#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!

[notyoinara]

morpho butterfly

[3584-tropical-fish]

Silt verses reference sheets, part two!! This time for Faulkner

My Carpenter reference sheet is here, and some further notes on these are under the cut!

First Image: Whenever i draw season 1 faulkner it does NOT look like him, and i blame his fuckass haircut. my guy did that while looking at his reflection in the river and it looked awful and he doesn't trust anyone else to cut it for him. I do like to imagine that Paige looked at him, immediately recognized that he cut his own hair, and offered to cut it for him at some point during season 1. This probably doesn't work well with the timeline, but it's real to me and i can headcanon what i want.

Second Image: It was fully not intentional on my part that Faulkner's s2 fit would be so reminiscent of my s1 design for Carpenter, but then I realized that was the case and there's no going back now. It fits so well and is very important to me as a detail. I also imagine he doesn't really want to show off that scar he got from the sentinel, because he sees it as a failure, so he wears the turtleneck, Also, it's practical, because it's probably cold up in those mountains.

I was going back and forth for a bit on how much Mercer fucked up Faulkner's face when she beat him up at the end of season 2. I might alter my design for him so that she fully gives him a broken nose, because she did hit him A Lot. I also don't know how much the glass would leave a mark, but I like the idea of him having very small scars on his hands from the mirror glass for the rest of the series.

I'll make a note here about my thoughts on the fishhooks now, because I've decided I like the thought of them being awarded for successful pilgrimages/other religious victories. Where you get the piercing probably also matters, because fishhooks are also used to mark sacrifices, but it's a concept I want to play around with more. We'll see where I go with this.

Third Image: No particular notes on that first drawing, and honestly not a lot of notes on the high prophet fit either, since that one is basically my closest interpretation of what's stated in text. I liked the idea of his shoes being replaced with less practical, but better looking shoes. or maybe not since shoes dont exist anymore. tragic

Also, I imagine the cope is very very intricately embroidered. I didn't know how to get that across with the scale I was working with, but trust me. I also like the though that on the shoulders, the whole face is depicted, but you can't see most of it because it's covered by that outer shawl-like thing. The shawl/poncho shape has kinda become a staple of Parish fits, so I think I'm going to keep rolling with it. In the second drawing of the second image, you kinda get that shape with his sleeves, and his cassock also has that going on at the top of the sleeves. I don't know, it's something.

I may or may not be missing injuries on my little injuries diagram, but I'm pretty confident ive got the important ones. I did eventually settle on Mercer not breaking his nose (for now at least), but i did like the thought of her knocking out or cracking one of his teeth, like he did to Carpenter in the season 1 finale. cycles of violence or something.

[lizaaardstuff]

TRIGGER WARNING for abstract gore ⚠️

Have I drawn this before?? Looking at it now, it feels so familiar…

[rwyvernarts]

prompt: bitten | cornered

There’s this one cat that’s very defensive about these nearby ruins.

[etherealstrike]

Tw hypothermia and major blood and visible ribcage

"It is sae cold..."

.

.

.

"Have ye seen mah brother.....Donald?"

[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]

masterpost

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[aftgficrec]

hi besties! can i be a bit weird and ask for sick fics here? old/new/favorites, any will do! just some big ol’ hurt/ comfort, especially if combined with some emotional hurt/comfort 🥰

There’s nothing weird about this at all!  Apart from the fics below, there’s also our sickfic tag as well as our hurt/comfort tag for more (see our tag page under the heading ‘themes - injuries/illnesses/conditions’). - S

Previous recs:

cool andreil sick fics here

sick fics here

foxes with headaches/sick fics here

10k+ sick fics here

Andreil in hospital here

Neil with major injury here

Neil gets injured (post canon) here

Neil & car accidents here

accident-prone Neil here

Andreil with amnesia here

medical Andreil/Aaron & Neil here

Neil getting roofied here

Also see… 

‘we're one (there's nothing to be done)’ here

‘Just like that day’ here

‘head case (what to do with you)’ here

‘Such Stuff as Dreams are Made’ here

‘Neil Josten Is a Lucky Man’ here

‘Broken’ here

‘If Only I Were Enough’ (completed) here

‘I'll Come Back To You’ here

‘glass in the trees (objects in the rearview)’ here

‘Running Ragged’ here

‘To Love and Be Loved’ here

‘all that looking down’ here

‘next best thing’, keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?)’ and ‘no matter when and where, we’ll be alright’ here

‘Can Nobody Hear Me (I cannot breathe)’, ‘I remeber tears streaming down your face (for me to wipe them away)’, ‘you crawled inside my head’, ‘living leaves so many holes in us’, ‘Ciggarette Smoke Cure’, ‘Breathless’, ‘i've done my time’ and ‘cats and close calls’ here

‘The Highs and Lows of Pre-med Majors' here (Aaron)

