#tw: major character injury

[puffdragongirl]

A Knight’s Failing

Apologies for the technical double post, but I wanted to add this to my text fic archives as well! This work is inspired by @insertsomthinawesome‘s lovely and heartwrenching art of Sebek with an injured Malleus, which you can find here. Do yourself a favor and check out this and the rest of their amazing art!

Looking back, Sebek can barely fathom how it happened.

Classes were long settled for the day, and only a handful of students finishing up club activities remained on the main campus of Night Raven College. It was supposed to be like any other evening; a reunion with the Young Master and Master Lilia, a squabble over who would prevent Lilia from cooking dinner that night, and a debriefing of the day’s activities over tea.

As the Equestrian Club was gearing up for an intercollegiate competition next month, Malleus and Lilia’s club activities had ended quite a bit earlier, and they were kind enough to come to the stables to retrieve their underclassmen. But of course, that lazy Silver had fallen asleep while putting away his mount and was now dutifully receiving an exasperated lecture from Riddle on the importance of proper and timely care after a hard ride. Lilia had taken pity on his child, leaving Sebek the honor of guarding the future king while the Vice Housewarden helped to settle the mount to his stable for the evening.

And so, Sebek finds himself on an impromptu, but not unwelcome, tour of the gargoyles of NRC.

[Read the rest on AO3]

[untoldsoup]

Worked on this all day to make sure I could get this update out earlier than planned lol. Thanks for all your patience over the past 1.5 months waiting for this update!! Anyway big things coming in part two! Please read the tags for this before reading as some content can bother some people. Comments appreciated i worked so hard on this.

previous: chapter 1 and 2

next: ?

This is a sequel! First comic can be found here.

[radio-writes]

It's about time for your blood to spill + you should sleep + we were soulmates

(Congrats on the 300 followers btw!)

Now, The Echoes Interlace

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Blood, physical injuries to reader, ambiguous major character death(s), angst

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

"You always have looked so pretty in red, Al." You hummed as your combed your fingers through his soft hair. You pressed your fingers against his scalp, lightly massaging against his antlers.

The light static that varied in volume crackled. "Fuck you." Alastor managed to say as his head laid on your lap.

His smile was strained—present, of course, as it always was, but strained. The trail of blood from his mouth dripped from his chin, joining the warm pool under both your bodies.

"Rude." You scolded him. Your breath coming out in a hiss as Alastor dug his claws into an open wound on your leg. 

"Must you continue to hurt me? You're already dying." You glared down at him as you would at a misbehaving pet.

You leaned forward, easily removing his hand from your body without much of a struggle. He only had so much strength left after all. 

"Fuck you." Alastor repeated, static morphing his voice this time around.

"Yes, well, I get that you're mad, Al." You continued your casual tone. "But it was about time for your blood to spill, don't you think?"

You grunted as you leaned your back against the cold wall again, sighing as the tension on the wound across your stomach was lessened.

"F—"

"Fuck me, yes yes." You cut him off. "Save your strength or you'll die out faster."

Alastor didn't mean to listen to you, but he just felt far too tired to argue otherwise.

Your hand returned to his head, damp with sweat and blood, and yet somehow still so adorably fluffy. Leave it to this guy to still look so presentable even when dying a second time around.

Your fingers scratched at one of his tufts of hair, causing it to give a slight, involuntary twitch.

"So they are ears." Your voice was soft. "I always assumed but was never really sure, you know?"

Alastor didn't respond. His red eyes continued to glare at you.

He adjusted his hands to lay over his chest. A weak attempt to slow his loss of blood. He didn't even have enough energy to press on it anymore.

"Hey, Al." You wheezed, breath slightly knocked from you. You had adjusted the way you sat so the demon could lay more comfortably on your lap. "Do you remember how we first met?"

"You told me that cheesy pick up line. How'd it go again?" Your hand paused as you tried to remember. 

A rather dashing demon slid up to you at the bar; charming, sharp smile, on full display. You've seen all sorts of sinners by now, but none so happy while rotting in hell.

You expected him to sell you drugs, or quite bluntly tell you to sleep with him. What you got instead was a very corny: 

"You must be buried treasure, because I am absolutely digging you." You let out a tired laugh, hand continuing to pet Alastor once more.

The sound of static crackling again was the only response you got. You think it meant fuck you. 

"Well you must be treasure as well, Al. Because it seems I'll be burying you tonight." You met Alastor's harsh glare with a soft smile.

"What? That absolutely was funny, you can't deny it." You defended yourself.

Alastor didn't think him dying was funny at all, actually, but he didn't exactly have any energy left to say that.

His smile was a tight, close lipped one, but you see his lips try to curl just a tiny bit in what you assumed would have been a snarl. 

"You always thought I was hilarious." Your own hand moving over the gash on your neck as if it was a mild inconvenience. You titled your head as you looked down at the demon on your lap. "What changed?"

Alastor merely glared at you.

Your eyes traveled down his body, staying on the deep wound oozing across his chest.

"That's not fair, Al." You laughed tiredly, eyes staying on his bloodied torso. "I always thought you were incredibly handsome—sinfully so really. But your attempts at killing me never changed that."

"Fuck you." The static over his voice was gone now. His tone was as spiteful, angry, and condescending as always, but much, much weaker.

Your eyes drifted back to his face. His smile was still present, but his lovely red eyes seemed more unfocused than they were a second ago.

Your hand in his hair stopped their movements. For a moment, the world was still as you wondered if your company had already left.

But it was merely for a heart beat, as a ragged breath from his lips snapped time back into motion.

You pealed your fingers from his hair, bringing them down to softly rub your knuckles down his cheek. He doesn't so much as flinch, but, you knew he would have had he been able to.

"Hey, old pal." You cooed softly. "You should sleep, you look so very tired."

His fingers on his chest twitched once, but you didn't get much of a reply anymore after that.

You sighed heavily. Your hands rested on his face as you leaned your head against the wall behind you, face craned upwards to the red sky that covered all of Hell.

Your own eyes closed, realizing just how tired and weary you yourself were.

Still, you were never one to be silent around a friend—or foe. It had always been unclear to you when it came to Alastor.

"We were soulmates, wouldn't you say so, Al?" You continued softly. "But in a funnier way, I think, where we were always meant to destroy the other."

