#Draw my arms into my hospital gown

[kaboomthepossum]

The Diaz Brothers Drawing

Hello there tumblr besties! Today I finally finished the 7th item in the continuous saga of “Kaboom drawing TMG songs for fun”

This drawing.. oh my gosh I have been to hell and back to create this - I have never in my life drawn a pine tree before, this was a huge struggle. I was pretty pleased with it in the end though! :D

I hope you guys like it too :)

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

We got each other (and that's a lot)

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 18

Prompt: Hurt/Comfort

Rated: M

CW: Violent imagery; aftermath of injury

Tags: Steve got vecna'd (he's okay, though); Angst; Trauma; Fluff

Notes: Continued from day 3. They'll be fine, they just need to kiss some and get a lot of therapy, probably.

Wanna see these soft, broken boys sleeping? Check out the heartwrenching art by @house-of-the-moving-image

Eddie drifts.

Inky blackness surrounds him like cotton, every sound, every thought muffled. His neck and fingers and arms still hurt, but it's the dull kind that comes with exhaustion, the tingle of adrenaline finally rushing from his body. Some distant part of him is still stirring, demanding that they stay alert … but the darkness is warm and soft and alluring as it pulls him under. 

Something cold touches his hand. 

Eddie flinches awake, heart kickstarting in his chest, fear zapping into his limbs like an electric current.

He fell asleep, he realizes, and the terror of it claws its way up his throat like a slimy, rotten tangle of vines. He fell asleep and when he opens his eyes it'll be to find Steve floating under the ceiling again, to find Steve's mangled corpse on the bed, eyes sucked from their sockets, face twisted in an eternal, grotesque scream, it's too late and he fell asleep, he fucking fell asleep while- 

Steve is awake. 

Steve is awake and he's looking at him and he's alive and his hand is lying on top of Eddie’s. It's cold and there's a needle in it from the IV cord and he's ghastly pale against the sheets, but he's smiling softly and he's alive, he's alive and Eddie wants to scream, to cry, to kiss him and never stop, to hold him and never let go-

"Hey," Steve whispers. 

"Hey," Eddie croaks. "You look like shit, man."

"Aw," says Steve, and the corners of his mouth twitch and Eddie thought he'd never see his smile again and shitshitshit don't cry, Munson, don't cry. "Thought I was pulling it off real well." 

He jerks his head in the general direction of the cast on his right leg, the one on his left arm. Eddie thinks he'll hear the sound of the bones breaking in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Typical," is what he says. "Half dead and still worried about your looks." 

Steve hums a not-quite-laugh. His fingers caress the back of Eddie’s hand. 

"Is he …?" 

"Dead," Eddie blurts. "For real this time. It's over." 

"The kids?" Steve's fingers twitch.

"Fine," Eddie says, watches how Steve's entire form sags with relief. "Buckley and Wheeler, too. And everyone else. It's over." 

"I- good." Steve screws his eyes shut, gulps. Draws a shuddering breath. "That's good." 

Eddie watches how his shoulders start shaking. Following a sudden impulse, he flips his hand and tangles his hand with Steve's, careful not to upset the needle. Steve blinks down at their entwined fingers. 

Eddie forces himself to smile and rambles on before either of them can question the gesture. 

"El was so fucking metal, you should've seen her. Like, the way she obliterated that douchebag? Remind me to never get on that girl's bad side! Seriously, man, I don't think any of us would be here if she hadn't-" 

"Well, I don't think I would be here …" says Steve. "... if it hadn't been for you." 

Eddie’s words barrel to a stop. Steve’s fingers tighten against his, trace the callouses on his hands. Steve’s smile is small and soft, but his eyes are serious, trained stubbornly on the ugly pattern of his hospital gown. 

"I thought you hated Bon Jovi." 

Eddie huffs. "Fuck, yeah, I do. Forcing me to besmirch my Sweetheart's strings with that mainstream shit? You owe me big time, man. Better start thinking of ways to pay me back."

"Yeah?" Steve raises their tangled hands lightly. "How's this for a start?" 

And then, before Eddie can even wonder what he's about to do, he ducks his head and presses a kiss to his knuckles. His lips are soft and warm. 

Eddie blinks. Waits for the world to stop spinning. 