‘Hold My Hand?’ here

‘Echo’ here 

I’m More Than This Body of Mine by yall_send_help [Rated M, 88811 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The doctor took a pause, which Nathaniel was able to use to ask, “what about my leg?” The two pigs had the audacity to look surprised. The doctor looked over at them with a hint of confusion. “You didn’t tell him?” Towns shook his head as Browning said, “you told us not to.” Dr. Byrd nodded her head in approval and turned back to the bed. “Nathaniel…” she trailed off, reevaluating her words. “Would you mind if I sit?” and only after his own nod did she. “The damage done to your leg… it was unlike what most of the staff at this hospital had ever seen. The surgeons tried to save it, but…” She looked down at where his legs were and Nathaniel did too, only to feel himself pale at what he found. “The surgery took about three hours,” Dr. Byrd continued. “The only reason why it took so long was because the surgeons really did try to save your leg. They did. Amputations usually take only half that time. Eventually, Dr. McCoy called it. Because of the damage done to your leg, we couldn’t wake you up to ask. It had to go. I’m sorry.” or - the one where neil goes to baltimore and comes back missing a leg

tw: torture, tw: amputation, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: blood, tw: animal cruelty, tw: implied/referenced drug overdose

fireproof by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 2097 words, complete, 2024]

Andrew gets his flu shot.

Things Always Gets Worse Before They Gets Better series by Renee_Walker_09 [Rated G, 40141 words, incomplete, 3 complete works, 2024]

Part 1: Beginnings & Endings (G, 1083 words)

It's 1:30 in the morning. The Foxes are celebrating their championship win against the Ravens the only way they know how to: booze, partying, and a little bit more booze. Nothing could possibly ruin this?

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury

Part 2: You Mean Everything To Me (G, 12767 words)

There are two crashed cars. There’s blood on the floor. Lights are flashing all around. Andrew is standing in the middle of the crash site with a blanket draped across his shoulders as he stares straight at Neil, lying on the floor.

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: suicide attempt, tw: drug overdose, tw: blood, tw: self harm

Part 3: Hours, Days, Weeks (G, 26299 words)

Andrew is lying in a coma following the accident. His condition is critical. And Neil and Aaron have to find a way to cope.  Neil and Aaron’s POVs of the crash and the past 6 weeks

tw: car accident, tw: blood, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: seizures

NB: find art for the fics by the author here as well as embedded in the fics

Even goalkeepers can’t block sickness by BlowingYourMind [Rated G, 12768 words, complete, 2024]

“Rabbit,” Andrew peered up at him with half lidded eyes, “Yes or no?” “Yes ‘Drew,” Neil clasped his hands at Andrew’s elbows, “it’s always a yes, you know that.” “No ‘s not,” Andrew weakly argued as he took hold of Neil’s chest pad, using it to leverage himself upwards. It was awkward work of walking half-delirious Andrew back to the locker room, shielding him from the crowd while keeping him on his feet, but they managed. Or Andrew becomes very sick at an away game, and Neil and the foxes take care of him.

tw: vomit

the upswing by missgivings [Not Rated, 45569 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The next universe over, life has gone a bit easier on Andrew. He’s gainfully employed as a nurse of all things, working beside his best friend Renee, and living in relative harmony with his brother, the recently graduated Dr. Aaron Minyard. Everything’s fine. It’s fine that he hasn’t spoken to Kevin in person for three years. It’s fine if Aaron’s leaving him to marry his stupid doctor girlfriend. It’s fine until the boy with the box-dyed hair stumbles into the ER and passes out at his feet, bringing a world of secrets and trouble with him. And Neil? Neil’s looking for any port in a storm.

tw: major character injury, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced self harm

please (don't bite) by Major_816 [Rated M, 5478 words, complete, 2024]

Genioglossus. It’s a fan-shaped muscle and forms the bulk of the inferior part of the tongue. It stretches to the hyoid bone too. ~ Neil wakes up to a bad day and it just gets worse.

tw: blood, tw: self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: nightmares, tw: flashbacks, tw: vomit

Will you love me for who I am, not for who I was? by something_boring [Rated T, 1580 words, complete, 2024]

Neil is sick on New Year's eve, wakes up to the fireworks, and continues to have a panic attack about his time on the run.

tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced child abuse

Your Needs, My Needs by TogeMythia [Rated T, 1073 words, complete, 2023]

‘Neil.’ He whined, his face still buried under the blankets. ‘Hrmph?’ Neil responded with a confused noise from somewhere across the bed. ‘Do you feel as shit as you sound?’ - Or Neil and Andrew wake up sick on Christmas day.

tw: vomit

To be safe by HushedStars [Rated G, 2116 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is feeling unwell. He seeks comfort from Matt. It was late at night. Neil stood in the kitchen, deep in thought but still with one ear alert for any movement of his roommates. He shifted from foot to foot, hands digging into his sore neck

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks

Safe with him by 1mNot4Hum4n [Not Rated, 2434 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick but doesn't want to admit it. He can't be sick. He can't be weak. Luckily Andrew is there to make sure his junkie is okay, and remind him that he has people around him who are willing to do anything to protect him.