Alastor's skin felt as it always did beneath your fingers. The stench of blood heavy as it always was around him. You felt his familiar eerie presence by you, as you always did.

And yet, you were unsure if he actually was still there. You were quite conflicted about how you were supposed to feel about that, truth be told.

"Fuck you, old friend." You sighed, eyes remaining closed, smile tiredly stretching across your own lips.

[clangenrising]

Month 13 - Newleaf

“Ghost!” shouting and the clattering sound of someone scrambling up the loose metal roof of the shed woke Ghost up from his sleep with a start. He groaned, the sudden movement tugging at the stiff scar-flesh on his side. “Ghost! Ghost, are you here?!” 

“Yes!” he shouted back, sounding like a poked bear. Groaning again, he stood and slipped out from his nap spot tucked in between two warm, silver vents and onto the roof proper. He squinted at the ginger shape hauling itself over the edge of the roof, his left eye still mostly swollen shut from the hot and tender scarring on his cheek. Once she stood, he recognized Lizzie from her alert and dutiful posture, although he noted the way her pupils were blown wide and her tail was half bristled. 

“Sorry to wake you, sir!” she said loudly. “I have urgent news!” 

“What is it?” he asked, running his tongue over his chest fur tiredly. He really didn’t want to have more problems to deal with right now and her natural volume wasn’t helping his ever present headache. 

“There are wild cats in the city!” she reported and he immediately looked up. 

“Have they killed anyone?” he asked, heart starting to pound.

“No, sir, rumor has it they’re here to talk to Razor!” 

Ghost sighed in disappointment. “This won’t end well…” he grumbled. “How many of them?” 

“Two, sir, both elderly she-cats,” said Lizzie. 

“What?” His fur bristled.

“Two elderly she-cats, sir,” the girl repeated, her eyes darting up to the places where his ears used to be. Milo had taken extra satisfaction in tearing each of them to shredded stumps. 

Ghost shook his head to get a grip. “Right. What did they look like?” 

“Um,” Lizzie hesitated thoughtfully. “The bigger one was white and grey, the smaller one all grey.” 

“Shit,” Ghost cussed, lurching towards the edge of the roof with a brisk but wobbly walk. “And you said they were going to see Razor?” 

“Yes, sir,” Lizzie said. He could hear the confusion in her voice, the question she held back. Jagg would have asked it, he thought, ‘do they mean something to you?’ He thanked the Folk for Lizzie’s obedient nature. 

“Thank you, Lizzie,” he said, leaping down onto the roof of the shed. It rattled loudly, making him wince, and he quickly bounded from there to the ground. He didn’t wait for her to respond or follow, he just started moving. 

What was she doing here? The description could only be Miss Smoke but he had no idea what business she would have with Razor. Had she come to see him instead and been intercepted? Were the Clans surrendering? Either way, he knew that she was not going to be safe until she left the city. His muscles burned in protest as he darted across roads and under fences, cutting the shortest path he could to Razor’s yard. 

He slowed right before he reached the hedges and peered through the leaves. Razor was lounging on the edge of the slightly raised deck, Gingersnap sitting bolt upright behind him. Tiger sat close by on the grass and ahead of them stood Sardine and Smokyrose, another Clan cat Ghost couldn’t name close behind. 

Smokyrose was speaking. “-conditions for peace. If you have a list of terms, I can bring it back to Goldenstar and we can start moving towards an equitable solution.” She sounded unsure of herself but trying her best. 

“Hmm,” Razor said, regarding her with slit pupils and a tail twitching with interest. “I’d love to speak to Goldenstar myself. Would that be possible?” 

Smokyrose nodded, getting a little bolder. “It’s definitely a possibility. If you give me a time and place I can try and arrange a meeting.” She seemed so naively unaware of Razor’s true intentions. Something inside Ghost kicked in to high gear and he found himself striding out towards the gathered cats. All eyes turned to him, Razor’s narrowing darkly. 

Smokyrose gasped, eyes going wide. “Ghost! Oh, Stars, what happened to you?” She hurried in his direction, ears pressed back, gaze flickering over every bruised and battered inch of him. 

“Uh,” he didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what his plan had been, only knew that he couldn’t leave her alone with Razor any longer. He watched the tom’s face, paralyzed, as Smokyrose came to hover around him. Razor smiled. 

“I didn’t realize you two were acquainted,” he said. Ghost heard the dangerous interest in his voice but Smokyrose, bless her soul, didn’t know any better. 

She turned back to him and said, “Oh, yes. Ghost and I are-” she paused, looking back at him, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes, “we know each other.” Guilt sank its claws into his throat and pulled down until it was tight and painful to swallow. 

“Is that so?” mused Sardine. 

“Yes,” Ghost said carefully. He looked at Smokyrose, her pretty face pinched in a worried pout, and whispered, “Miss Smoke, you really shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe.” 

“Not safe?” she whispered back, louder than he would have liked. “Ghost, what happened to you?” 

“Let me explain,” Razor said, leaping down onto the grass. “Come here, both of you.” He beckoned with a paw as if he were going to tell them a casual secret. Smokyrose hesitated, eyes on Ghost, and Razor insisted with a, “Come onnn, it’s alright.” 

The other Clan cat growled softly, tail starting to lash. Gingersnap looked like a deer in headlights, her tail curled tightly against her body, her eyes wide, ears pressed against her skull. Ghost glanced at her briefly and she shook her head so subtly he almost missed it. Unfortunately, Smokyrose was already on her way over. Ghost followed, trying to stick close to her. 

As they reached Razor, he put his tail around Smokyrose, making eye contact with Ghost as he did. “You see, Ghost and I had a bit of a disagreement because a little birdie told me he was trying to steal my girl. This was our way of settling things, although, I’ll admit, I’m still a bit angry with him.” His tone was light and playful but it sent fear straight through Ghost’s heart. 

Smokyrose recoiled in terror. “Y-you did this to him?” Razor’s paw wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her back into him. Ghost’s jaw tensed possessively. 

“Me and a few friends of mine,” Razor said nonchalantly. “He just doesn’t listen if you ask him nicely.” 

