#Boxing Injuries

[rubydracogirl]

I’m gonna ramble about one of my favorite Gravity Falls headcanons because I haven’t seen anyone mention or bring it up.

So, I’m curious, does anyone think that maybe the reason why Stan has such big ears that stick out so much is due to his experience with boxing? It’s true that he could just genetically have big ears, but from what I’ve observed, Ford’s ears don’t seem to stick out with the same prominence.

I’m not a medical professional and I don’t have a background with boxing/wrestling myself, but I know someone who did MMA and Krav Maga training for a few years. She developed a very mild case of cauliflower ear; the cartilage of her ear is calloused and curls in slightly. (It’s only noticeable if you really look for it.)

I think Stan has a pretty severe case of cauliflower ear that caused both enlargement and for the cartilage to roll forward, so his ears stick out. It’s undeniable that any fight training or participation is extremely hard on your body, especially if you don’t have access to medical attention, and I can’t help but think that a lot of his health problems are due to his experience with boxing, such as the fact that he wears dentures and hearing aids even though he’s allegedly in his early 60’s.

Now, I know that during the montage in ATOTS, you can see the progression of his age and his ears get bigger as he ages, which is something that naturally occurs without outside influence, but again, Ford’s ears don’t seem to stick out as much as Stan’s do even though they’re the same age.

I think this implies that Stan kept boxing while he was in Gravity Falls, (the boxing paraphernalia in his room seems to support this). Regular trauma to your body will have a physical effect the longer you expose yourself to it, and I think that’s what happened to Stan.

Anyways, I don’t know, maybe I’m overanalyzing, or maybe this just isn’t that remarkable, but I haven’t seen any mention of this, and I just wanted to bring it up because I think that, even if I’m incorrect, Stan’s exaggerated prominent ears, hearing aids and dentures are interesting details since Stan is the twin that took more to boxing/close combat training.

[freaksbuzz]

How To Protect Nose In Boxing And Avoid Injuries

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

Mikey skeletal anatomy! Click for better quality

Box turtles are the kinds of turtles who can fully fit into and close their shells along a single hinge in their plastron, which once closed is extremely hard to break into for any kind of predator especially if they cannot get a proper grip on the dome of the shell. Box turtles are also usually found in plains rather than ponds, and while they need water to survive and keep hydrated and can swim well, they’re not generally considered aquatic. Box turtles do have an interesting adaptation due to their more northern range of being able to survive freezing temperatures for a short period of time by slowing their metabolism outside of seasonal brumation (similar to hibernation, but more of a dormant state) if absolutely needed.

After watching TMNT ‘03 where the turtles meditate to save oxygen and prevent suffocation in a broken airlock, I thought, why not mix their ninja ability to conceal their body heat and breath and mix it with a turtles natural ability to brumate? Perhaps the brothers could enter into a completely dormant state on command with enough training in order to survive extreme situations or astral project in some form. Just a fun thought to tie their strong mystic powers with their physical abilities!

Although I use the term heterothermy to refer to them being able to vary between generating their own body heat while active and relying on environmental temperature while inactive, the intricacies of understanding thermal regulation in animals eludes me. If there’s a term that fits better, go ahead! I’m not a biologist so you probably know better lol

These are all my personal head cannons! You can use em’ as reference or not, whichever you prefer :)

[General][Raph][Donnie][Leo][Splinter]

[el-cabroncito]

This photo has done irreversible damage to my psyche. If I had to take a guess I’m thinking it’s from Sachsenring 2021 but I’m not actually sure. Like he normally keeps it together in Parc ferme and in front of cameras but if it is Sachsenring his body would have been in a lot of pain he he would have been so high on painkillers but also just the emotion of it all

[non-newtonian-id]

this is complete insanity on my part because i thought about PIDW!Shang Qinghua a little too much but

he and PIDW!Mu Qingfang were in love. to me.

they never actual got together before og!sqh died but there was mutual pining happening

trust, i spoke to airplane himself (<- guy being delusional about two double fictional characters (characters that are fictional within a factional setting))

[sickficideas]