'tis the season by moonix [Rated T, 5579 words, complete, 2023, locked]

Five holidays Andrew had to let Kevin take care of him and one time he got to return the favour.

i called your name ‘til the fever broke by cyanica [Rated T, 5632 words, incomplete, last updated Nov 2023]

Neil’s breath is hot and awful against Andrew’s thigh. “I can’t be sick on your birthday,” he says, like it’s that simple. “I can’t be sick on you on your birthday.” “How considerate,” Andrew’s voice is a bland murmur, and he is left watching Neil’s bloodless, wet lips, as he curls into Andrew’s lap. Neil gently pulls away after a moment, leaning back into Andrew’s hand on his neck. “Is me being sick still making you anxious?” he asks. Fever-stricken with dizzied-eyes and delirious thoughts, he knows Andrew without more than a moment beside him, a look into his eyes that makes Andrew feel undone, found. Or Neil is sick and Andrew isn’t coping well.

tw: vomit, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation, tw: anxiety

You Know I'm Good On My Own by sambutwithbooks [Rated G, 4568 words, complete, Aftg Then And Now 2023]

Andrew breaks his arm two games into the season and it feels a little bit like Neil’s world snaps with it. (A snapshot of Neil and Andrew between Andrew coming home from the hospital and going back home to Palmetto State.)

tw: major character injury

that's my line by sillyunicorn6154 [Rated G, 1291 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew is definitely not sick. But he is a little stubborn.

You're not fine, but you will be by karmenvi [Not Rated, 616 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick, so Andrew takes care of him. So it was supposed to be a sickfic, but it turned into 'Andrew stares at Neil and thinks his boyfriend is the prettiest boy in the world.' Anyway, enjoy some fluff.

I'll be okay if he's here by obsessivereader156 [Not Rated, 1673 words, complete, 2023]

“Thank you, Drew,” Neil says for the twentieth time, feeling so lucky to have someone take care of him. “Say it again and I will kill you.” “You’re just so nice to me,” Neil says a bit deliriously, “I’ve never had someone take care of me when I’m sick.”

If it means losing you, then no by LostMess_24 [Rated T, 6712 words, complete, 2023]

There was something against his hand, a pressure he knew too well, a hand that fit so perfectly against his, making Andrew’s presence known, making Neil’s entire body relax, slowing his breathing a bit. But before Neil could see the man at his side, it hit him. He was starting to feel it, all around him. Those white walls, the mattress he was in, the soft yet old sheets, the pressure on his arm. And finally, unmistakably, the regular and aggressive beeps, signs of a life that was his own. He was in a hospital bed. There’s an accident. Those idiots would do anything and everything to protect each other.

tw: major character injury, tw: car accidents

cause and effect by mistyrie [Rated M, 13107 words, complete, 2023]

"Andrew realized what he was seeing but he couldn’t comprehend it. He didn’t know how to help. There was no enemy to deal with – there was just Neil seizing on the floor and Andrew didn’t know what to do." Neil starts having seizures and Andrew tries to help.

tw: seizures (epilepsy)

how the foxes act when they're sick by @detectivebambam [tumblr, 2024]

headcanons on the foxes and illness

headcanons on Neil getting sick by @24-0z [tumblr, 2022]

Neil doesn't get sick very often, so when he finally catches the bug that had been going around campus, he's suddenly 8 years old again, sweating and trembling with fever

SICK!Neil for my soul. by @satan-in-a-v-neck [tumblr, 2021]

Neil is acting strange. Ask every fox and they'll tell you that for the past three days Neil Josten wasn't acting very Neil Josteny.

tw: vomit

illness/injuries as background event:

The Songs Around Us by doodlingstuff [Rated M, 80075 words, complete, 2022]

The mission was simple: Nathaniel would join Astral Foxes as Neil Josten and make them part of Moriyama Music. In reality, Neil became real, found a home, and fell in love despite his lies. When the Moriyamas send the Butcher to remind Neil of his mission and Andrew's life ends on the line, Neil will have to find a way to escape his fate and bring Andrew back. As he gets closer to losing the man he loves the most, Neil will realize that sometimes, music is the only answer, and others, truth is the only weapon he can use. Another Band!AU. This time extra angsty.

tw: torture, tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: violence

NB: find art for this fic by @doodlingstuff here

[typicalopposite]

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚘 𝙵𝚕𝚢 (𝙸 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕)

BuckTommy Fic | M | Chapter 3/7 | 5595 words

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | ao3

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎: 𝙸 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚞 (𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎)

PLEASE READ TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS

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 at the moment it seems the forest has gone silent for it. Like all of nature holds 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; what he wishes it were) 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 just 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—he can’t get any closer. He tries to take in a breath and it catches halfway. The air is suddenly too thick, and too hot… and uthere’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 just 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 by the ever tightening of his chest. There’s also a chance he could be 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, or maybe 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’s even 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 needs 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… because 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…v…” 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. I’m 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 hand 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. “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…” But he can’t even remember the direction his Jeep is in— much less how he’s supposed to get Tommy back to it—he was just running so wildly in his panic. 