“Razor,” Ghost tried, voice sounding small as it squeezed its way out of his throat. “Again, I’m sorry about all of that. But she has nothing to do with this.” 

“I don’t like your tone,” Razor growled. “But it’s alright. I’ve thought of something that will put the whole dispute to bed.” 

Ghost hesitated. He didn’t know where this was going but he didn’t like it. “What’s that?”

Razor smirked victoriously. “This,” he said. In a blur of movement, his other paw came up to wrap around Smokyrose’s chest. The force of the movement knocked her backwards, onto the ground, and Razor followed her, teeth flashing. Smokyrose screamed.

“Don’t-!” Ghost tried but it was too late.

Razor had his teeth clenched around her neck, one of his canines poking through the soft flesh under her chin, and with a sharp twist of his head there was a nasty snap of bone. Smokyrose choked out a cry of pain, blinking back tears. Razor adjusted his grip and twisted again, her neck giving another disgusting crunch. Her body went limp, the only movement a feeble twitching in her feet. 

Razor dropped the body to the grass and licked his lips. “There,” he said, “now we’re even.” 

Across the yard, the second Clan cat took off in a sprint for the fence. Sardine yowled and lunged after her but she leaped nimbly out of his claws and disappeared through the shrubs. 

“Dammit!” hissed Sardine. He looked back at Razor, a simmering anger slipping through his mask. 

“Well, get after her!” Razor bellowed, “she could be useful!” 

“Of course,” Sardine smiled, tail lashing bitterly, then he took off after her. 

“You too,” Razor snapped at Tiger. The ginger tabby growled but heaved himself to his feet and bounded after them. 

“Razor, how is this even!?” Ghost cried, unable to look at the cooling corpse at his feet. He was furious and queasy and tired and distraught. His mind was searching for something he could have done differently, some way she could have survived. If you hadn’t arrived, it said, he would have sent her home just fine. 

“You went after my girl, I went after yours,” Razor snorted, prodding the body. 

“You killed her!” 

“So?” Razor narrowed his eyes. “She was a savage! She deserved it. Besides, I’m sure you have plenty of other girls who are just fine.” 

Ghost couldn’t muster a retort. 

“Now get rid of this thing,” Razor said curtly. “I don’t want my Folk finding it when they get home.” He turned away and strode back towards the deck, leaving Ghost to stare down at the silent scream etched onto Smokyrose’s features, the unnatural angle of her head. 

Distantly, he heard Razor saying, “I’m sorry you had to see that, dear.” 

“I feel sick,” Gingersnap said softly. “I think I want to go home.” 

“I’ll walk you,” said Razor. 

Ghost looked up just in time to catch Gingersnap looking at him, horrified. She quickly ducked her head and slipped out of the garden at Razor’s side, leaving Ghost alone with the body. He stared numbly for a long time. 

This is what he got for caring, wasn’t it? If he’d shut Smokyrose out of his heart, if he’d stayed away, she wouldn’t have died and they both could have gone on with their miserable lives. His kits were orphans now. Well… they were practically orphans. They’d be better off orphans. It wasn’t like he would have been a good father anyway. 

He scoffed, laughing as he tilted his face to the sky. Who was he kidding? Pretending he was going to step up and be there. He was the same as he ever was, a solitary tom wishing for something he wasn’t brave enough to hold onto. He had been foolish to even think he was capable of changing. 

He bent down and took the body by the scruff, moving roughly to pull it from the garden and into some dark alley or abandoned side street. The Folk would find it and take it away and the rest of his decency with it. Good. He was better off this way.

UPDATES: - Smokyrose is murdered by Razor. - Songdust goes missing.

[mika-writes-fanfics]

As It Was

Dabi x Reader Angst

Warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, brief mentions of burns, major character death, pre-established relationship, reader cares for flowers

Synopsis: Dabi returns to you after completing his life's mission, his body now badly burned and damaged. He wonders, will you accept him with open arms? Will you take what is left of him?

Author's note: I've been on a Hozier binge. "As It Was" from Wasteland, Baby! was giving me major Dabi vibes. This is kind of different from the content I usually like to write and read, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it. Word count: 1.1K

He’s now thankful your home is on the outer reaches of the city, tucked in a secluded pocket between the border of the forest and the concrete hell of the city. After what he’s done, there’s not a person in Japan that wouldn’t recognize his face. Had you not lived in the middle of nowhere, he’d already be arrested by some weak police officer or jumped by some rookie hero. 

It’s ironic, the thinks, that his opinion has changed. He hated it, at one point. You lived so far away from his shitty apartment at the time, meaning that every time he wanted to see you, he had to take the agonizingly long train rides. It was like you lived in a fucking retirement community since all the elderly would take the same train, giving him judgemental stares all the while. It pissed him off to no end. And if that wasn’t enough, being in the forest always reminded him of Sekoto. 

But still, he bore it all for you, back before he let his rage consume him. 

Before he devoted himself entirely to revenge. 

Before he started burning himself all over again. 

Before he fucked it all up.

Despite the way he left you, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to him to accept his return, to not instantly slam the door in his face.

If he even makes it to your doorstep, that is.

Each step he takes feels like a battle between life and death. These heavy and labored movements exhaust him, made worse by the state your driveway is in. Of all the days for it to rain, it just had to be today. The torrential downpours make the path harder to traverse. Mud clings to his boots with every trudging step he takes, threatening to suck him into the earth, burying him at his final resting place. 

The puddles of water settling in the tire tracks of your car show him grim reminders of his appearance, showing him glimpses of just how ghastly he’s become.

He’s a burnt husk of what he once was.

Nothing is left of him now that he's achieved his life’s purpose. 

The only thing that remains of him is this homing instinct to return to you.

To go back to the start. 

To give you what’s left of him.

To feel his final sensation of comfort.

To feel loved again.

He’s faced with the reality of how long it’s been when he finally catches sight of your home. In the year he was by your side, he never saw those Foxgloves bloom once, as he met you in the late summer. But now, judging by the towering violet, bell-shaped flowers framing the sides of your window, it’s been three years.

It’s in this moment that his mind replays the memory of the following summer, the one in which he noticed you agonizing over the flowerless plant beds. He remembers it, with surprising clarity amongst the mental fog. 

