsy hands, as their child holds the glass jar steady for him to put the ashes in. He will seal up that jar and cling to it for the several hour long drive it will take for them to reach the Bunker.

And, when he is led to his room by his brother, letting him sit the jar down upon his nightstand, Dean will finally allow himself to break.

[nowimjustastranger]

Early Access for Whiskers Tier members on Ko-Fi! It's an angsty one, folks! Wrote a little something for a StCMO ask.

[gaywiththesauce]

This is It

RenGiyuu, 1.1K

TW: mcd, attempted suicide, depressing thoughts, blood

Giyuu opened his eyes. It was midnight, a time he knew too well. He was laying on a roof somewhere he couldn’t recognize. He wasn’t alone. Kyojuro was sitting on the roof with him. He looked over at Giyuu with a soft voice, “Hey, good morning. How do you feel?”

Giyuu sat up slowly, “Where are we?”

“Not far,” Kyojuro answered, waving his hand in some direction. He looked at the lights of the small city ahead of them. “You didn’t answer my question, Giyuu.”

Giyuu hummed as a response. If he was to be honest, he felt awful. His head was groggy and he felt tired despite the nap. He shook his head, “I’m alright.”

Kyojuro looked over. His smile was brought down by the sadness in his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered, and Giyuu realized that he was caught in his lie. Neither of them elaborated further.

Kyojuro changed the subject, “I’m glad you’re awake, either way. I was worried that you might not wake up.”

Giyuu met his eyes, trying to see why Kyojuro would be worried about that. He looked over himself, missing the signs of blood or broken bones. Nothing. He was perfectly fine physically. He looked back at Kyojuro again, “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Kyojuro looked back at the lights, “Maybe it’s for the best. I’d rather you not remember.”

Giyuu didn’t understand why.

Kyojuro sighed and slid closer to Giyuu, “Can I ask a personal question?”

Giyuu nodded.

Kyojuro looked into the dark blue eyes of his lover, “What’s one thing that you’ve wanted the most in life?”

Giyuu gulped. There was no easy answer. There were so many things he wanted throughout his life. Acceptance, love, care, understanding, compassion, better speaking skills, friends, someone to talk to; all easy examples. Somehow, Kyojuro gave him all of those. He shrugged. “You?”

Kyojuro smiled and chuckled, “You flatter, but I appreciate it. I know it’s not true, however.” Kyojuro looked away, avoiding Giyuu’s concerned gaze. He continued, “You want him back, don’t you?”

Giyuu tried to see who he was talking about. They were the only two on the roof above the dead street. Despite the bright lights that made Tokyo look like daylight, the walkways were barren of any passerbys.

Kyojuro glanced at Giyuu’s hand, “You’re holding him now.”

Giyuu looked at his hand. It held onto Sabito’s side of the haori tightly. He let go. Kyojuro commented, “You miss him. Do you want him back?”

Giyuu nodded while he stared at his blood-stained hand, “Of course.”

Kyojuro put his soft hand against Giyuu’s cheek to guide his avoiding gaze to those burning embers of eyes.

“More than me?”

Giyuu froze. What kind of question was this? It felt like a trick. It felt unfair. Kyojuro was making him choose? Why? It was impossible. He loves Sabito and Kyojuro. They helped him through everything. Giyuu would be no one without them. He couldn’t choose, he couldn’t choose.

Kyojuro hummed. He was disappointed, but he couldn't understand it like Giyuu could. “Why do you keep it?” Kyojuro put his hand on Giyuu’s green and yellow shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“You do,” Kyojuro squeezed, “You don’t have a grave to mourn at, do you?”

Giyuu didn’t know how Kyojuro knew that. “I don’t.”

“What if you did? Would you stop wearing it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can mourn at my grave. Will you wear mine?”

“I don’t know.”

Kyojuro sighed again, knowing that he wouldn’t get another answer.

Giyuu held his breath, “I’ll miss you.”

Kyojuro looked at him, “Hm?”

Giyuu avoided his eyes, “If you die.”

Kyojuro glowed like an angel, “When I die, you mean. Death is guaranteed, Giyuu, and I miss you too.”

Giyuu felt tears stab at his eyes, “Will you wait for me?”

Kyojuro smiled out of the corner of Giyuu’s blurry vision, “There is no waiting, Giyuu. This is it.”

Giyuu looked up at him for the last time. Kyojuro’s smile was beautiful, open, and accepting.