"For … a start?" he repeats dumbly. 

Steve's eyebrow quirks. 

"Dude, I'd like to do so much more, but I'm glad I managed to lift your hand, to be honest. We should also first talk about stuff, I guess." 

"Oh," Eddie says intelligently. "You mean … like that thing you wanted to tell me?" 

"Yeah, like tha- … that thing." Steve needs to interrupt himself for a huge yawn halfway through. Since one of his arms is in a cast and the other hand is refusing to let go of Eddie’s, it ends up open-mouthed and adorable. "Probably'll have to sleep some more b'fore that, though …"

"Sure thing," Eddie is out of his chair and fussing with the pillow before he realizes what he's doing. Steve's eyes are already drooping as he helps him settle down. "I'll … I'll be outside, tell the others you're-" 

"Eddie?" Steve's grip around his wrist is light as a feather, but he still stops like he's been tethered in place. When he turns, there's fear swimming in those pretty eyes. "Stay? I don't … I'd rather not be alone." 

Eddie is back in his chair before Steve can finish the sentence. 

"Can you…" Steve's eyes are slipping shut again and his words are slurred, so that Eddie must lean closer to catch them. "D’you think you can sing? So I can find my way back, if- … Your voice is like light."

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know if there's anything he could possibly say to that. So he says nothing. Just swallows around the lump in his throat and takes Steve's hand and starts singing softly. 

By the time Steve's breath evens out and his fingers go limp, Eddie’s other hand has found its way into his hair. 

Eddie keeps singing for a long while.

For as long as he's here, Steve will always have someone to guide him back.

Part 3

All my holiday drabbles

[msschemmenti]

Blabbermouth Junior

Jennifer Jareau x Reader

Prompt: Reader is Henry’s Fifth Grade teacher and at his graduation he puts a little plan into action

JJ smiled softly as she smoothed the tiny gown over her son’s shoulders. She really couldn’t believe her first kid was heading to middle school. It felt like just yesterday a nurse had handed him over in a hospital room. Time flew, and she was honestly just so grateful to experience these moments with him. After ensuring the team wouldn’t have any cases this weekend, she and the team were all piling into the Elementary school gymnasium to watch one of their BAU kids move on to their next step.

“Oh Henry, you look so cute. I can’t believe you’re going to middle school. My baby.” JJ pouted as she smoothed her hands over the boy’s head. 

“Mom,” Henry whined but allowed his mom the freedom to fawn over her son. He looked around at his classmates a bit self-consciously but secretly loved having his mother there with him on such a big day. 

“Alright, friends! Let’s tell our families ‘see you later’ and start lining up.” A cheery voice called over the room, drawing everyone’s attention. JJ followed the sound of the voice and was shocked to see a young woman dressed in yellow at the end of the hallway. Her arms were extended toward the children in the hall and she had the kindest smile JJ had ever seen. All the other children hurried down the hallway toward the gym and as much as Henry wanted to follow, JJ’s hands had yet to leave his face. 

Garcia, who’d come to the back to snap pictures of her godson, studied JJ closely. She watched how the blondes eyes shifted from the woman’s face to her legs and quickly back. She definitely didn’t miss the way she was still holding Henry’s face either. With a knowing smirk she nudged JJ and looked down at Henry with a smile. “Hen, is that your teacher?” 

“Yeah, Ms. Y/Ln is the best.” Henry grinned up at Penelope before looking over his shoulder to the smiling teacher. 

“I bet so. Sweet, you’ve gotta stop staring at the cute teacher so the boy can go line up.” Garcia grinned, practically shoving JJ out of admiration. She scoffed indignantly before smoothing her hands over Henry’s hair one last time and letting him go. 

“I wasn’t staring at the cute teacher. I just can’t believe my baby is growing up.” JJ fumbled for words. Garcia rolled her eyes in disbelief but pinched Henry’s cheek affectionately. 

“Henry? You ready, bud?” Ms.Y/Ln asked as she sidled up to the three blondes left in the hallway. 

“Yes ma’am, if my mom is ready to let me go…” Henry teased causing JJ to roll her eyes and the other two women to laugh. 