“Why do you bother taking care of those stupid flowers if they never fucking bloom?” He asked you, critically. 

“They’re foxgloves,” you answered. 

“So?”

“So, they do bloom, just biennially, and their flowering season just passed. You’ll see why I keep ‘em around in another year,” you explained.

The fact you even implied he’d still be in your life a year from then filled him with a sense of security. Whether you meant it or not, he took it as a promise, and kept it tucked in the darker reaches of his heart. 

Three long years have passed since he left you, since he abandoned you without a word. But he has known you have a patient side to you, he’s seen it in the way you always gave him space in his darkest days, how you allowed him the time to come back to you when he was ready, how you never took his frustrating habit of pushing you away to heart, weathering his toxicity with love and carefulness. Maybe, since you’re so patient, you have been waiting for him. If you welcomed those flowers despite their long absence, maybe you’d accept him, too. 

Normally, he’d sneer at the thought of you turning him into such a hopeless romantic, a weaker version of himself, but considering how there’s nothing left of him anyways, he’s fine with the idea. Maybe the positivity you give him would turn him into something beautiful again. 

He finally climbs up to your doorstep and stumbles against the door. When his shaky and weak hands turn the knob, expecting to be met with a locked door, it turns easily without resistance. Your door is unlocked, which in his state of hopeful delusion, he interprets as you waiting for him.

Maybe you knew he would come back.

You had made it easy for him to crawl back into your life.

Or maybe you just forgot to lock it. 

He swings open the door as he leans against the door frame. Any other time, the sound of the groaning hinges would grate at his ears, but right now, the sound feels familiar and comforting. It feels like nothing has changed, everything is as it once was.

He trudges deeper into your home, shambling past your living room and tracking mud all over your floors. There’s a pit of anxiety forming in his stomach the longer he walks through your home without seeing a glimpse of you. But it’s when he approaches the kitchen that he hears you humming, the sound calming his mind. 

His boots thud on your tiled floor, loud, and uneven. He sways as he walks, bumping into one of your dining chairs, the movement scraping the chair against the floor. Your humming abruptly cuts off at the sound and you turn to the source, on high alert, only to see him propping himself up against the walls.

A sharp gasp escapes your lungs. 

All he can see is you as the edges of his vision grey out. Against your better judgment, you rush over to him as his legs start buckling underneath him.  

He starts to collapse on the spot. You close the distance and open your arms around him, catching his fall and attempting to bear the brunt of his weight. 

Despite what he’s done, despite how he left you so suddenly, he can still feel your love for him.

It’s in the way you try to make sure he doesn’t fall, despite tripping being the least concern to him given his injuries.

It’s how your voice sounds frantic as you ask him if he’s okay if he can hear you, if he’s still in there.

It’s how you start to sob at seeing the state he’s in. 

You’re so worried about getting him to lie on the ground safely and checking his pulse that you fail to see him softly smiling at how you fuss over him, what’s left of his burnt face forcing out a peaceful expression. 

The last thing he hears, the last thing he feels, the last thing he thinks about, is you.

[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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[astraeusasta]

The Loveless Soldier

Pairing: Levi Ackermann x Dying!Reader TW: Death, Mentions of Death, Mentions of infection and disease, Mentions of doctors, Slight gore. CW: Major Character Death, un-reciprocated feelings.

You are a thirty three year old soldier within the Scout Regiment. You're one of the captains and have your own squad. However, on a mission you were to team up with Levi's squad. But in the midst of battle you were injured and are now on the brink of death.

The speed of the wind hitting your face as you raced through the air. Swinging your blades around to make the strike onto the Titans nape. Spinning just as you had watched him do. Using up your gas like you could simply gather more of it immediately. But before you could reach the nape of the Titan, you were grabbed. You were grabbed. You didn’t have time to process your current situation before pain coursed through you. You shrieked as your legs were ground between the teeth of the Titan. This was the end. You told yourself as your vision became hazy and faded out. As you faded, you heard a familiar voice. A husky monotonic voice that was filled with worry and concern. “Levi?” You spoke out, your brain fuzzy as you attempted to speak. Slowly, your consciousness left you and your vision faded to black. Your body felt cold, but your mind still seemed to race as memories began to flash back to you. You were dying, you knew that much. Fading in and out of consciousness as your body lumped up and down on the carriage. You began to remember the happiest memories of your life. The thirty three years you had lived, all the happiest times. It made you smile. Even though the pain you were feeling was intense. You couldn’t help it.

You could still hear his voice. The faint sounds of him and a few others. Telling you not to leave. The faint sound of crying. Levi was someone special to you. He never seemed to notice when people took interest in him, or maybe he just never cared for that sort of thing. Despite his stoic and distant exterior, he wasn’t like that at all. Well he was. But his words carried meaning and care. He was honest, not mean. He was strict because he cared. He didn’t want people to die or to leave. Even though he said he wanted to keep things professional, he’d try to make you laugh in the dark times when you grieved over loss. His sweet words of comfort during those nights when you couldn’t sleep. You often had nightmares about the visions of those who had died. He understood the guilt of the survivor, he seemed to carry that weight too. He would never let a comrade shoulder the weight on their own, even if it seemed like he wanted them too.

Slowly, your consciousness began to return. Though still hazy. You felt the pain subsiding, as if it was fading into the background. You wanted to live, truly. Though not for yourself, or your family. For the idea that he might care for you in the same way - that he might want to be with you. It was a foolish thought with how little he seemed to care for those around him. You fought the urge to slip back into your somber sleep, for him. You noticed him beside you, it seemed he’d injured himself also. You chuckled as best you could, though you began coughing. “Don’t laugh. You’ll only injure yourself more. We’re going to get you back and see a doctor. You don’t have your legs but your family will be pleased to see you’ve lived.” He spoke calmly, though from his expression you knew he was far from. You’d lost a lot of blood, you could tell from the weakness in your body. Your voice was hoarse and practically gone from the screaming you had endured. You smiled at him warmly. “Did you take them? My legs?” You tried to joke, though it didn’t seem to make any sense. You noticed he grimaced at you. “Bad timing?” You continued. Levi sighed at you. “As always..”. You laughed a little, coughing once again. “I said don’t laugh.” He was more stern this time. You nodded.