I NEED your Al/astor hc's please! He is also my fav and Im dying out here from lack of sickfic

omg of couuurseee💖 he's a prime candidate for being miserable

- this dubbed comic (which is delicious by the way 10/10 recommend) put me on board horribly seasick alastor lol...i think he doesn't really get motion sickness otherwise but on boats he feels like he's dying. unbearable nausea that is not easily remedied by anything. i think when he was alive it was much more manageable. Just a little nausea, and certainly something he'd never admit being from Louisiana but now there's absolutely no hiding it :))

- i think he hates throwing up, not in the emetophobic way, i think he just hates dealing with it. in an "i need to get this over with as soon as possible" kind of way

- does Not ❌️ like people touching him when he's sick or injured. in general not a fan of physical contact but in these instances especially. however when he truly can't do anything to help himself, he'll slowly lower his walls to let people help him, but certain things are still absolutely off limits

- when things are really bad. high fever, awful injury... and he's not all mentally there he'll start talking about his mom, or when mistaking people taking care of him as his mother 🥺 absolutely heartbreaking to anyone around to witness it. he said it once to charlie and she cried her eyes out poor thing. she knows his mother used to take good care of him

- i also love the idea of him being really good at taking care of other people because of his mother 🥺 him being sweet and helpful is very off putting to the majority of the hotel residents lol angel dust is creeped out by it

I have another ask with a request for alastor headcanons as well so I'll make some more on that one :))

[blusical]

The 2024 Paris Olympics: Images of the Moment

(sorry for the weirdness, tumblr only allows 30 images so i had to combine them)

[corrodedbisexual]

"For your modesty, dude"

[slightly-warmer-hibiscus-tea]

weird request but maybe blood-stained Ais with flowers in his hair? Something lovely to go with the violence.

Also, I really love your art by the way!

First off, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!❤️🥲

Secondly, I’m currently Obsessed with this idea! Though my table is almost at 10%, my pen is dead, and it’s 5am. So I’m gonna take a break (and probably a nap) and finish this once everyone is charged and ready to go again. Thank you very much for this ask. I’m going to rotate this in my sleep😤❤️

[valverii]

ENTER ARAHABAKI

NEW AU in which amateur boxer atsushi is roped into helping unravel an underground boxing ring. how he plans to accomplish that? fighting his way to the top. (of course i’m dropping chuuya’s design first but this au may be shin soukoku centric. unless.)

[dailymakotonaegi]

[distinctlywhumpthing]

First Night Home pt. 1

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Aiden wishes he could know the way home by heart. Feel a sense of comfort, that indescribable pull, as familiarity marks the closing distance to the place where he belongs. It’s a foolish, naked yearning. One that hangs in the spotlight of his focus a moment too long, leaving him feeling just as exposed. 

He spreads his fingers on his legs to stop from curling them into fists. Curling his toes in his shoes is a cheap substitute for grounding himself but at least it keeps that look off Leo’s face. 

The one that confirms Aiden is a burden he didn’t sign up for, companion or not. 

“Almost there,” Leo says, pulling away from a stop sign and turning left. 

His stomach drops and he turns toward the window to hide his face. 

Just like the first night, he has no idea what to expect when they arrive. He should be able to grant Leo a fraction of the trust he has felt but is always unable to find when he needs it most. It’s overwhelmed too easily, road salt cloudy headlights on an unlit route, feeble light swallowed by darkness before it can illuminate anything more than the rush of pavement before it disappears. His catastrophizing is stunted by exhaustion but the longer they drive down the winding roads, the more his stomach knots and twists, anticipation-turning-to-dread the only mile marker he has. He worries about losing to his nausea, as much as a passenger in his body as he is in the car, heading toward the inevitable. 

When Leo turns off the road, Aiden panics even more, scanning the row of four identical condos, porch lights still casting a dim glow in the pre-dawn light. He doesn’t recognize anything, except Leo’s work van at the end of the shared driveway. Shame rises along with the bile in his stomach. It’s disrespectful to Leo and the invitation to share any part of his home––to entertain it as a place he could pretend to belong—if he can’t even recognize it from the outside.

For fuck’s sake, it’s the barest of minimums required to lay claim to any place.