It was his whole world.

It was over.

Giyuu blinked.

It wasn’t midnight anymore. He opened his eyes to somewhere different. The first thing he saw was the white that distorted his vision. He blinked away the tears and stared at the white snow on the ground. The ground was cold. Everything was so cold that it was warm.

Something touched him. He shook at the force, but couldn’t move at all.

“Oh, thank- Over here! He’s alive!” a feminine voice called out through his clogged ears. He was touched more. The snow was brushed off him and he was rolled on his back.

Shinobu’s face was in view. For once, she looked concerned. “Tomioka-san! Can you hear me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She worked on his stomach, doing something just out of his vision.

His vision narrowed, and the darkness bit away at the vision of the white clouds. Shinobu talked about something medical. Something about blood, about cold, and about living. Was Giyuu dying? The pain in his stomach hardly compared to his blue fingertips or his toes.

Giyuu rolled onto his side at the push of burning hands, eventually falling back onto something that wasn’t cold and red. The snow beneath him was bloody. It was his blood. In the corner of his eye, he could see his bed clothes stained with blood. So much blood, so much blood, the amount that’s when something pierces the solar plexus and goes straight through it. Huh. Giyuu didn’t know where that thought came from.

Giyuu’s head was held to view the sky. He saw something else, though. His sword hilt. It was pointing to the sky, held by a dainty hand. The leather of the straps was stained red. Why was it above him? With much more effort than he anticipated, he lifted his head enough to see where the blade was.

It was covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood. It was in his stomach. Seppuku, his mind reminded him.

“Stay down!” Shinobu shouted, pressing her fingers against Giyuu’s forehead as if he wasn’t already falling back. His head lulled to the side when she let up but scolded him further.

Another color caught his attention aside from the bleeding red and the rippling blue. Silver and gray, he could barely make out the symbols carved into the stone.

Here Lies Rengoku Kyojuro

Proud Brother, Dedicated Son

The Greatest Flame Hashira

Oh. 

He remembered what happened now.

It was his turn to save Kyojuro just as he saved him.

“You seem shy! That’s okay, my little brother is the same way! Tomioka-san, do you know anywhere close by where we could eat!”

Kyojuro saved him from loneliness. It was Giyuu’s time to return the favor.

I’m coming to save you.

I’ll save you, Kyojuro.

I’ll save myself.

I’ll save you.

I’ll save you.

[charlieeenby]

whumptober '24

day 1: race against the clock / panic attack

bruce searches for jason after the explosion

warnings and tags: major character death, canon character death, blood and injuries, angst, cpr(?)

Jason. Jason. Jason. His son. His baby. Oh god, please, let him be okay. Let him be alive, let him have a pulse, let there be air in his lungs. Jason. Jason.

Oh, god, no. No, no, no, no, no, no.

No!

“JASON!”

As Bruce dug through the rubble searching desperately for his son, his thoughts raced, praying to whatever god or gods or beings that could hear to save his boy. Save one of the only good things he still had.

Jason was only 15, he wasn’t supposed to die. He had things to do, dreams to chase. Jason was supposed to live.

He found a hand. Bruce felt panic surge, a familiar grief claw it’s way up, out of the pit he’d shoved it into all those years ago, and up his throat, choked sobs the only sound he made.

No.

Bruce shoved rubble and wood away, gasping for air. An arm, a shoulder, a torso. A face. A bloodied face.

Oh, god, no…

“Jason?” he whispered, carefully brushing gravel from his son’s face. There was no reaction, and when Bruce pressed his fingers against the sticky skin of Jason’s throat, he found no pulse, no beating heart, no sign of life.

He finished unburying Jason from the rubble just enough so he could do chest compressions.

Count to 30 to the beat of Girls Just Want to Have Fun.

It had been Jason’s favorite song to practice CPR to when he’d been training with Bruce. It had always been a source of laughter and happiness.

No – it still was. He wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be.

But the CPR wasn’t working, and he’d been doing it for… he didn’t know how long. He’d sung that stupid song so many times…

Bruce stopped. He looked at his watch. And… he’d been doing chest compressions for somewhere around an hour…

Oh, Jason… no, this can’t be right.

He recounted the time. Recounted the minutes it took for him to get back to Jason, back to his boy, to his son. And his math was right. An hour. He’d been trying to resuscitate his child for almost an hour.