“Awe, Henry be nice to your mom. Graduating fifth grade is a big deal. Pretty soon you’ll be off to college.” Ms. Y/Ln spoke pulling the graduation hat from her side on Henry’s head and allowing him to sprint down the hall toward the other students.. 

“Oh don’t remind me, I’m going to be even worse then.” JJ whined, placing her hand over her heart. 

“Let’s take it one day at a time sweet. I’ll take the emotional mother out to the gym so we can watch our little man walk the stage. So sorry for the hold up, Miss?” Garcia asked sweetly. 

“Oh where are my manners, I’m Ms. Y/Ln, Y/Fn Y/Ln.” The teacher smiled extending her hand briefly toward the tech analyst. 

“Penelope Garcia, the Godmother of all Godmothers. And this is Jennifer Jareau, Henry’s super mom.” 

“It’s great to meet you both. I’ve heard quite a bit about you Mrs. Jareau, Henry’s very fond of you.” Y/n smiled, sending JJ a wink. 

“Miss,” JJ corrected unconsciously. “And I can say the same about you. He’s been raving about you all year long, it’s really nice to finally put a face to a name.” 

Y/n smiled sweetly in thanks before looking to her watch for the time, “That warms my heart. We’re gonna get started in about a minute and I don’t want y’all to miss anything. I’ll remind Henry to smile real big when he walks.” 

“That would be great, come on Jayje I need to make sure Morgan got us good seats. Nice chatting with ya Teach!” Garcia called over her shoulder pulling JJ down the hall and toward the gym. JJ sent the teacher an apologetic smile before allowing Garcia to lead her to the ceremony. Both women squeezed through the other parents and family members to sit in their seats between the team. 

“There you guys are, what took so long?” Emily asked leaning over to look at the two women. 

“JJ was ogling Henry’s teacher.” Garcia answered. All heads turned to face the mother in a combination of shock and intrigue. 

“I was not ogling.” JJ protested. 

“Oh she so was. Just wait until you see her, you’ll all understand.” Garcia grinned as everyone chuckled at JJ’s expense. 

-

“Congratulations Henry!” Y/n smiled down at the boy as he rushed into the classroom. 

“Thank you Ms. Y/Ln.” Henry grinned up at the teacher. He’d always been pretty fond of his teacher. She really made the transition to fifth grade so easy for him and he was surely gonna miss her. 

“Are you excited to be going to middle school?” Y/n asked as she watched and waved at parents and children exiting the room.

“Yeah, I guess.” Henry answered. 

“You don’t sound too sure bud. What’s up?” Y/n asked squatting next to the the desk the boy was sitting on. 

“I’m just gonna miss having you as my teacher.” Henry confessed. 

“Well I get that kid, they probably won’t be as cool as me. But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I’ll have any students as cool as you either.” Y/n teased ruffling his blonde hair maternally. Henry grinned at the praise and kicked his feet from the desk. 

“There’s our graduate!” Morgan called entering into the classroom. The remaining children and parents turned to watch as the team of Profilers filed in with gifts. They all scooped up the young boy with congratulations flying around. Y/n slowly floated over to her desk to give the group some privacy. 

As the team fawned over Henry, JJ found herself searching for Ms. Y/Ln unconsciously. As subtle as she thought she was being, she knew she was caught when Emily siddled up next to her sporting a knowing smirk. “She is pretty cute. I see why you were ogling.” 

“Oh God, not you too.” JJ groaned turning away from the teacher. 

“I’m just saying, she’s no longer Henry’s teacher and from what I’ve heard– Henry is pretty fond of her as well. Wouldn’t hurt to at least talk to her.” Emily encouraged. 

Before JJ could even respond, Henry was at her feet with a smile on his face. “Mom can I give Ms. Y/Ln the gift I got her before we leave?” 

“Of course honey,” JJ smiled fishing the card and candy out of her purse and handing it to Henry. 

“I’ll be quick.” He promised and then made a beeline for the teacher’s desk. “Ms. Y/Ln, I got you this gift and just wanted to give it to you before I left.”

Y/n’s eyes widened in glee as she took the card and candy from one of her favorite students, “Oh Henry, that’s so sweet. Thank you so much and you remembered my favorite candy.”  

“Yeah my mom let me buy it.” Henry answered. By now JJ had turned her attention to the two and was making her way over to them slowly. 