He removes his hand from Tommy’s cheek and goes into his pocket for his phone. No signal. There's a creak from above him, and he looks up at the helicopter. His first thought: there’s no way to get up to the radio; second thought, the radio is probably broken anyway; third thought, the helicopter is creaking… it’s falling… It’s going to fall, right on top of Tommy. 

Shit. 

If there is one thing Hen and Chimney has ingrained in his head about fall injuries… you don’t move them without a neck brace and backboard… and you definitely don’t move them by yourself. Another creak and suddenly those teachings seem to matter far less. He looks down at Tommy, who is still staring up at him with his one glassy eye; still almost smiling through the swelling and the blood; still clinging to his hand. 

“I— I have to…” he says, and Tommy squeezes his hand, gives him the slightest nod. Buck might have only imagined it, but he nods back, and moves until he’s at Tommy’s head. “Okay…” he whispers, letting go of Tommy’s hand, to hook his arms under Tommy’s. “Okay, one… two…” a louder creak, the helicopter shifts. “Three!” Buck screams and pulls Tommy across the ground. He sucks in as much air as his body will allow and grunts, his eye screws shut. 

It’s not nearly far enough. 

Buck moves back and again—as carefully, but as quickly as he can—pulls Tommy with him. He does this until they are far enough away from the helicopter it won’t affect them in a fall; and fall it does. 

There's another loud creak and the helicopter comes crashing right down onto the spot still covered in Tommy’s blood. Buck throws himself over Tommy’s body to shield it from the debris that is thrown at them from the crash, but they are otherwise fine. “Oh my— oh my god…” Buck gasps, looking back at the wreckage. If the radio wasn’t busted before… It is now. He looks at Tommy; he’s still breathing. Buck could cry… he is barely breathing, but still breathing. His eye is still closed, and Buck touches his cheek. “Hey— hey, just— just stay with me okay?” Tommy cracks it just enough to look at him a moment before letting it fall back closed. Buck laughs. He breathes a sigh, and checks his phone again… still no signal. 

It would take a miracle for them to be found, he thinks… then off in the distance, he hears the faint whirring of a propeller. 

“There’s no way,” he mumbles to himself. Looking up through the cracks in the treetops, as the sound intensifies… They are about to pass over. “You hear that?!” He laughs, looking down at Tommy. His eye is closed, and he doesn’t open it again, but he does squeeze Buck’s hand. “I’m gonna— I’m going to go try to flag them down… I’ll be right back,” Buck says, bringing Tommy’s hand up to his lips before gently laying it down on his chest. 

He pushes up to his feet, his legs still wobbly, and runs over to the wreckage. There’s a fairly big opening from the helicopter coming through, but he wonders if it’s big enough. The helicopter gets closer, the propellers louder, until it’s about to pass over the opening. Buck already knows his neck is going to go stiff from looking up so long but he doesn’t care, and starts screaming and flailing his arms. 

It passes over. 

He screams louder. Jumps up and down right on his bad leg. He’s sure he’ll feel that later, too, but he couldn’t care less right now. He just hopes they saw the opening; saw him. 

They did. 

The helicopter comes back to the opening and hovers. “Hey! Hey— yeah here. He’s— he’s here!” The door opens, and a ladder drops. McCarty pokes his head out, then turns and starts to climb down. The helicopter lowers enough the ladder is almost at the ground, just low enough that McCarty can safely hop off. “Oh god, I can’t— thank god…” Buck exclaims, teetering back; McCarty grabs him before he falls. 

“Whoa there, kid… you good?” 

Buck nods, points back to Tommy, then starts running back without warning. “Tommy,” he calls towards him. “Tommy! They— they’re here. McCarty’s—”

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

“Tommy!?”

“Holy shit…” he hears McCarty gasp from behind him. 

“Tommy!” Buck drops to the ground, and takes his hand back; it falls, limp. “No! Tommy… they— they’re here! P- Please…” 

“Collier…” McCarty says into his walkie, his voice solemn. “Take that clearing… we’re— we’re gonna need all hands… to— to move Kinard’s—”

“No!” Buck screams back over his shoulder. “He’s— he’s not— I just have to— I’m starting compressions!” Gently he turns Tommy’s body so it’s flat—as flat as he can get it considering… He wonders how much more damage his body can take, and CPR isn’t a gentle technique by any means. He starts it anyway. 