And it wasn’t working. It wasn’t doing anything, there was no sign that it was helping, that Jason was going to wake up and he’d been without a pulse for so long… the brain damage he’d have even if Bruce managed to bring him back.

Now Bruce wondered if bringing Jason back would be the right thing to do. He’d more than likely have sever brain damage, and that was if he even woke up.

He’s gone. He’s gone, and it’s your fault. You didn’t save him. You weren’t fast enough. You aren’t a good father, you failed him. You failed Dick.

You failed.

You killed your son!

Bruce is gasping for air, cradling his dead son to his chest. He realizes that he’s having a panic attack, that he needs to take deep breaths so he doesn’t hyperventilate, but he doesn’t. Why should he when his son is dead in his arms? Why should he get to breath when Jason’t lungs will never breathe in air again?

(They will, he just doesn’t know it yet and won’t know for over five years.)

[creathechiboi]

yall gonna hate me so much

[discordzero]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Devil May Cry (Gameverse), Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order Series (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Nero & Nico (Devil May Cry) Characters: Nero (Devil May Cry), Nico (Devil May Cry), Agnus (Devil May Cry) Additional Tags: Author is not used to writing Star Wars stuff, no beta we die like eva, Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Male-Female Friendship, Agnus’ A+ Parenting, Swearing, Nico and Nero are childhood friends here cause I said so, This is them in their DMC4 era Summary:

“She held out longer verbally than he did, but surely enough the swearing turned into garbled screaming just like his had. However, he could endure more physically. He was scratched up and bruised when he saw the imperial soldiers drag her out of the machine and along the floor. Her body was more burn than skin and she’d been partially scalped. Interspersed with what hair she had left were spots where her head had been valiantly trying to scab over her wounds. Still, she raised her head enough to look at him and give a shadow of her usually grin as she was taken out of sight.”

@may-lancholy

[typicalopposite]

Fuck It Friday!

(Literally, because this particular Friday has been… 😮‍💨)

Thank you so much @30somethingautisticteacher for the tag 🫶

Going to keep the angst ball rolling with the first part of Chapter 3 for the breakup/crash fic.

TRIGGER WARNINGS IN TAGS!

There’s a distinct noise a body makes when it hits the ground after a significant fall. A splat— a squelch— that’s unmistakable, and sickening. Buck has heard it far more times than he’d like to think about, and yet in that moment it seems the forest has gone silent for it. Like all of nature held its breath along with him in anticipation of that god forsaken sound.

Buck tries to close his eyes before Tommy hits the ground, but just like a nightmare (which is what this feels like) they stay wide open. He sees everything. He sees the exact moment the sound happens; this time up close and far more personal than any other. There is a moment more of silence—like the universe is paying its respects for what it has just done—then all the noise comes flooding back.

Buck stops moving—can’t get any closer. He tries to take in a breath and it catches halfway. The air is suddenly thick, and hot… there’s a good chance he’s going into shock.

Tommy’s body is contorted in a way that’s not too gruesome, but enough that it’s clearly not natural. There’s no way—Buck can’t break his eyes away from his body, as much as he desperately wants to—but it looks like he is still breathing. He knows it’s a cruel trick of the eye. Dead bodies appearing to breathe. There's just no way. Buck finally looks away.

Again he tries to take a breath; again he doesn’t get in much air before the flow is stopped but the ever tightening of his chest. There’s also a chance he’s having a heart attack. Bobby did, from the stress he was under… and this very well might have that stress beat.

“Oh god…” he chokes out, voice strangled by the bile rushing up into his throat. He feels like he might be sick, and pass out, and he desperately needs to scream or cry… or both… or all of the above. His head feels like it might explode; the amount of guilt and anger and grief filling it is just too much.

There’s a soft rustling of leaves. So soft he almost misses it; his head is spinning so fast and his ears are buzzing so loud, he’s surprised he is still standing, much less able to pick up on random noises. He hears the rustling again. It’s coming from the direction of Tommy’s body. It could be an animal… he has to look back.

Tommy’s hand is moving.

His fingers are curling into the leaves and twigs then stretching back out. Buck thinks it might just be nerves… there’s no way— Tommy sucks in a deep breath, then groans. “Oh my god!” Buck gasps, his knees finally giving out and he collapses to the ground. Tommy is breathing; it’s ragged, and each breath in his face twists like it hurts to do so… but he is definitely breathing.