“Well that’s very sweet of her.” Y/n said catching JJ’s movement in her peripheral. 

“She also thinks you’re cute.” Henry threw in causing both Y/n’s and JJ’s eyes to widen comically. JJ was so shocked she even stopped walking briefly. 

Y/n blushed and giggled, “Oh?” 

JJ jumped into action and placed her hands on Henry’s shoulders before he could continue speaking. JJ and Y/n’s eyes locked and the embarrassment was burning behind both of their eyes. “Henry…” JJ sighed with a grimace. She went to deny and save face but she could hear Emily’s voice in the back of her head. It was already out, what was the harm in at least talking to her? “Well, I’d hoped I could tell you myself but Henry seems to have beat me to it.”

“Someone had to say it.” Garcia piped in from the group now listening. 

“Shut up Garcia.” JJ grumbled. “Henry go hang with the team.” 

“Of course mom.” Henry grinned going over to stand with Penelope, who highfived him in triumph. 

“Well Ms. Jareau, I’m extremely flattered. Even if Henry told me first.” Y/n smiled and leaned her head on her fist. 

JJ blushed a bit and ducked her head, “God I love that kid.” 

“He is rather special. Oh and if it wasn’t clear, I find you pretty cute as well.” JJ’s head popped up in shock and the blush returned with a vengeance. Y/n grabbed a sticky note from her desk and scribbled her number down. “Summers here and from what I’ve heard you’re pretty busy. How bout you give me a call when your free? I’d love to get to know you a bit better.” 

The group of profilers very childishly whistles and ‘oooo’ at the interaction and JJ could only roll her eyes before accepting the number with a promise to use it. They all said their goodbyes and just as they were about to exit the school JJ pulled her son into her side. 

“You don’t mind any of that with Ms. Y/Ln right? Cause if you do I won’t–” Before she could finish Henry wrapped her arm around her waist. 

“Oh I’m excited. I thought of the plan before the graduation started but I didn’t know if it’d work.” Henry grinned. 

“God I love you kid.” JJ sighed  and pulled him toward the car. Middle School is not ready for her boy.

[avaleigh16]

Ghost: Thank you all for coming.

Y/n, wearing a hospital gown: When I heard you couldn't get laid, I dropped everything and came straight here.

Ghost: Well, I couldn't imagine anyone else being part of the "Fuck Ghost Task Force".

König: Yeah, I interpreted that in a different way.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Price, rubbing their temples: I am not proud of what I am about to say, but someone get me a cigarrette.

Y/n: But Price, we don't smoke.

Price: Cut the crap, Y/n. I'm not an idiot. I know that one in five people smoke.

Price: *points at Alejandro* One! *points at Y/n* Two! *points at Soap* Three! *points at Gaz* Four! *points at Ghost* Five!

Price: Now, I am going to close my eyes, and when I open them, there better be a cigarrette between these two fingers!

Ghost: *puts a cigarrette in Price's hand*

Price: Thank you. ...Light?

The Squad: *all simultaneously pull out lighters*

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Ghost: Wait, hold up, why you draw yourself like that?

Soap: Uh, like what?

Ghost: Like with gorgeous, muscular legs.

Ghost: Uh, this is what I look like.

Ghost:

Soap: THIS IS WHAT I LOOK LIKE!

Ghost: Okay, then I want big beefy arms. Hot ones.

Y/n: I wanna have a cowboy hat!

Soap: Okay, arms and hat. * draws them*

Gaz: Ooh, give me a cowboy hat too!

Soap: You can't just take Y/n's hat idea, Gaz! They thought it up all by themself like a good person! Come up with your own thing!

Gaz: BUT I WANNA LOOK COOL!

Price: Put Gaz on one of those stupid baby tricycles.

Gaz: NO!!

Soap: Tricycle, done. * draws it* Alejandro, want anything?

Price, making finger guns: Pew pew.

Soap: A blaster?! No, that's not really our style, Alejandro.

Alejandro, making finger guns: Pew pew.

Soap: You know what, okay. * draws it* But it's just for holding, not for shooting.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Ghost: We're kind of missing something guys.

Alejandro: Cohesion?

Gaz: Teamwork?

Y/n: A general sense of what we're doing?