“Kid,” McCarty says, laying a hand on his shoulder after the first set and Tommy’s still not breathing. “Buckley,” he says more sternly after the second. 

“He’s alive!” Buck gasps! Looking back at McCarty. “I— I don’t know how… but he… he survived the fall.”

“The fall?” 

Buck nods, going back to blow air into Tommy’s lungs. The smell, and taste, of blood is so strong it’s making him feel sick. He finally feels air blow back. “See! See- see- see! He’s— he’s breathing!” Buck sits back on his heels, pointing frantically at Tommy’s chest; the rise and fall much slower this time… but once again there. 

“I’ll be damned… he’s— hell…” McCarty gasps, staring at Tommy in disbelief, he opens the neck brace he brought down with him and Buck helps him get it around Tommy’s neck. “Collier! Have you landed her yet?” McCarty says into his walkie. 

“Affirmative. We’re heading in now,” Collier replies. 

McCarty runs his fingers through his short cropped hair, and laughs. “Make it quick, sir… he’s alive!” 

“Come again?” 

“Tommy is alive! But he’s in pretty rough shape, we’re gonna have to be quick.” 

Buck leans over Tommy, touching his face. “Hey, did you hear that? They’re coming!” He slides his hand back into Tommy’s; it's limp, so Buck squeezes it instead. “You’re getting out of here…” He waits, hoping Tommy will open his eye again, but he doesn't. It’s okay… he tells himself, at least he’s breathing.

He looks up when he hears the crunch of feet on the leaves and twigs. Collier walks up to McCarty, looks down at Tommy in shock. “You— you sure he’s—”

“Yes sir… he’s breathing.” 

Two more firefighters are right behind him holding the backboard. Buck doesn’t recognize them. They are young, likely new; Tommy had mentioned getting a few recruits. One — their name tag says, Dominguez — looks around Collier and McCarty at Tommy’s body and pales. The other — Hicks — tears up and has to turn her eyes away.  

“Come on you two…” Collier snaps. “Get it together and get over there!” They quickly straighten up and run over to Tommy. Buck moves back, letting them do their job, even if every fiber of his being is itching to help them. McCarty and Collier join them, and in no time Tommy is strapped to the backboard, lifted up between the four of them. They all but run past Buck, in the direction they came and he doesn’t hesitate to follow after them. 

Dominguez climbs in and they feed the board through the door, carefully laying it on the gurney and securing it. Then Hicks climbs in, immediately going for blood pressure cuffs, and IVs. Collier radios into the hospital that they are coming in, then back to the station that they have him. Buck can hear someone talking back, their voice frantic… but he’s too busy staring at the empty seat next to where McCarty just sat down. 

“Can— can I?” He asks, knowing he doesn’t deserve this right; knowing Tommy’s team might not give it to him. 

Collier looks out at him from the pilot’s seat. “What about your vehicle?” Buck quickly shrugs; the forest rangers could keep it for all he cares. “Alright, make room,” he yells behind him. McCarty surprisingly smiles, and clears the free seat. Dominguez and Hicks give each other a look, but go straight back to working on Tommy. 

Buck sits quietly, watching them hook up a couple lines; getting him started on fluids, and oxygen. Dominguez uses a wet wipe on the swollen eye, and then pulls it open once the crust is cleaned off. He shines the light over both. “Both pupils are reactive,” he says, and Buck lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Hick looks up at him, not even trying to hide the scowl that crosses her face. 

“This is exactly what Lucy was afraid would happen…” she says, quietly… but definitely let it be loud enough Buck would hear it. McCarty sighs, and glares at her. “What?” she continues, voice now raised. “It’s true… I mean, look at where we’re at…” 

Buck feels his face heat up, and looks away from Tommy—from them—to his hands. Tommy twitches, and groans. “E- Ev…’n” 

“Oh shit…” Dominguez gasps. “Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?” 

“Ev’n,” Tommy repeats, trying to turn his head. “E- Ev’n…” 

Dominguez looks at Hicks, who sighs, gesturing for Buck to come closer. 

Buck stalls. 

Look at where we’re at…

Why the hell does he stall? Because in that split second decision Tommy’s eye, that is cracked open—searching the limited vision space it has for Buck… for Evan—rolls to the back of his head. His body seizes up. Every machine they have attached to him starts blaring alarms. 

McCarty moves past Buck to help Dominguez hold Tommy’s body still. Hicks tries to get a reading for his BP, his pulse, his oxygen levels, something… anything. Collier lowers the helicopter onto the hospital's helipad. Buck… still doesn’t move. He stares—maybe he is in shock, maybe he should have expected this… 

Everything had worked out too well. It had been too… easy; too convenient; too miraculous. Something was bound to go wrong.  