His hand closes around the foliage again. He opens his mouth and exhales sharply: “Eh… ehh…” he manages, slowly turning his head to the side, before sucking in another pained breath. “Ev… Ev!” Buck gasps, scrambling across the ground to Tommy’s side.

He very gently, very carefully, slides his hand under Tommy’s, and the bloody hand grabs on weakly. “Hey— hey,” Buck says, hovering his body over Tommy’s. The non swollen eye is still closed; the other one crusted over.

“Ev’n,” Tommy manages, his hand opening and closing around Buck’s. Blood trails run down his cheeks from his nose. His lips are dark red, teetering towards purple, likely from the lack of oxygen he’s getting from the staggered breathing.

“Tommy,” Buck whispers, bringing his other hand up to Tommy’s cheek. He’s so scared to touch him, he doesn’t know what’s broken, or bruised, or sore. He would hate himself if he hurt him more than he can only imagine he already is… more than he already has… Tommy doesn’t move, Buck holds his breath, fearing the worst has caught up to them. Oh how typical would it be if the universe let him live just to take him right after; literally right out of Buck’s hands… But he can still see the shallow breaths. He’s still here, for now. “Hey… I’m here. I’m— I’m right here, with you…”

Slowly the good eye cracks open—that’s such an understatement… it’s just the only one that can open. He blinks it a couple times before the eye turns and looks at Buck. It widens, the corners of his lips turning up every so slightly, and he lets out a sigh, squeezing Buck’s hand. “Bu— B- Bu— K..”

Maybe you should just stick with Buck…

“Hey, no… no don’t—” Buck squeezes Tommy’s hand1 back, carefully bringing it up his lips, he kisses over the swollen knuckles. “It’s Evan… please… it’s still Evan…” That gets him as much of a smile as Tommy can manage across his swollen face; his thumb grazes slowly across Buck’s cheek, catching a tear.

“‘M… s’rry…”

“For— for what?! You didn’t— It’s me who should be apologizing…”

Tommy jerks his head back and forth. “Ev’n no… ‘m s’rry…” His eye stares up at Buck, tears welling up in it until he blinks and it topples over.

“Okay, okay… it’s okay,” Buck says, a soft laugh escaping as he clings to Tommy’s hand. “We can work on apologies and who should and shouldn’t give them later…” He looks around, not even sure how far from a clearing they are. “Right now I just have to— I have to get you out of here…”

<3<3<3

Throwing out some tags to participate and also for the ones who are following the story 🫶: @onthewaytosomewhere @scripted-downfall @shroomonabroom @do-androids-dream-ao3acc @shroomonabroom @tailsbeth-writes

@bucksxkinard and @kinkley-are-adorkable-flirts

(Let me know if you want to be added to the tags, or taken off! 😊🫶)

[twilighttrekkie]

This made me unreasonably sad

S1 Gerber's death hits so hard man

It's such an incredibly heartbreaking extended death scene with Gerber is saying how he doesn't wanna die and Derek panicking while assuring him that it'll be ok. Then immediately after Gerber's dead the game repeats the "Rain continues to fall" message, which in context has shifted from bland text about the weather to feeling way more depressing.

...and then Gerber's death theme is fucking Ram Ranch

[wayward-sherlock]

goodbye stranger.

They’d already made it to the end of the world. There was no point in waiting, not anymore — Will was almost certain that if he waited any longer, the words he wanted to say would be his dying ones, melting on his lips with warm blood and his last breath.

Will loved Mike.

And now he was going to kill him.

will's been taken by vecna. he's killed mike hundreds of times, and he has no idea which one is going to be real.

for @bylerween2023 day 4!

[kalevalakryze]

A Galaxy Far, Far Away

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Ahsoka Series Pairings: Shin Hati/Sabine Wren Characters: Shin Hati, Sabine Wren, Ahsoka Tano, Huyang, Peridea Bandits, Noti Warnings: Violence, Blood, Betrayal, Near Death Experiences, Collapse, Force Bond(?) Notes: For Whumptober Day  8 Alternate Prompt Prompt: Betrayal Word Count: 2,823 AO3 Link: Here!

Shin did not speak the same languages as the Nomad Bandits, yet when she came to their camp and announced herself, it was in welcome. The warmest welcome they could hope to receive after… everything. They’d supplied everything she needed to travel alongside them, things even her own… Baylan, had provided once, the first time the world had spat her back out on their own. A tent, a bedroll, materials to make her own fire, and a bowcaster to hunt with, including the minimal training it would take to fire the primitive weapon.