Price: And Soap is not here.

Alejandro: Oh, and that, yeah.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Wonder Woman! Robin! Impulse! Danny! Dick drawings! Who says that occupational therapy and learning a second language can't be fun?

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

EXTRA TW for: vomiting, panic attacks (this chapter only)

Danny can hold a spoon now. He is unstoppable.

So, when the lady isn’t there to feed him dinner (more mush), one of the not-the-lady nurses gives Danny a tray, and lays a mat over his lap so that he can eat without completely messing up his bedsheets.

Eat he does. Slowly. Maybe a little messily, and it’s kind of embarrassing to have to admit to himself that food definitely spills out of his mouth and onto his lap. The doctor/nurse/medical person, whoever they are, turns on the television, and Danny doesn’t try to ask for the remote. The television only gets something like ten channels, and none of them are cartoons at lunch hour.

So. News it is.

Most of the news follows the same cycle; the weather, sports teams Danny can now recognize the colors of, traffic cameras, and events with long, scrolling text to detail the happenings onscreen. There’s something about dogs? That’s fun. The scientist/nurse/tech, whoever they are, says something in the tone of Aaw, aren’t they cute? as puppies run about and wrestle on screen.

Danny kind of misses Cujo. He picks at his bedsheet, and doesn’t say anything.

The dog program transitions away— there’s a bright banner in its place. Danny’s seen it before: it’s something to the equivalent of Breaking News. It’s usually weather, or crime, or something.

Um. But it’s not that. Danny’s spoon drops, because a ROBOT LADY lights up the screen with a glistening silver suit, not unlike the Ecto-Skeleton his parents used to keep in the basement. Or, well…this one might be more streamlined?

Danny shifts. He can’t help. He’s here, in the hospital. Or. Uh. The space…hospital. His body is very broken.

But there’s a robot lady wrecking a town on Earth.

And Danny can fly.

…Could fly. Could have flown. If he was. Well.

Danny’s not well, and his body aches and his hands don’t work and his legs work even less, but there’s people out there who need help. People who are getting shot at with rays and Danny can fight them, and humans can’t. Danny can help. He—

His core throbs. Danny chokes. He pulls at his chest, trying to find some kind of purchase on his medical gown to tug himself—up?? Out?? He can’t fly right now, but maybe—?

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, abide, abide.”

Danny grits his teeth. “Look!” he snaps, and jams a finger at the television. “There’s—look! There’s a giant robot out there punching buildings!”

“Wacie,” the human protests, but at least turns up the volume so that Danny can see better. “Wacie, þær eart firas þær nou.”

What does that mean?!

Danny hasn’t lifted himself in forever. His legs don’t work, but his arms…might.

He presses his palms down to the mattress. He pushes.

There is a liberated fraction of a second where Danny’s whole weight is on his arms.

—And then he comes crashing back to reality, his elbows snapping back into place. His butt slams back onto the bed and the whole frame jitters.

Danny pants. His arms quake.

The medic completely barrels through Danny’s usually meticulously-kept personal bubble, trying to make sure Danny didn’t dislodge his IV or rip his ligaments and tendons or tear his muscles or. Something. Danny barely notices, barely cares, because someone else blasts onto the television screen in a red bathing suit and gold boots.

And suddenly, both the people on screen are fighting. It’s brilliant. It’s bloody—it’s physical, in the way that flesh and bone and metal must be. Danny’s never seen serious fighting like that before.

And the new woman flies.

Danny stares.

She flies. She fights. She wins—narrowly dodging or displacing lasers with something shiny on her arms, and getting long hair singed in the process. In the end, the robot is tethered down with some kind of shiny metal rope, screaming and kicking all the way.

…Danny barely remembers to choke in air. That's so cool.

The medical person says something reassuring, but Danny’s too tired to listen. He watches this new woman take her applause, floating down on nothing but air to meet the reporter and answer questions. She looks poised. Confident. People clap. People shout things out. People smile. People cheer.

…No one is screaming. No one is running.

There are no ghost hunters in the crowd.

Danny’s exhale is manual. So is his inhale. His heart monitors are making all sorts of funky pictures most likely, but that’s not his business—he watches a woman in armor who flies take off into the sky, free to come and go as she pleases.