The residents waiting on the roof for them, snatch the door open as soon as the helicopter touches down. Tommy is lifted out, placed onto another gurney and is quickly wheeled away into the hospital before Buck fully even registers they have landed. His eyes are burning; he blinks against the tears, and follows McCarty out of the cabin. Tommy is long gone, rushed off to an OR to access the damage… and Buck had stalled. 

Why the hell did he stall. 

He didn’t let him know he was there. He should have let him know he was there… and now he might never—

Buck looks at his hands.

“Buckley,” Collier calls from the helicopter. “You want a lift back to your vehicle?” A moment passes before he repeats, “Buckley,” a bit louder. 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, it’s McCarty. “You good? Do you need to be checked out?” He asks. Buck lifts his eyes from his hands to McCarty’s face. He blinks, trying to register what was even just said to him. It clicks, he shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine,” he lies. Or, well… he mostly lies. Physically he is fine. Mentally, though? Emotionally? He’s honestly a wreck. But the pain in his heart—the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts and regrets running wild in his head—is not something anyone is going to be able to check out and fix; it’s not something anyone needs to worry about. He deserves to feel it. He blinks slowly, looking back down to his hands, suddenly hyper aware of how tired he feels from the adrenaline finally plummeting to the ground (as sickly ironic as that metaphor may seem now).  “I’m— I’m fine,” he repeats, thinking maybe doubling down on the statement will really sell it. 

He turns and walks away before either can respond; off of the hospital’s helipad through the sliding glass doors into the oh-too familiar white walls, and the strong scents of disinfectant, iodine, and saline. 

He probably shouldn’t be able to navigate the hospital as well as he has become accustomed to doing. He is a firefighter after all, not a doctor… Yet his eyes remain on his hands, rather than ahead of him, and he still easily manages to reach the elevator—taking it down to the emergency room floor—with no issue. 

A part of him desperately grasps for a shred of positivity. Internally he gives himself reminders of all the times he has been here before for some situation that seemed dire and then turned out alright in the end. A much bigger, much more negative, but logical, part of him replays the fall, the flight to the hospital, the hospital staff taking the gurney through the doors out of sight, over and over and over as if to say: How can this turn out alright?! 

The answer? It can’t. It won’t. It’s not possible. He fell from too high; he lost too much blood; he sustained severe internal damage. 

He continues to look at his hands…

“Buck,” a voice calls just as he steps into the waiting area; it’s Bobby. He looks up shocked to see his team there, unsure how they even knew to come, and wishing he could find some solace in the fact they are here, and he is not alone. He finds none. “What happened?” 

“He happened,” another voice says, so angrily it makes Buck flinch. Morris storms across the room towards Buck, face red and pulled down into a deep frown. Buck realizes his team isn’t the only one here… “What the hell are you even doing here, Buckley?” The man snarls, making it into Buck’s space. Bobby reaches out an arm to keep him from getting any closer. Morris scoffs: “You don’t have to protect him, Nash. I’m not stupid, I won’t touch him… Tommy wouldn’t want—” Morris takes a breath and steps back from Buck anyway. “Why don’t you just leave, kid…” he says, voice suddenly drained as if he put all his energy into the sudden burst of anger. “You’re good at that.”

Buck wilts. He tries to not let it be visible; he doesn’t deserve to let it be visible. He doesn’t deserve sympathy (he doesn’t think anyone is really going to sympathize with him anyway… maybe his team will… although they have been pretty upset with him too). “That’s enough,” Bobby says, staring down Morris like he’s daring him to speak again; it manages to make Buck feel better and worse at the same time. 

Hen approaches him, with Chimney and Eddie on her heels. “What do we know, Buck?” She asks, voice kept low so that the question stays within their circle. “How bad is it…”

“It’s— He— He’s… in surgery… I guess— I’m sure. I was so— so close, Hen—” Bucks shoulders rise up then fall in a helpless shrug. “I tried. I tried to get to him but he fell; I couldn’t— there was nothing I could—” 

He looks at his hands, they are trembling. 

He wants to cry. He wants to finally let go and break down, and just maybe someone will have pity on him enough to comfort him through it. He takes a breath and once again pushes the emotions away. He doesn’t deserve any kind of release. He doesn’t deserve pity, or comfort. He does deserve the anger… he has half a mind to chase after Morris just to be given another dose of it. He looks at his hands.

“Buck,” Eddie says, squeezing his shoulder. “You can’t— it’s not—” Buck looks up at him, eyes pleading for him to not go there. Don't attempt to take what is rightfully his. Don’t tell him not to blame himself. It is his fault. 

Buck looks at his hands… there’s blood on his hands… Tommy’s blood is on his hands.