She had to grow used to the rancid taste of howlers and Noti after their hunts, had to coerce her own Howler to take what he could get; the planet’s resources were scarce, it was a graveyard, after all. 

It wasn’t long before Shin had found herself in an odd sense of leadership with the bandits, the chief looked to her often enough on their hunt for the Noti, as the Force seemed to be consistently pulling her towards it.

The true hunt did not start until the Bandit chief was found deceased among the remains of a Noti camp, lightsaber burns seared through his flesh and a blaster burn slotted into the visor of his helmet; The body was too decayed for them to tell how long it had been, with the wildlife eating him up over the days and the rains washing away much other evidence. Shin had watched the Chimera fly into the atmosphere, had breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that the Togruta, Mandalorian, and scruffy Jedi were long gone; and yet… Shin had seen Ahsoka kill Marrok, the burns on what was left of the chief’s flesh would have been an exact match to the ones on Marrok, in the seconds she’d seen the smoldering remains, before he had disappeared into nothingness.

That was the day the hunt began for Shin; Hunting Sabine Wren was her purpose, it was all they knew, the last normal they had, and the last mission her Master had given her before he’d… changed. 

The Force seemed to be in agreement with the lonesome apprentice, guiding her across the badlands of Peridea in the tracks of the Noti and Jedi, staying just enough behind to stay off their radar. Shin had closed herself off from the force just enough that the pull had felt like basic instinct; convincing herself that abruptly cutting herself off was necessary to keep the blues of the predatory Togruta off of her, to stop the Mandalorian from looking at her again. 

The months passed in an exhilarating whirlwind for the young wolf; The Mandalorian’s Hero Complex often had her falling behind the pack to keep up with lagging Noti, giving Shin ample opportunity to attack; reminding them of their only remaining purpose on the graveyard planet. 

The night’s hunt hadn’t gone much differently than the others Shin had fallen short on in the last month, returning to camp with less ‘soldiers’ than she’d left with, and waning on their short supply of medical materials to keep the few that did survive alive longer. 

The tension in the camp had become palpable, even for the wolf who couldn’t understand, feeling the hostility rise had her on edge more and more, bringing her into seclusion even from the nomads who’d taken her in. When the betrayal came, Shin hadn’t been surprised. 

They came for her in the late hours of the night, with the moon high in the sky and weapons at the ready; without the force, and without her saber seeing action in months, they had quickly overwhelmed her. At least, as a jagged blade pierced her stomach and the ground rushed up to meet her, she had a view of the sky.

Shin had to wonder if their home was visible from here, the home where Baylan had promised to never leave, where their routine had never been broken, and where they could always sleep securely, knowing that even in their most suspicious lodgings, they were safe. 

Picking a random constellation, Shin thought of home. Her living situation had changed many times over the months, yet her home had only changed once. When she left the apprentice of Ahsoka Tano in a situation similar to her own, when fate had entwined her course so intimately with the Mandalorian, that even she could not disillusion herself of the reality. 

In what Shin thought would be their last few agonizing moments, they opened themselves up to the force one last time. Muscles convulsed at the electricity that coursed through their veins, forcing her body from its relaxed state, filling her with the need to move. 

Her body was on fire as she shoved herself up and out of the dirt, away from the pool of blood that had seeped from her wounds, away from the corpse of the handful of bandits she’d managed to drop on her scramble from her tent. Each step forward hurt more than the last, but the force persisted, and so did she. 

Blood dribbled past their lips, parted with each rattling, wheezing breath, boots dragging in the dirt as she walked. When a cold, wet nose brushed against her arm from the tear in her tunic, her hand reached out to bury in the howler’s fur. 

Fenrir whined as he pushed into Shin, winding himself around her until the blonde was collapsing into his side, staining his fur with her blood. Everything started to fade, then, as the wind caught in her hair and the steady thuds of his paws on the earth begged her to sleep, even as the force echoed out, seeming to beg of her just one more minute. 

The Howler released a series of urgent barks as his gait slowed, paws tapping against stone as he came to his destination. The snap-hiss of lightsabers activating and the rush of Noti slamming themselves in their crawls was enough to have Shin fighting to open her eyes; she hadn’t come face to face with Sabine in weeks; Maybe the force and Fenrir both knew how she’d wanted to die, and they would grant her this last mercy.