It…it hurts. It’s so beautiful and so peaceful and gentle and it hurts so much.

His eyes well up with tears. Why did she get this? This…niceness? Everyone had hated him when he'd tried to help—the teachers, Vlad, the town, his parents. They’d hated him! All he ever wanted to do was help like she did!

What made him so different?! Why was it Danny who got hunted down and shot at? Why was it Danny who got kidnapped and taken hostage?!

Tears burn his eyes like fire. It’s got to be the salt. Danny’s strangled whine turns into a choked off sob before he can catch it. His hand goes to his mouth, but he can’t stifle the noise.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to cry. He thinks he deserves it.

The tears come until he is sobbing, crying, wailing—because WHY WHY WHY was it so easy to hurt him?! WHY DID THEY HURT HIM, WHY DID MOM HURT HIM, HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!

A towel appears in his hand. They’re so nice to him here. So much nicer than when Mom and Dad had—

Danny’s cries are as much screams as they are anything else.

There are hands on his shoulder. On his back. Rubbing. Danny wants to shove them off but the lady isn’t here, which means that it’s one of the staff-members who isn’t supposed to touch him. They’re not supposed to touch him in case Danny hurts them but one of them gave Danny a clean towel to scream into and is rubbing his back because he’s crying.

They’re trying to be so nice and gentle but EVERYONE JUST WANTS TO HURT HIM.

They’re smart, though. They notice before Danny does, and have a bucket ready by the time heaving sobs turn into outright vomiting.

At least the mush mostly makes it into the bucket.

*

…So.

Having a breakdown…sucks.

Danny has to carefully brush his teeth with an extra-soft bristle brush and rinse out his mouth before he gets more water.

Someone is being very nice. There’s artificial fruit punch flavoring in his drink. He wants to feel grateful but he mostly feels dead.

…His eyes slide listlessly across the room. Ha. Dead.

Danny is horizontal and wrung dry and too tired to do anything but pant by the time the lady comes back to his room. She’s in quicker than usual—her gown is sort of sloppy, hair sticking out of her hair net, and she’s still looping her mask around her ear.

She gets down on her knees beside his bed. She asks him if he’s alright.

Danny’s not alright. He isn’t sure he’s been alright in…ages. Ages and ages. Before he was trapped and tied down. Before he was hated. Reviled.

…Before he was Phantom, maybe; before Danny Fenton had died a shocking, senseless death.

Tears try to wring themselves out of his aching eyeballs, but he’s too dry-eyed to cry; the lady make sad, wet eyes for him, and that’s probably enough between the two of them. Danny’s misery is a vast, gaping void, and all he has to show for it is the shovel he’s been digging through all this shit with for the last few years.

The lady brings her hands closer to his hairline, curled fingers hovering in the air. Her word’s don’t mean anything to him, but the gesture is clear: May I?

“…Mm,” Danny agrees. His eyes fall closed when she gently scratches at his scalp with her fingers.

No one’s touched him gently, on purpose, in…ages. When he was little, Dad used to pop him between him and Mom in bed. Mom would brush out Danny’s bangs with her fingers and Dad would hum. It was always something ill-fitting and silly. Guns N’ Roses. Led Zepplin. Santana. Sometimes Jazz would sit with them, crushing him until Dad had to pull him up and out of harm’s way.

In the quarantine lab, hurting him had just been part of the scientific process. What if there was some new discovery under his fat layer? On the other side of his ribs? Nestled between his alveoli?

Danny sniffles. He’s too dry to cry. He blinks invisible dust off of his eyelashes, and focuses on the weird lady who’s with him now.

Up close, when his eyes work, she looks nice. She has blue eyes, like him. Like Dad. They’re kinda…glowy, maybe? Sparkly? They remind him of ice in the Far Frozen—inhumanly brisk, and impossibly clean. She has eye crinkles where she smiles, tan skin making them more defined than their actual depth. Between her hair net and her medical mask, little wisps of black baby hairs shine through.

She pets him. She smiles. Danny isn’t sure why, but. Whatever. Jazz used to insist that human skin-to-skin contact was an essential need, so this is probably, like, also medical care.

Yeah. Danny squints. …Sure.

Whatever. It’s nice.