You were struggling to stay conscious as you were rushed into your room by Levi. He had carried you the whole way there and contacted a doctor. He was denying how close you truly were to your death. “Levi…” You spoke out as he tried to leave. He turned back to you, a questioning look on his face. “Is something the matter?” He asked, looking for anything wrong physically. “No. There isn’t.” You replied. Your words sputter. He grimaced again, cringing at the bit of blood that came out of your mouth as you sputtered. “Then what?” He spoke again. Looking at you with concern. “Could you stay for a bit? I’d appreciate the company.” Shock cleansed his expression before he relaxed and his stoic front softened around its edges. He sat down on the chair next to your bed. Crossing one of his legs over the other as he usually did. Looking at you with an expression that you hadn’t seen before.

“You know, Levi. I’m not going to live through this.” Your words took him aback, did you want to die? He looked at you but his eyes seemed to jitter as he looked at you. His brows furrowing, his body becoming stiff and defensive. “Why would you say that? Do you want to die?” Panic hinted in his tone, though mostly anger. You couldn’t help but smile at his words. Though he looked even more frustrated when you smiled. “I don’t want to die..truly. But I’ve lost too much blood. Even if I were to live. I’d have to live my life cautiously. I couldn’t do that. Don’t you think I deserve to live my life to the fullest? I think I’ve achieved my purpose. No?” He was shocked, you were always so positive. So cheerful. To see you in such a state must have been a hit with reality. Have you always thought this way? Why didn’t you tell him? He was a close friend to you, right? His own thoughts seemed to race through his brain as he tried to wrack the appropriate response to your answer.

“I think you’ve still got a lot to live for. Your family, your comrades. You’re an asset to humanity.” He spoke, you looked down at where your legs should be and then back towards him. “Oh Levi…” The soft spoken warm words fell from your mouth like nectar. You sighed lovingly, looking at him with sparks in your eyes. Reaching out a weak arm towards him, holding out your hand. You shook your head. He was confused. He couldn’t understand why you would want people to suffer the pain of your loss, for people to experience sadness when you could live. “Even if I were to live. I wouldn’t be happy.” That's when it hit him, he looked at where your legs should be too. You were amputated at the top of the thigh. You basically had nothing left. You’d be bed bound for the rest of your life. “I understand.” He took your hand now. Firmly gripping it. Not tight enough to hurt. You were weak as of.

Hours passed and you both sat in a lul of silence. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t comfortable either. It was just silence. Slowly, the pain began to resurface. Your face scrunching. A low groan escaping your mouth as it began to intensify - the adrenaline wearing off. “The pain has returned, I see?” You nodded in response to him. “You can squeeze my hand if you need.” If only you could. This was the closest you had ever been physically to the man that held your heart. You knew he probably didn’t feel the same. You thought you’d tell him, but in this moment the pain was too much to speak.

More hours passed. The doctors had arrived and gave the diagnosis. You were not to survive longer than a few more hours, maybe a few days if you were lucky. Your legs were infected and there was no way to cure it or get rid of it in time with the equipment they had brought with them. People came in to say their final goodbyes to you. You didn’t cry. You knew this was your fate. Everyone has to die at some point. He stayed with you the entire time. Levi. He was kind enough to anyway. You had told him you wanted company and he didn’t fail to provide it.

Once the final person had said their goodbye, you’d realized how weak your body had gotten. You could feel the heaviness of your eyes in their sockets, the dryness of your skin. He approached the chair and sat down. Sighing as he looked at you. “You were an excellent soldier. You put your life at risk to save others when you didn’t have to. You always cared more for how others felt than your own feelings. You sat with me during nights, even if you had to lie about having nightmares just to keep me company. Your comedic timing is horrible, though I can’t say much. It’s odd to see you in such a vulnerable position without that bright smile on your face. It made me feel sick how cheerful you could be even when you were grieving. It was creepy, you know that?” You chuckled even though it hurt to do so. The sepsis is beginning to kick in. “Even so, you were an asset to humanity. You helped. So even if you don’t feel it yourself. Please remember you were not a burden on us. We’ll remember you forever.” It wasn’t like Levi to cry, you felt you could see a small tear drip down the man's face. Though that might have been the hazy fog that clouded your own vision as tears finally began to stream down your voice.

“Thank you. Levi. It’s only polite for me to say my feelings about you now.” He nodded in understanding, listening contently. His attention is appointed towards you and you only. “Captain Levi. The strongest soldier humanity could ever hope for. Though you act cold and distant towards everyone - rarely ever sharing information about yourself. You spoke the truth and nothing but, putting your life in jeopardy to save others just like I. Selfless is the best word I could use to describe you. With everything we’ve been through, you’ve stuck by me. Regardless of how many shitty jokes I make.” You laughed again, this time coughing as you sputtered up more blood. Concern laced his expression but you continued. “In a way, I admired you. Though not in the way I believe you hope.” Slowly you began to feel nausea take over, dizzy and lightheaded. A black haze began to fog your vision. Your voice wavering and faltering as your breathing became rapid and hoarse. You could hear each breath and the way it scraped across your throat.

“Levi..I love you.” But those would be the final words you ever said. The man who sat by your side now shocked with nothing more than reliving a past experience. You loved him? Maybe this was meant platonic-ally? He thought but given your previous statement of it not being how he’d hoped. This was obviously not the case. Even if you knew your time had come, in your final moments you choose to confess your true feelings to someone. Even if they didn’t feel the same. You were cruel. Levi thought to himself. He didn’t feel that way about you, but now he wished he had as in your final moments he’d be able to say he reciprocated, if the myths are true and your mind is still conscious for a bit after you die. You’d be able to hear him.

“I am sorry, but..I do not reciprocate those feelings.”

[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.

[hmshermitcraft]

Scar has permanent hearing and vision loss from when the WIther chased him - most notably in his right side. Everyone who participate din the games for guilty for not helping him.

Mumbo brushes away the hair from his face and kisses him, ensuring him it's all going to be okay, and he'll make some hearing aids for Scar

They tried their best, but in a world where wounds don't heal as they should, they didn't realise this would happen. Grian feels absolutely terrible, despite Scar's insistence that it wasn't his fault. He probably would've been better if he died to it, before the injuries had a chance to stick.