Shin dropped bonelessly from the beast’s back, crumpling in the dirt; the force did not offer the energy to continue as the onset of rigor mortis tried to take hold of her muscles, as if she truly had died when that bladed staff went through her skin, and her brain was coming up with something peaceful to soothe her as she joined the force. 

The last thing she saw before her eyes shut was the green of Sabine Wren’s lightsaber, and dark hair pulled back, out of her face, purple still clinging to frayed ends, and the enticing look of fear on her face. 

There was no expectation to ever open their eyes again, no stream of consciousness to cling to, but… there was no force, no fulfillment of the cosmic purpose Baylan had preached to them growing up; Another one of his lies?

Warmth ebbed back into her body slowly one day, bleeding into her hands as her world was reignited; it hurt like everything else they could remember, overwhelming in a way that made them wish to hide in their Master’s safety, to block out the vastness of life around them and focus on what they could feel; except… 

The fabric on her hands was soft, her gloves were gone, and slender fingers were brushing down the side of her face, the rough, gentle slide of the pad of someone’s thumb caressing over her furrowed brows as they tried to ease what had been another round of muscle spasms in the sickness that had followed healing Shin’s injuries

Shin could not speak or move to give any indication of their growing wakefulness, but they could hear the ambient noises of camplife around them, people (Bandits? No… The Noti…?) going about their nights on the other side of the canvas material. “How is she?” The smooth timber of the Togruta’s voice met her ears, though it did not ignite fear like she was used to; serving more as a reminder of her life, that the thud of her heart in her broken chest was a beacon that she had another chance. 

The other person sighed, fingers sliding down Shin’s face; she wished she could lean with it, follow the safety offered blindly; the first home they’d felt in so long. The hand settled on her shoulder next. “Better? I think. Looks like the nightmares stopped for now,” 

The rush in her blood was indescribable, like someone was pumping liquid nitrogen and an ignited fuel source into her veins. Sabine Wren did not end her, Shin could not decide how this made her feel. 

“Mmm,” The Togruta hummed, footsteps echoing through the Bandit’s bones as she closed the gap, chair creaking as she settled into it. “You can’t move, can you?” “ ‘soka, she’s not gonna be able to answer you,” Sabine argued on her behalf, confusion in her tone as she shifted in the chair. 

“Mmm, maybe not yet,” Shin bristled at the woman’s reply; how was she supposed to answer? The force didn’t offer her it’s aid anymore, she’d had a stroke of luck before- 

Her finger twitched as a large hand settled on her arm, fear igniting goosebumps across her skin as the woman squeezed, too gentle, too kind after everything. 

“The force works in many ways, even when you believe you may not deserve the connection, it never truly leaves you.” Sabine’s weight shifted awkwardly beside her; Shin wished to see the way she knew the Mandalorian’s eyes would roll; Behind her eyelids, Shin was greeted with an image.

Sabine Wren, knees pressing into the thin mattress of a cot, one hand pulling at a string on her pants as her other hand adjusted the blanket covering Shin’s shoulders. They could see themselves from this third perspective, a husk of the person they’d been stepping onto this planet. They had cut their hair dozens of times over the months to combat the sweat, heat, and lack of proper shampoo, dirty blonde hair clung desperately to the dark brown that had come to replace it; someone had brushed their hair and washed the grease out, and the tuft on the back that they hadn’t been able to reach properly had even been fixed. 

Blankets covered their body, startling small on the cot. The host of the image moved, giving her a nice view of Sabine’s startled expression as the blankets were shifted away from their body, giving them access to see; a promise that they had been cared for. The clothes they had been supplied with were too big, though the wraps of bandages offered the clearance to keep the baggy pants in place. The dressings were clean, either she’d been here long enough that her wounds had healed enough to no longer risk random spurts of ripped abrasions, or someone had changed them shortly before consciousness found her again.

“What are you…?” Sabine trailed off, reaching to cover Shin back up protectively, Shin could feel the smugness from the Togruta as the view was closed off once more. “Jetti Osik?”

“You’ll get there when you’re ready,” Ahsoka promised, reaching to tuck the side of the blanket under Shin’s arm. “And Shin will move when she’s ready; there is no need to rush healing.” 