He bites back his apology. Stutters won’t be the only thing that comes out if he opens his mouth just now. He wouldn’t be able to articulate the transgression anyway. Little progress he made earlier trying to explain he wasn’t trying to run from Leo at the hospital, that he was just trying to give him a shot at getting his life back. The one before he took on a damaged—

“Home sweet home.” Leo kills the engine and lets his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh.

Aiden lowers his gaze, guilt swirling in his stomach. Again, the apology is on the tip of his tongue but his eyes start to burn hot with tears. He will not cry again. He cannot. He bites the inside of his cheek and the taste of blood is a quick distraction. 

Worse than dissolving into a crying mess would be getting sick in Leo’s sister’s car. 

Leo’s on the move anyway. With another sigh, he gets out, leaving Aiden alone to clap his good hand over his mouth and force deep breaths in and out through his nose. He even closes his eyes to beg himself to be capable this time. Better for this second-second chance. Easier after everything. 

Little good it does. 

By the time Leo reaches his door, Aiden is resigned to ducking around him to throw up. The bar lowered to please just don’t get sick on Leo’s shoes. 

The cold air hits him in a blast when Leo reaches the door and helps him out. He blinks against the sharp sting of it, both hands gripping Leo’s forearm. Another lungful of brisk winter morning and the nausea settles. 

His next inhale is full of sky. Deep blue night softening with the light of day from one horizon to the other. A whisper of purple hinting at the brilliance of more colors soon to come. He could stay here forever, taking in the spectrum of dark to light, the stars fading out in the west and the sun soon to rise in the east. He watched the sunrise a few times from the bedroom window upstairs but he can’t remember the last time he stood under a sky like this. 

Or the last time he was outside in daylight at all. 

“Hon, you alright?”

Leo’s expression has probably passed concern because Aiden let a few tears escape. They’ve already slid down his cheeks, warm at the outset, their wakes chilled in the fresh morning air. 

He wipes his face with his sleeve, still looking up. “Thank you,” he hears himself whisper and somehow it comes out crystal clear. He wishes he could say more, thank Leo for this morning sky he had nothing and everything to do with. But he doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it. 

Leo doesn’t say anything back, just wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

As soon as they step inside, he wants to run back to the feeling he found under the sky. But Leo’s exhausted and he already waited with Aiden until the sun started peeking over the horizon. Watching the sun rise wouldn’t stave off the inevitable. It’ll be over in minutes anyway. 

Aiden winds up hovering at the edge of the kitchen, unsure if he should stay out of the way or help. The bags sit on the island, handles still standing at attention from being lifted there. 

Leo relieves him of any guesswork by setting a glass of water on the island. “Think you can drink this?” 

He nods, grateful for an easy opportunity to be obedient, and slides onto a stool, watching for any reaction from Leo out of habit, but he’s looking down. Aiden’s stomach knots when he realizes he’s reading the slip of paper from the doctors again. 

If Leo tells him to take any of the medicine, he should. He will. He’ll do anything Leo asks him to. Happily. If what Leo said about finding him is true, he owes him his life twice over, maybe three times if he considers—

“Aiden?”

He jumps and Leo quickly leans over to clamp a hand around his teetering glass.

“M’sorry.” He tucks his hands between his legs, apology not quite audible even to his ears. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“S’okay,” he whispers. 

Leo’s sigh makes him flinch before he can catch himself. 

Leo holds up his hands, one still holding the rescued glass. “Easy, sweetheart. We’re all good. It’s all good.” 

Aiden nods. He’s overreacting, reading into Leo’s every fucking exhale. He’s just overreacting but still, tears are building behind his eyes. He nods again, squeezing his hands into fists but the pain that radiates up his arms makes the tears fall. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” He shakes his hands out at his sides, swipes furiously at the traitorous tears, and refuses—refuses—to meet Leo’s gaze to see how completely exasperated and disappointed he is. “M’sorry, m’sorry—”  

“Aiden. Aiden.” Leo’s beside him now, warm hand on his shoulder making him realize just how much he’s curled forward. “Just breathe. That’s right. You’re okay, you’re good.” 

He nods, sniffling. He needs to pull himself together. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” 

“Hon, look at me.” 

He meets Leo’s eyes, letting himself shelter in the ease of obedience. 