Luckily, he's already an ace at wearing a monocle. Hearing aids won't be that hard to master as well!

(Mumbo knows, right there, Scar is going to forget to charge them all the time. And when he doesn't forget, he'll have lost them. He'll make sure to put a tracker in to ping when they're missing...)

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 28: Scars

Week 4 of this bullshit. Only 3 more days left to go! Enjoy.

This is a direct continuation of Day 6: No Where to Go.

TW: painkillers, anesthesia mention, death mention, surgery, burn scars, mentioned abuse

Hero awoke slowly, their thoughts moving sluggishly through their tired mind. Their eyelids were heavier than bricks, but they forced them open, unease and uncertainty roiling in their stomach. The harsh lights overhead hurt their eyes, and they squinted, trying to filter out the brightness and make out their surroundings.

“Oh, you’re awake now.”

Hero turned their head, finding Villain leaning over them. They realized they were sprawled on a flat, uncomfortable surface. Villain’s head was bowed, their concentration intent upon Hero’s side. Hero tried to see what they were looking at, but they couldn’t raise their head.

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t sedate you enough,” Villain mumbled, reaching for something out of sight. “You were already unconscious, so I had to estimate. I think I gave you enough analgesics though. Does it hurt?”

Hero realized with a sudden jolt of fear that they couldn’t move anything but their eyes and head. Were their arms tied down? They couldn’t feel any restraints… “N… no…” they whispered through numb lips.

Villain nodded, distracted. Their hand returned, now clutching a pair of tweezers with gloved hands. The gloves were splattered with blood. “That’s good. Let me know if that changes. It’s not gonna be fun once they wear off.”

Hero swallowed, eyes darting about the room. The walls were exposed brick, and the only lighting appeared to be the one directly overhead, illuminating Villain’s work. Whatever that work was. Was the blood on their hands Hero’s? The only exit appeared to be a door to Hero’s right, behind Villain.

Metal clicked on metal, and Hero’s eyes darted back as Villain exhaled in relief. “Got the bullet out. Now I just gotta stitch you up and give you some more analgesics and maybe some anesthesia.”

Their words sounded almost foreign to Hero. The only thing they understood through the hazy fog was that Villain… seemed to be helping them? “O… okay….”

Villain worked in silence for a few minutes. Hero still couldn’t see what they were doing, so they gazed at Villain instead. Sometime between when Hero had passed out in that dark alley and when they’d woken up in this room, Villain had removed their mask. Their hair had been hastily pulled back, and Hero could clearly see their profile.

They looked normal enough at first, but as Hero’s eyes adjusted to the harsh lighting, they noticed the long, dark scar snaking down Villain’s face. It was old, blending in with their skin tone, but unmistakably a burn scar.

As if in response, the skin on Hero’s upper back tingled, where one of their allies had grazed them during a training session. They’d been drilling reflexes by launching small fireballs at Hero nonstop until they got hit. Once they did, the ally chastised Hero and ordered them to go to the medical bay. They didn’t even help Hero to their feet.

The incident had been almost a month and a half ago, and the burn still wasn’t fully healed. The affected skin itched constantly, especially when Hero tried to sleep. But Hero’s team leader refused to give them anything besides a small amount of aloe on the grounds of ‘building pain tolerance.'

It was all bullshit, as Hero later learned when they broached the idea of taking a break from the team for a little while. None of their ‘allies’ had responded well.

Hero closed their eyes. They didn’t know how long they were trapped in the team headquarters before escaping and fleeing to Villain’s section of the city. They barely remembered most of it, and they didn’t want to. But thinking of it brought images of Whumper, of them beating and belittling Hero for their weakness.

But Whumper was dead now.

Villain had shot them.

Villain had saved Hero.

As if in response to Hero’s thoughts, Villain spoke. “Alright,” they said softly, “I’m done.”

Hero opened their eyes. Villain massaged the sides of their temples, bloody gloves removed. “You’re one stubborn person, Hero,” they said, mouth cracking into an exhausted grin.

“Uh… tha… thank you….”

A look of concern crossed Villain’s face. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, both from the gunshot and…” they gestured to the various cuts and bruises all over Hero’s body. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you woke up at all. I patched up the worst of it, but you’re gonna be recovering for a while.”

Hero blinked, the memory of their team leader fresh in their mind. “Are… are we… safe… here…?”

Villain glanced over their shoulder to the door. A beat of silence passed before they answered. “Yeah, pretty sure. We’re in one of my safe houses right now, no one saw us come in. And the only one who saw you come to me is now dead in an alley which—” they grimaced— “isn’t going to bode well for me whether or not your former team connects the dots.”

“...I’m… I’m sorry I…”

Villain held up their hands, scowling. “Do not apologize. You needed help, you still need help, and I promise you: I’m not gonna let those assholes lay a finger on you. Understand?”

Hero nodded to the best of their ability. Their movement was still limited, but they had begun to regain sensation in their fingers and toes. They wiggled them experimentally. It was like moving someone else’s hand.

The motion caught Villain’s eye, and they smacked the side of their head. “Right. Analgesics. I’ll be right back, you do not want the painkillers to wear off anytime soon.”

Hero watched them leave. They slowly exhaled, trying to calm their racing nerves.

They were safe.

Villain had promised.

Everything would be okay.

Part 1 | Part 3

[dont-blame-it-on-the-kids]

Feel You in My Bones

Even when wounds are scarred over, when time has passed and she’s grown older, she still feels them in her bones.

TW Assault, Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Self Harm, Domestic Abuse, Drowning

/Ao3 Plink/

Scar Study of Lin by @mgthejerkbender

(commissioned by me for my hc lmao)

[half-deadmagicperson]

Another Animatic

I'm back with another animatic!!!!

This one is a cute one and my longest so far. How ever, there is still major (non graphic) character death so be warned.

Anyways I really enjoyed make this!!! Also, I don't own the characters or the song just my pen and tablet.

Song: Haunt You by X Lovers ft. Chloe Moriono

Show: Danny Phantom

[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!

[the-last-quest]

Shadow was tired.

He just needed to wait until morning.

He just needed to not look at the mass in the center of the room.