“Where is he?!” Buck looks up to see Lucy running into the lobby. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, and they easily find Buck—standing awkwardly in the middle of the full lobby, covered in blood and dirt—and lock on him. “Buck… they— Collier said you found him… was he— is he…” She walks up to Buck, looking to him for answers. Everyone is looking to him for the answers to what happened in that forest; answers only he fully knows. Answers he doesn’t know if he can share… not yet. 

Suddenly he understands Tommy’s reasoning for not telling him about Jay. Suddenly it all makes sense. He looks at his hands… He looks at Lucy. “I’m— I’m so…”

She grabs his shoulders, and shakes her head. “No… Buck you tell me he’s going to be okay! You tell me right now.” 

��Lucy… I— I can’t… he’s—” Buck takes in a shaky breath. “Lucy, I'm sorry—” 

“I don’t need you to comfort me, Buckley.” Lucy snaps, releasing him and stepping back, her voice ice cold in a way she’s never used with him before. “He wasn’t even supposed to be in the air today. Captain grounded him until he could get his head straight…” she narrows her eyes at him, the look slicing through Buck like a knife.”— til he could get over you.” She shakes her head, wipes a tear as it falls from her eye. “He never should have been up there… I was supposed to be the one who went…I— I should have been—”

“You can’t blame yourself—” Buck tries, reaching out to touch Lucy’s arm. She snatches back from him and scoffs. 

“I don’t blame myself,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I blame you.” The words hit Buck like a slap to the face, as Lucy draws in a deep breath, ready to take another swing. “If I had been up there everything would have gone smoothly. I would have actually cared about making it back in one piece… or making it back at all.” 

Buck can feel his eyes widen. “Wh- what’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy tightens her jaw, a hint of regret flashing across her face. “Lucy,” Buck tries again. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Why are you even still here?” She asks instead of answering Buck’s question. “Be- Because you feel guilty? You did your part; you got him to the hospital… So why are you sticking around?” 

Why is he sticking around? 

Because there is absolutely nowhere he would rather be, than here when (if… it's all just a big if right now and that thought terrifies him) Tommy comes out of surgery. He isn’t exactly sure what to say, because he knows he can’t say that. He doesn’t deserve to say that he wants to be here. He does, however, feel guilty, like she said. So guilty in fact it’s making him feel sick; making him feel like there’s a vice around his chest, steadily squeezing. 

“Look,” Lucy finally says after taking a few breaths to calm herself down. “If you honestly think, that the man who acts like you’re the center of his universe; who spends every second of downtime either calling you, texting you… or talking our ears off about you; the man who you’ve said yourself treats you better than anyone else has ever treated you… If you can without a doubt tell me you really think for even just one second that he is this terrible person you have been trying so hard to paint him out to be— then you never deserved him in the first place… And you should just go home and let those of us who do care be here for him.” 

I do care… Buck thinks. “I— I’m sorry…” he says. 

“I need to go call his mom…” Lucy sighs, turning her back to him as she pulls her phone out. She walks back to the 217’s claimed side of the lobby, and Buck is left alone. 

He looks back down at his hands and attempts to wipe the blood off onto his pants, but it has dried. 

“Where’re you going?” Eddie asks when Buck starts across the lobby. 

“I just need to— I need…” he tries, and fails, to find the right words to explain that if he doesn’t get Tommy’s blood off of his hands he is going to go insane. He points to the bathroom, and Eddie relaxes back into his chair. “I’ll be right back,” he mumbles under his breath.

The extremely bright LED light inside the bathroom isn’t helping his raging headache, so he squints as he walks over to one of the sinks. He loads soap into his palm and starts scrubbing… avoiding looking into the mirror. Unable to look at himself. 

The water runs over his hands turning red as it falls into the sink and goes down the drain; his hands are still stained… he adds more soap. 

E- Ev’n…

He scrubs. 

B’ck…

The creak.

He remembers.

The snap. 

He scrubs. 

The water still runs red. He adds more soap. He pictures Tommy falling. He watches it play out again through his memory; Tommy frantically reaching for something to grab. The sound of the scream he lets out when he finds nothing. The splat of him hitting the ground. 

He scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs.

It won’t come off.

He scrubs harder.

He was never supposed to be in the air today. 

He scrubs harder.

I don’t blame him, I blame you.

It won’t come off.

I think I see forever with you. 

He can’t get it off. 

They had plans… He was going to teach Tommy how to surf… Tommy was going to take him to the snow. “Ready to take some big steps,” Buck repeats the words Chimney had said to him when he thought Tommy was taking Buck to meet his mom. 

“She’s going to love you,” Tommy said when they had actually approached the idea. 

They still haven’t even gotten around to his flying lessons. They just never had time. He'd only learned a little Muay Thai… but Tommy always held back; always scared he might hurt him. Little did he know Buck was about to turn around and absolutely destroy him. 