The next time Shin woke, it was to fist her fingers into a warm fabric that had been draped over her, pulling her from her slumber. Instinctively, the blonde started to turn, rolling onto their side as their knees shifted closer to their chest, trapping their body heat under the many layers that had been placed over them in her sleep.

“Is that going to mess with her injuries?” She could hear Sabine grumble, seemingly on the other side of the room. The fabric was comfortable, warm, and it smelled nicer than anything else on this blasted planet. Shin tucked the material up closer to her nose. 

“It will be fine,” Ahsoka promised, close enough to surprise the younger woman.

Silver blue eyes blinked open slowly as the Togruta settled into the bench. The firelight across the tent was painfully bright, as was the view of the moon coming in from the hole cut into the tent to urge the smoke outside. The Mandalorian was knelt in front of the flames, adding tinder to the blaze. Ahsoka’s lips twitched. “Good morning,”

Shin stayed still; they’d read some time ago that Togruta’s were predators, and that some predators, simply freezing, would keep a person from their sights. Their heart thudded in their chest as they stared at Ahsoka, who seemed to be growing more amused by the minute. “Sabine, do you have that canteen on you?”

“Yeah, here-” There was a quiet rustle before Sabine stepped into their field of view. “Shit, hey; you’re awake,” Sabine seemed relieved, breathing out a soft sigh as she twisted the top of the small canteen. 

Sabine was the one to help Shin sit up, going as slow as they needed to adjust to the aching pain in her abdomen from the aftermath of her wounds. Fighting to unwind their hands was exhausting, but the Mandalorian stepped in once again to save the day, raising the canteen to Shin's lips and guiding their head back. 

There was a desperation and exhaustion as they drank, uncaring about embarrassment, though with the nagging feeling of undeserving having them forcing their head back before they were ready, nose twitching as Sabine idly brushed away a stray drop of water as it ran down her face. 

Finally forcing their hands free of the blankets and what they came to realize was a white dyed cloak, Shin managed to reach and take the canteen herself, hands shaking from underuse as they wrapped their fingers around the metal. Their gloves were gone, and the scars all across her hands were poking out sorely, skin clinging to bone, raised white and purple tissue a stark contrast to the dark dirt clinging to the canteen. 

“Why am I here?” They questioned after several terse moments of silence. Staring into the darkness of the canteen and the drops of water clinging to the mouth. 

“You needed help,” Sabine stated matter-of-factly, moving to stand beside Ahsoka, leaning into the Jedi’s chair and crossing her arms over her chest. Already, The Mandalorian seemed to be rearing up for a fight, one Shin had every intention of delivering, despite the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down on her bones. 

“What matters,” Ahsoka was quick to butt in, her elbow pressing into Sabine’s hip sharply. “Is that the Force was not ready for you, and now you are here;”

“You don’t think the Force wanted you to kill me?” Shin spat sourly, nose twitching as Sabine moved to shift the pillows at their back as their shoulders began to droop.

“I think it’s useless to fight about this when you can’t even keep yourself up; just let us help you for fucks sake,” Sabine snipped, placing a firm hand on Shin’s shoulder and guiding the bandit’s body to lay back again, taking the canteen from weak hands. 

“You’re more than welcome to leave, if you wish,” Ahsoka offered, facial marking quirking up. Shin bit back her retort, sighing in defeat; They didn’t kill her, she was very much alive, and she was stuck that way, it seemed, at least until she had enough energy to at least keep herself sitting up long enough and awake enough to think up proper responses when the Mandalorian got under her skin. 

Turning her head from the Jedi, Shin stared off at the blankets covering her legs, hand knit, with designs of loth-cas, loth-wolves, firebirds, and rebellion emblems emblazoned with care in the thick fabric. Shin said nothing as they watched her, only narrowing her eyes with the more time that passed. 

Eventually, Ahsoka stood, hand falling heavy on Shin’s shoulder as she passed. “Give it some time, your body needs to heal, and you need to offer your mind time as well; I can and will help you, so long as you let us.”

Later, as Sabine and Ahsoka regathered in the tent with bowls of real food, Shin scarfing down properly cooked meat ravenously as the two Jedi conversed between themselves, the Bandit allowed herself just a moment of selfish thought; the bandits didn’t want her, her Master didn’t want her, she didn’t want herself… but Ahsoka and Sabine both, despite everything, were making moves like they wanted her…

It was… nice, to feel wanted.