(Sonic dhmis au)

[1456 words]

Tw: Major Character Death, brief description of injuries (it’s mostly left to imagination)

Shadow was tired

Kneeling on the tiled floor of the kitchen it was taking every bit of him to not close his eyes. To not let himself succumb to the cool release of sleep.

Or death.

Whichever came first.

Today’s lesson had been a brutal one, though Shadow supposes most of the lessons were brutal.

It started when he and Tails were cooking lunch, when the kid had accidentally nicked himself with the knife. Of course that caused a lesson to start. The teacher, this time taking the form of a talking knife block, preached to them all the joys of kitchen safety. Which then, of course, led to the two of them having to dodge multiple sharp kitchen utensils.

Shadow didn’t come out of that unscathed. He took a hit from a knife that was clearly aiming to take out Tails. At the time it was worth it to him, saving the fox from the pain from the blade. The large gash on his side bearable as long as he saved the kid from death at that moment.

Now though he wished he let Tails die then.

Gritting his teeth Shadow pushed himself off of the floor. Shooting pain emerged from his wound, but he bore through it. He’d handled worse before, not joking when he said lessons were brutal. He just had to leave the kitchen. If Shadow was going to bleed out he wasn’t going to do it with that looking straight at him.

The lesson didn’t end with the knives. They never ended with the knives. With Tails being the one who started the lesson the teacher’s attention was solely on the fox, and with Shadow already injured there wasn’t much he could do to protect the boy. He doesn’t know if he should be happy that the lesson ended at the blender before the teacher even acknowledged the overheating oven.

Using the wall for support Shadow kept his eyes glued to the ground as he made his way out of the kitchen. He didn’t want to see what remained of the fox again. It was bad enough the first time, as he watched the unfolding of the lesson, not being able to do anything about it.

As Shadow was just about to reach the doorframe, just about to leave the chaos forsaken room he stopped. He could feel the eyes on him, watching him as he left it all alone. He couldn’t do that, as much as he wanted to leave and wait until morning, to have his memories of this day fade into a dull ache in the back of his mind. He just couldn’t leave. Sighing he mentally prepared himself, turning to look at the center of the kitchen.

Shadow couldn’t call it a body, refusing to even think of the life the mass used to hold. The only thing that remained intact was the head. It was a cruel joke he supposed, something the teacher did to ensure the lesson stuck.

Blue eyes seemed to haunt Shadow.

First it was Maria on the Ark. Even with his memories of the outside world growing fuzzy he still remembered his sister and her eyes. He remembered the wonder they held when she looked down at the Earth, the love that he left when she looked at him, the pain as her life faded away.

Now it was a different pair of eyes, but to him they meant the same thing. The eyes that at first marveled at the new world they found themselves in, before either of them knew what it held in store, the eyes that constantly sought him out for some semblance of stability after they figured it out, the eyes that he had to watch constantly fade because he couldn’t save him.

That's how they were now, a brilliant blue faded to a dull gray.

Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. Swiping them away angrily, Shadow growled at himself. He shouldn’t feel like this. He knew this was going to happen. He knew that by the end of the day one, or both of them would end up dead. He’s been through this enough times by now that he knows he can’t change anything. He knows that he can’t save anyone.

So why does he feel like this? Why does he feel a paralyzing helplessness whenever one of those damn teachers comes to life? Why does he feel so guilt ridden over something he knows he has no control of because he himself is a victim? Why does he feel the same way he did back on the Ark?

Shadow sinks down against the wall, as those same questions swirl through his mind. Over and over again. The same questions never relenting. He knows the answer to them. He knows why, but he can’t bring himself to admit it. If he does things would change. It would just give them more ways to inflict pain and there was no way that he would ever give them that opportunity.

Right now though there’s nothing they can do. The lesson for the day was done, the sun having already set below the horizon. Morning needs to come again.

Knowing this Shadow gives up. He allows the tears to flow down his cheeks. His sobs irritated his already sore throat, his heaving breaths causing even more pain to spout from his wound. He doesn’t care though nobody is watching him, the only eyes open right now are ones that don’t matter.

Those eyes aren’t seeing anything. They won’t think he’s weak because he failed to protect someone. They won't remember it in the morning when they seek him out for comfort. Right now he can let everything out. He can fall apart and by morning he’ll be put back together again.

He cries until his lungs give up on him, when the blood loss finally makes itself apparent. He opens his eyes and finds the other ones staring back at him. He knows his will look the same soon.

Shadow lets himself drift off, the night finally winning.

~~~~~~~~

Somewhere, up above, gloved hands pick up two figures out of a small model kitchen.

They take care to fix them up, the fox figure having more repairs needed than usual, while the hedgehog only had a scratch.

Placing the figures into a model bedroom, the hands making sure to tuck the fox into bed. It’s the least they can do.

Sighing they begin to turn the crank.

The model house spins around while distant piano notes play a repeating tune.

It’s morning once again.

~~~~~~~~

Shadow was in his bed again. A small bit of light shining through his eyelids told him it was still early, the sun's rays just peeking over the horizon.

Taking a deep breath he let himself enjoy the moment. The peace that came with the early morning the only time he could find himself getting the closest to a semblance of relaxation. He knew the silence wouldn’t last forever so he took this time to enjoy it.

As if right on que soft footsteps made their way over to Shadow’s bed. Without opening his eyes he lifted the blanket, inviting Tails in. The bed dipped as the kid crawled under the blanket, curling up against the hedgehog, gripping onto his dark fur as if his life depended on it. As if Shadow could save it.

Lowering his arm, Shadow pulled Tails closer. He doesn’t know for whose benefit it was, they both needed it.

Time continued to pass as they lay together, the sun coming up over the horizon, the alarm ready to go off in any moment.

Tails shrunk into him, shaking as it drew nearer for them to leave the comfort of the bed. The kid didn’t cry though. He hadn’t cried in a long time. Shadow doesn’t think that’s a good thing.

Running his fingers through yellow fur Shadow tried to calm the fox, even though his anxiety was also rising. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened yesterday but he knows it was bad seeing that Tails sought him out this morning.

Today he’s going to make sure he takes the brunt of the lesson. He’s made this vow before, but this time he’s going to try harder, to draw the focus of the teachers towards him.