He adds more soap; he scrubs harder. His hands are starting to feel raw. 

The door opens, he doesn’t look. “Buck,” Eddie says, softly at first, then again, panicked. “Buck stop.” He feels Eddie grab his wrists prying his hands apart. Buck fights against him. 

“I can’t look at it anymore, Eddie… I— I can’t!” Doesn’t Eddie see the blood? Doesn’t he understand Buck has to get it off. 

“Hey! Someone help me!” Eddie screams towards the door. 

“What the— hey! Buck, whoa— hey…” Bobby runs over to Buck’s other side, taking one arm while Eddie still has the other. “That’s enough, kid…”

His energy drains once again. He looks at his hands. 

The water is still running red, except the blood is no longer Tommy’s… it’s his. 

Buck looks down at his hands; from his fingertips up past his wrists is deep red, rubbed raw and bleeding. “Oh god…” he gasps, trying to take in a few calming breaths; instead it turns his stomach and he has to push away from the sink, away from Bobby and Eddie’s hold on him, to stumble through the door of the nearest stall. He collapses to the floor  holding his ruined hands away from the seat—the last thing he needs is an infection—as he heaves into the toilet. 

“Here,” Eddie says, handing him some paper towels. 

Buck sits back on his heels. “Thanks…” he says and begins to dab at the still bleeding spots on his hands. 

He wants to cry; he pushes it down.

A hand covers his, stopping his ministrations of trying to stop the bleeding. It's Hen. She offers a genuine smile—he doesn’t deserve that. He looks away. “Hey,” she says softly. “Let me see.” He opens his mouth to say that he’s fine… “I’m not asking,” she says before he can. “Wet these,” she instructs Eddie. “And find me some antibiotic ointment and gauze.” 

Buck hisses as she spreads it over the bleeding spots, avoiding her eyes. She wraps his hands and lays them back in his lap. Bobby and Eddie help Buck to his feet. He thinks he should probably just leave. He is causing more trouble than anything by being here… 

Chimney is waiting in the hall. He looks at Buck, with puffy red rimmed eyes, when he walks out of the bathroom. He looks down at Buck’s hands, and sighs. Buck braces himself for another attack. To be called selfish, and told this is all his fault, that he doesn’t get to take the attention from the person who deserves it by hurting himself. That he’s really being Buck… and he needs to just stop. 

Two arms wrap around him. Chimney holds him like he might just disappear if he doesn’t hang on for dear life. “He’ll get through this, Buckaroo…” Chimney says, and Buck thinks it might hit harder than if he were screaming at him. “Tommy’s strong and— and he will fight to get back to us— to you, okay?” 

Buck sucks in a breath and holds it. He doesn’t deserve this from them… why are they mad at him? The 217 seems to get it. This is his fault. 

They walk with him back to the lobby, and Sal has arrived, sitting with Lucy and Morris. They all look up as the 118 walks Buck to a seat, Eddie and Chimney sitting on either side of him. Sal glances over, the first person not on his team to look at him with pity rather than like he someone hijacked the helicopter’s controls and made it crash himself. 

Hours of a heavy awkward silence pass before a doctor finally walks out into the lobby. “For Kinard,” she says, seemingly taken aback when nearly the whole of the lobby’s occupancy stands up.

“How is he?” McCarty asks. 

“He coded several times during surgery, but he pulled through,” the doctor says. Buck feels the vice around his chest tighten with each injury she explains. Multiple broken bones, a ruptured spleen, a tear in his liver from a broken rib… Severe trauma to his spinal cord… More words to run, and rerun through Buck’s head. She looks over Tommy’s chart, and sighs. “I'm not going to lie to you all, it’s very touch and go right now. All we can do now is monitor him and wait for him to wake up. 

“Can— can we see him?” Lucy asks. The doctor looks around at the large crowd. “We know everyone can’t but—” She looks around her team, and even at the 118. “We’re kind of all he has until his mom gets here.” The doctor reluctantly agrees, says only a few can go in at a time. The rest have to stay in the ICU waiting area. 

Buck feels like his feet are cemented to the floor when everyone starts towards the elevators. He thinks he hears Morris mumble he’d have to go through him to get into Tommy’s room. He thinks he hears Sal say he needs to back off. He thinks he should just go home. Tommy doesn’t need him here, he has his team; he has Buck’s team, too. 

Chimney puts a hand on Buck’s back, breaking him from his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he says, giving a slight nudge that seems to break Buck���s feet free. They wait for an empty elevator and squeeze inside.  

_________

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[seraphic-elysian]

@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.

[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.

[creathechiboi]

yall gonna hate me so much

[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.)

[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!

[rwyvernarts]

prompt: strings

a pact with an eldritch deity will always have plenty of those attached

[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