“You’re good, it’s all good. We’ll figure things out together, step by step, in the morning—or, well, later today.” Leo’s soft chuckle, tired as it is, tempts Adien further into the lulls of earned safety and he doesn’t have the energy to resist. Leo rubs his shoulder. “Everything will look a little better after some sleep, yeah?” Leo goes to the sink to top up his glass. “Let’s head up.” 

His stomach drops and maybe even his lungs too because he can’t feel himself breathe anymore. He’s too busy trying to read Leo’s face. What about the mess upstairs? Should he get the bleach? Or is this the moment Leo finally punishes him? 

He follows Leo to the stairs, shoving his shaking hands into the pocket of the hoodie. He knots his fingers together as much as he can without it hurting too much. He’s not sure what they’ll find upstairs. He can only remember blurs and there’s no telling what happened after his memory stops. 

“Better get scrubbing, ‘359.” 

He shakes his head but the flashes of the facility tiles, covered in blood, are so bright in his mind. His hand gripping the banister feels far away, feet climbing the stairs even further. A few more steps and he’ll be able to see the bathroom. 

The blood, the tiles. 

“Aiden?” 

He flinches, attention snapping back to Leo a few steps ahead. “M’good,” he says, too quickly because Leo narrows his eyes. He walks back down and stops one step lower so they’re the same height. 

“There’s no–– there’s nothing to worry about. I asked Jesse to come over while we were out.” 

He nods slowly.  

“Everything’s clean, it’s all good.” 

Aiden hopes he hides his shameful relief better than his lack of understanding. “Mmm’thanks…” It’s not enough. He’ll never be enough. 

Leo holds out his arm. “All good, hon.” 

At the top of the stairs, he goes the extra mile and flicks on every light in the bathroom. The brightness hurts Aiden’s eyes but the bathroom is indeed spotless. 

Like nothing ever happened.

Leo walks him to the second bedroom, sets the glass of water on the desk and clicks on the little lamp. “I’ll get you some clean pajamas.” 

The pressure in the room changes when Leo leaves. 

Aiden’s breath comes easier, inhale and exhale deeper. The air no longer feeling finite to leave space for all the anticipation that accompanies Leo. 

But his relief is quickly spoiled by the discomfort of idleness. 

Using the desk chair for balance, he strips to his underwear, neatly folding the dirty clothes to be put in the hamper in the bathroom. He doesn’t want to see the bandages on his hand or arms, nor the gauze taped to his elbow and collarbone. Any visible trace of blood and Leo will want to check them, clean the stitches, change the bandages, ask him how he’s feeling, if he wants to take something for it and he can’t answer, he can’t look, he can’t handle having Leo examine him like that, so careful like he’s breakable when he’s done all this to himself and— 

He covers his face with his hands. Tries to pull in a deeper breath but the smell of betadine under the bandages makes his stomach churn so he lets his hands fall. 

There’s a smudge on his upper arm. Rubbing at it with his thumb does nothing. He turns to see it in the faint light coming through the window–– 

It’s blood. Dried blood, all over. A ragged stripe of it snaking across his upper arms and chest. He can see it spreading, hear the drip, drip, drip of the faucet he was shaking too much to turn off completely. 

He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head but when he opens his eyes again it’s even worse. It’s everywhere, splotches up and down his arms, all over his torso. 

Splattered all over the bright, white tiles. 

He can’t get it off. He has to get rid of it. He has to wash away the blood. 

“Scrub those tiles good and clean, ‘359.” 

No, this can’t be happening right now. 

His breath trembles and he can’t fill his lungs anymore but it doesn’t matter because the sounds of his panic have already caught Leo’s attention. 

“Aiden?” 

He spins to face Leo, bumping into the door which hits the wall and makes him jump all over again. His apology comes out as more of a strangled whine. 

“Easy.” Leo makes his movements slow and deliberate as he sets the clothes down. “It’s alright.” 

Aiden nods along. Of course it’s alright. He knows it’s alright but he still can’t seem to catch more than tiny gasps of air at a time. It’s just Leo. He’s here with Leo. He’s––

“Hey, hey, look at me.” 