Because deep down, even if he would never admit it, Shadow cared for Tails. He cares for the kid that is stuck in this eternal torment with him. Even though it will kill him, Shadow will try his hardest to protect him.

Tails was his brother now and he’d be damned if he had to watch another sibling die in front of him.

[clangenrising]

Month 10 - Leafbare

“Yarrowshade?” Nightfrost asked softly. Yarrowshade immediately lifted his head from where he had been sleeping, the two of them curled around to rest on each others’ flanks. 

“Yes?” he asked, ready to do whatever she wanted. The snow had prevented anyone from harvesting horsetail. A storm had rolled in again after Sagetooth had returned, delaying Branchbark’s expedition to try and find any. Luckily, today had lots of sun and no new snow, thawing the drifts enough that sometimes grass was visible between them again. Branchbark had left earlier that day to go looking. The others had agreed to handle the border patrols and Goldenstar was taking care of Barleypaw’s training for the time being, which he was grateful for. 

As much as he hated to think about it, everyone seemed to think that Nightfrost wasn’t long for the world and he wanted to spend as much time with her as he could. He wanted to believe she would get better but if she didn’t he couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone. 

Nightfrost smacked her lips a bit, wincing at the taste of her nap, and asked, “Are you also feeling really warm?” Her voice was faint and woozy which worried him. 

“No, I’m not,” he shook his head, “are you feeling really warm?” 

“Yeah,” she mumbled, laying her head back down on his side. 

“Maybe I should get Sagetooth,” he said, shifting to get up and she whimpered. 

“No, don’t,” she moaned. “Please stay.” 

Guilt weighing down his gut, Yarrowshade settled back down. “Okay, I’ll stay.” He sat there for a long moment, watched her shut her eyes and grimace in discomfort, and felt her heartbeat thumping quickly against him. Something was wrong. 

“Sagetooth!” he called, disliking the worry that wobbled in his voice. 

“What is it?” she asked, sounding cranky as ever. She limped around the corner of the burrow from where she had been resting in her nest. Like Nightfrost, her paws had been bound with cobwebs to keep them clean. 

“Nightfrost says she’s feeling very warm,” he said. 

“Fever,” she grunted, expression darkening. Carefully, she made her way over and sniffed at Nightfrost’s paws. She stepped back, nodding solemnly. “Definitely infected.” Nightfrost whimpered and shifted uncomfortably in the nest. Somewhere deeper in the den, Oddstripe coughed. Yarrowshade hated how much the situation reminded him of the time that cats were sick with the Red Gut plague.

“What can we do?” he asked.

“We can cool her down with snow,” Sagetooth shrugged. “I can give her some borage, maybe poppy seeds. Other than that… there’s not much to be done until Branchbark returns with the horsetail.” 

“Okay,” he nodded. “You get her some borage, I’ll grab some snow.” 

“Here,” she said, limping over to the herb stores. “Take a pumpkin leaf and fill it.” Very carefully, he pulled himself out from underneath Nightfrost and she whined again. 

“No, don’t go,” she pleaded. 

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he said, pressing a few licks to her forehead. Stars, she was burning up. He moved to join Sagetooth and take the pumpkin leaf she was offering. As he took it, he whispered, “How long does she have if he doesn’t show?” 

Sagetooth sighed. “Hours. You should prepare to surrender her to StarClan.” 

Yarrowshade’s stomach twisted sickly. He nodded and took the leaf outside to fill it with snow. His mind was far away and his eyes refused to focus. He felt like he was floating out of his body and out of time. 

You should prepare to surrender her to StarClan.

The word surrender made him feel ill. How could she ask that of him? He had only recently been able to call Nightfrost his and now he was being forced to let her go. He had never been one to give up. He had never been one to stop fighting. If there was something worth saving he would always fight for it until he couldn’t physically move. But this was an illness. What was there to do? He had no way to fight. 

He thought back to something he had told Goldenstar when Toadpaw had been taken. I’m just tired of losing cats and being powerless to stop it. 

Feeling that tiredness in a foggy haze around his mind, he bunched the leaf up in his teeth and brought the snow back into the den. Sagetooth showed him how to close the leaf shut with a bit of cobwebs and then handed him the borage and instructed him how to feed them to her. He did so then gently returned to the position they had been in before, curled close so he could feel her heart beating against him. He carefully placed the leaf of snow onto her forehead and she sighed in relief, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. 

Please, StarClan, he begged wordlessly, let Branchbark return in time.

He let her rest. Words passed through his brain, a thousand different ways to start a conversation with her, but none of them felt important enough to disturb her. They would all be for his benefit and none of them would be as satisfying as he might hope. Eventually the snow melted and he very carefully groomed the water from her fur and tossed the leaf to the side. At one point he hummed a tune for her and she smiled. 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed. He started to doze unintentionally but was woken when she suddenly twisted and whimpered. 

“Nightfrost?” he asked. She was breathing hard and her heart was hammering against her ribs. 

“So cold,” she breathed, trying to pull him closer. He licked her fur the wrong way, trying to warm her up the only way he knew how. 

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Branchbark should be here soon, just hold on.” 

Nightfrost whined and pressed herself close against his flank. “Yarrowshade?” she asked.

“Yes?” 

“Can you sing again?” 

“Of course, my love,” he said, starting humming the tune from before. He nuzzled close to her, tried to press his weight comfortingly against her. Her breath was shaky now, starting to falter. Her hammering heart beat began to slow. His whole chest tightened in anticipation. She could pull through this, he told himself, she was the strongest of all of them. 

She twitched sharply, eyes opening, and stared blankly at the ceiling. She twitched again. Her heart beat slowed to a crawl and faded. He held his breath, searching for it, for the sound of her breath rasping in her throat. She laid silent and still against his side. 

He choked down a sob. “Nightfrost?” he asked. Silence. He wasn’t brave enough to ask again. Closing his eyes, he pressed his chin against her, held her close. He didn’t cry very often but now the grief shook his whole chest and constricted his throat. Tears rolled down his nose and into her fur. Distantly, he registered Sagetooth peering around the corner of the den and was somewhat relieved when she disappeared again. He grit his teeth and wept. 

That night, Branchbark returned with the horsetail.

UPDATES: - Nightfrost's frostbite becomes infected. She does not survive.

[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.