Leo doesn’t try to move any closer, just holds his gaze. “That’s good, just breathe. We’ve got all the time we need. There’s no rush. Just take it easy. Take some slow, deep breaths.” 

He hates how immediately possible it is when he can hear it as a command. 

“Good, that’s good. You’re good.” 

Hates even more that he sinks his teeth right into all the warmth and relief he can get from the shallow praise, a shiver running up his spine in its wake. But it helps and he can already stand a bit straighter, think, and see a bit clearer. 

Leo waits a few more deep breaths. “All good?” 

“Mhm, m’sorry—” He clears his throat. “I––I––” He steels himself and lets his arms fall, eyes locked on Leo’s expression. 

“Ah. I didn’t think of that.” 

Leo’s frown makes his heart start to race. He crosses an arm over his chest, as if there might be a chance Leo can actually see the hair-trigger reactivity he’s got tonight. 

“I’ll get a washcloth with some soap, I can––” 

“Please––” he chokes out, calves hitting the bed frame. He blinks away Harrison, standing over him, cold and indifferent while he begs and cries. 

“Okay, never mind.” Aiden is still holding his breath so Leo softens his voice. “Hey, hey, easy. Not that one, okay? Forget I suggested it.” 

He drags in a strained breath. “M’sorry.” Forces himself to take a step back toward Leo.

“It’s alright, don’t be sorry. I need to know these things, it’s good you’re telling me.” 

He swallows and looks down. Unsure if he’s more ashamed that Leo has to spell it out for him or that it’s necessary at all. 

“Well, I guess a shower is the next option. What do you think?” 

Aiden nods, trying to look at least a little more composed to face the bathroom. 

“Okay,” Leo says but he doesn’t move. 

Aiden looks down again to let him think. He wants to shake out his arms, and his legs too while he’s at it. Just because he can and that’s why it helps. But he doesn’t want Leo to think he’s impatient. He’d probably tip right over anyway. 

“Sorry, okay, yeah. Just a quick shower, I’ll help you.” He turns and Aiden follows. 

It won’t be as simple as that but it’s a lie of solace they’ll cling to like a life raft. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney

[nardos-primetime]

"Do we use stitches or glue?

What is going to see me through?"

[womenwhump]

Otherside Picnic

[highwaywhump]

remember this piece?

unnamed guard dog is still unnamed.

TW/CW: pet whump, (former and current) dehumanization/animalization, distraught whumpee, whumpee idealizes death mentions of scars and injuries, long term whump situation, tbh not much is happening here but two old men are having a moment ig

---

The flames weren’t real. 

They were the first thing the guard dog saw when he was pulled from the abyss. Orange LED lights scattering through lenses and refractors, creating the illusion of a pile of embers that would never go out. 

And still, he noticed he wasn’t particularly cold. It wasn’t slick linoleum or cold metal against his skin, it was… fur?

He blinked and looked around, trying to get his eyes to refocus. He was on his side on a cream fur rug, facing a fake fireplace with neverending little fake flames dancing along the edges of fake logs. He turned over, biting his teeth together as his shoulders protested the movement. He was getting too old to be laying on floors, even if they were covered by plush fur rugs. 

Then again, that wasn’t up to him. 

What had even happened to land him here? It was a living room with high windows stretching up and up and up towards even higher ceilings. An luxurious-looking leather sofa, complete with a matching pair of chairs, made up the seating arrangement. There were bookshelves along the walls, a huge blue-hued painting of foggy hills on another. Everything looked needlessly expensive. 

Who had put him here? Why?

He tried to sit up, only to groan and rub his face with his palms as a sharp pain shot through his head. He hadn’t just been sleeping, he figured. He was always groggy after naps, but never like this. Somebody must have … given him … something- 

The guard dog lurched forwards, doubling over on himself and gagging violently as the memories flooded back to him, filling all his senses. The cold examination table, the clammy blue gloved hands, the bright light, the syringe… He would have thrown up, had he had anything to eat the last seven days. His pulse was racing, his hands were shaking as he grabbed onto the fur of the rug, trying to ground himself. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck…

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

The voice pierced through the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Thought I lost you there for a second. Again.” 

The voice was more familiar to him than the ache in his bones, the taste of blood in his mouth, the tight skin of his scars. 

He didn’t have to turn around and face the source of the voice to know who it belonged to. More importantly, he didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to believe it could be real. 

That he was back with him again. 

It took him several long, grueling seconds to find his voice. He realized he hadn’t used it for weeks, and when it finally came out of his mouth, it was gravelly and rough, nearly impossible to shape into words. For a moment there was only bare sound, akin to that of a wounded predator. 

Then, finally, did the words come. 

“I… I was supposed to feel better.” 

The voice of the man he did not want to face, scoffed, caught off guard. “What?” 

The guard dog keeled over, his scarred, wide hands digging into the rug as he yelled into its plush fur. 

“I was supposed to feel better!” 

“I fucking hope you do!” the voice snapped harshly, and a pair of fine leather shoes trod across the dark hardwood, into the guard dog’s line of sight. 

“You better feel fucking great! They were going to kill you!” 

“Yes!” the guard dog moaned, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered, the scars there dancing. “That was the point.” His voice took on a sore quality, like he was straining to control it, to keep it together. He didn’t look like the mighty guard dog he once was, hunched over on the plush rug, stifling his sobs. 

“That was the point, so why didn’t you let them.” 

The other man was silent for a beat. The guard dog could, between his fingers and through the tears fogging up his eyes, catch a glimpse of the black Oxfords he wore, perfectly shined as always. 

Derbies are for doormen and loafers are for geriatrics. If you forget everything else, remember that, pup. 

The man sighed and went down on one knee, steadying himself with a hand on the floor. He wore the same ring he always had. The red garnet shone in the fake firelight, reminding the guard dog of all the times that hand had struck him, the ring often slicing the skin of his cheek. 

 “Don’t tell me I should have let them murder you. I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was resigned, but nevertheless cold, not leaving it up for discussion. Some years ago, that voice would have been enough for the guard dog to forget even the mere thought of disobedience. 

“Why did you bring me back here? Why-” The guard dog hunched in on himself, caught in a coughing fit brought on by the sudden and harsh use of his gravelly voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if he coughed up blood on the fine fur rug. 

The man, now behind his back, did not react to the sharp onslaught. He remained silent until the guard dog’s wide shoulders had stopped their rhythmic contractions. His voice was still unwavering. “I am only reclaiming what is mine.”

“Yours?” The guard dog barked out, then groaned as his sore lungs protested. “You sold me! You didn’t want me anymore. You sent me away to the first caller!” 

“I sold you only because I had no other choice. You do not understand these things. You never did.”

The man reached out as he said this, hand folded, and slid his knuckles down the column of the guard dog’s neck. 

His touch was like an electric shock, his warm and gentle hand such a contrast to the guard dog’s cold surroundings that he flinched like he had been hit, his spine jerking away on its own accord. The skin contact was enough to wrench another violent sob from his body. 

“And I let Louie take you only because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to see you go any further. It was better to do it quickly. It wouldn’t have been healthy for either of us to wait around for the right person.” 

“There was nothing healthy about him!” groaned the guard dog. “He put me in the fights! I made his fortune when I knocked out Bruiser! And six months later he sold me on again, and after that….” His voice broke. His anger seemed to have dissipated now, replaced by violent sobs that caused his whole body to heave and lurch in between his words. 

“Oh, pup. What did they do to you…” The man’s fingers ghosted across his spine, following one particularly nasty scar, too jagged to come from a blade. “I never should have let you go, should I.” 

“I wish you never got me back.” Despite the words, the guard dog’s voice was not resentful, only fatigued and spent. 

“Don’t you like me anymore? You used to love me.” 

He was quiet for a while. The man wondered idly if he had passed out, but did not check.  

“It wasn’t love,” came the rough voice eventually. “It wasn’t about that.” 

“Then what was it about?” 

“Loyalty.” The answer came before he could even think of it. Loyalty was the fundament for everything he was, everything he would ever be. Everything he had ever done. “I will always be loyal to you. No matter what you do to me.” He recalled the very last beating they had shared, the evening before his new owner had retrieved him and brought him to the fighting rings. 

It was quiet for a while.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I will always be loyal to you, too,” the man said eventually. 

He looked up, suddenly face to face with the man he had been made for, all those years ago. Now older, rougher, gray around the edges, but still the same brown eyes, framed by the same perpetually upturned eyelids. The guard dog’s own eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks creating shiny trails down his cheeks. They were only a few inches apart, the man having knelt down to his level. 

It wasn’t the first time they had been this close, but the guard dog watched him with fresh eyes this time. Nigh on two decades of life away from his master had forever changed the curious atmospheric aura they once used to share. 

“You’re right. I will never believe you again.” 

The familiar brown gaze studied him for a second, jumping down and back up, roaming the litany of scars and blemishes on his skin, several stretching into his hairline. His lips made a peculiar twitch before he suddenly sat back up and got to his feet, limber and flexible despite his age. 

“In any case, you’re getting a hosedown before dinner. You smell like shit.”

---

tags:

@maracujatangerine (were there more of you? lmk, also lmk if you don't want me to tag you)

[jamiesfootball]

29 for the whump dialogue prompt perhaps?

"Tell me where it hurts, and be specific."

He doesn't know how it went wrong so fast. He never fucking knows.

"Get him out! Get him out of here right the fuck now!"

He never knew how it was that his dad could ruin everything as quick as upending a box, shaking out the bits of Jamie - smacking the box for good measure to knock out all the stubbornly clinging fists - until he was nothing better than something his dad went and spilled on the floor. A fucking pile of Legos for people to dodge around less the sharp pieces of him prick the the soft padding beneath their feet.

"Everybody, shut up! Jamie, Jamie, bruv, breathe. Breathe. In and out like. Can you do that? Does it hurt?"

It felt like being underwater, it did; or like they were in an indoor pool. Sweat all dried until it was cold and clammy. Everything echoed, a public's worth of voices shouting to be heard over each other ("What did you hold me back for?!" "Me?! You were right there!") while the walls bounced everything back, and over the din came Colin's voice, both muffled and clear- "I heard something snap."

Dr. Sharon was going to be so disappointed with Jamie. Jamie was going to walk back into her office with the crumpled up portions of himself bundled in his arms, and she was going to frown, polite and quiet and judging while Jamie lined up all the pieces in front of her, trying to explain to her what he'd done wrong and begging her to show him how to make it better.

"Beard's got it from here. Him and the boys in security 'll figure it out. Now, how's our- is that blood?"

Because he was a coward, he'd serve the best parts of himself first. The chunk of him that hadn't meant to let any of it happen. The lump that understood how his presence on the pitch led to the team losing. The slice of him that had honestly, stupidly thought his Dad would be so caught up in his own team winning that Jamie's own garbage performance would go unnoticed (amateur thinking to go with amateur playing). The ration of him that hadn't been rational at all - had opened his mouth to argue when he knew better, didn't he, lad? Should know better by now. He hadn't been given the signal. Couldn't be trusted with his own words - had to wait for someone to tell him it was alright, otherwise look what he'd get?

"Tartt? Are you listening?"

He'd show Dr. Sharon the slab of him that wanted to do right by the team, and she'd tilt her head to the side and remark that the slab looked a bit spoiled now, didn't it?

Something brushes his shoulder, a touch so lacking in violence it doesn't register as real.

"Come on. Jamie. You need to let us get a look at you. We need to know where you're hurt."

He never fucking knows.

Something strong grips the back of his neck. There's nothing left of Jamie now; just bundles of raw nerve endings telling him run and hide and the dislocated parts of his body reporting back that they're not capable of either right now. His lungs aren't working right, and there's no running or hiding anymore - there's just smaller. Tugging close the pieces of himself - the broken tiles of himself - and sweeping them close in his arms where they're less likely to get shattered any further. There's retreating, dropping deep into the recess of his head, anything to spare himself from witnessing the ugly spectacle he's made.

The grip on his neck disregards what he wants. Cups the delicate space below his jaw between two hands. Examines him while Jamie flutters in his grasp like a moth avoiding the light.

"Jamie, this is serious. Tell me where it hurts, and be specific. We need to know if we need to get you to hospital."

Point to any piece of him, where his dad's gone and left him on the ground.

"Fuck it, he’s not answering. Somebody get the medics."