So Danny gets petted and it’s fine. He almost doesn’t notice the giant gauntlet under the paper sleeve of her gown, but then it’s right in his field of vision, and. Hey. Didn’t he see that on TV, like, an hour ago?

Danny stares.

He can’t actually tell if they’re gold under the pale blue color of the gown, but. The color is certainly some sort of unusually colored metal, cold to the touch even through the paper-like material of the gown.

…He doesn’t want to touch her, or let her know that he’s touching her. But. He brushes the back of his wrist against the bracelet, and it hums against the paper gown between it and his bare skin.

The lady blinks. She looks down at where they made contact, and asks him if he’s alright.

Danny looks away.

She knows she saw him reach out to her, though, so she takes her hand off of his hair (…hey…) and pulls back the sleeve on her gown. “Sest,” she offers. See?

It is the same kind of bracer he saw on TV. Up close he can see the designed etched into it—geometric lines stretching down from her fingers to her elbow, terminating in something structural. Not quite diamonds. Just…strong.

There’s a couple of very, very tiny letters down towards the bottom. His eyes strain when they try to make any sense out of them; they’re too small for him to actually focus on, which sucks.

She steps back, and pushes her sleeves down to show off her gold bracers. She lifts up the hem of her gown, revealing red boots that go waaaay up her thigh. They have the same gold metalwork as she does on the bracers.

Danny just saw those on the television. His eyes widen.

“You—“ he starts, and then remembers their difference in language. He points his hand at the television. “You fought? You were on TV?”

“Hwæt?”

“The TV?” Danny repeats. She doesn’t understand. Danny doesn’t know how to tell her what he means. “The…you were there?”

She looks at him to expand. Danny looks back at her.

…So they just stare at each other silently.

The door cracks open; the person who’d mediated Danny’s breakdown pokes their head in and says something. “Eower feoht wæs an þe box todæge.”

The lady blinks. Danny blinks. Wait. Did they just call the television the box?

“…Box?” Danny clarifies, and lifts a hand to shakily point at the television again.

The lady blinks, and grins. “Yea!” she returns, pumped up. She stands, to the powerful height she’d had on the television—excuse him, the box—and flexes her now-exposed arms to show off massive biceps.

Holy moly. Danny hasn’t seen any bigger biceps on his Dad.

She flexes one arm, the other, both—in front, and behind. If Danny had that much definition, he’d be showing off too! She leaps back impossibly far—and holy crap she can fly— to show off some mock punches at invisible enemies at speeds that Danny would be hard pressed to follow even with supernatural abilities.

He goggles.

She laughs at him, but she doesn’t sound mean—she sounds show-boating and silly, and teasing and playful, but not mean.

She’s like him. She’s not a ghost but she flies and she’s not human. She’s not human just like Danny. Just like that one green guy. Like the fast kid who visits him.

It’s such a relief. It’s so scary. Who are these people? Why are they healing him? Why are they keeping him?? Why do they have access to so many non-human people? What do they want him for? Is Danny supposed to fight like that?

He would fight. If he had to. He’s done it before.

If they make him fight, Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to fall apart like cheap glass.

The lady comes back when Danny goes quiet, her gloved fingers brushing up against his knuckles. The sensation is enough to bring Danny out of his…fog. Sometimes everything is so cloudy and vague. The pain medicine makes it go away, and the pain medicine brings it back.

Danny curls his hand into a shaking fist. He bumps her knuckles against his.

She makes a surprised noise. Danny feels her gently move his fingers, rearranging, moving where his thumb goes—

He huffs out a laugh. His fist wasn’t good enough to her standards. Her fist bump meets his in the middle with a smirk and a laugh, victory written all over her face.

[skunkes]

ok detailed surgery experience

i made this schedule (?) of the major events as soon as I left while I cld still remember (and still kinda forgot!) i like knowing the Times of stuff so I asked my dad to take note of Times for me, and tried to ask for the time where i could

surgery I got was a laproscopic bilateral salpingectomy, full removal of the fallopian tubes only!

Misc details off of dis, obviously TMI territory as its a medical procedure.

The second blood draw (they took blood from me yesterday tooooo) hurt less and more somehow. Nasty nasty bruise forming.

IV really was the worst part of it ! I'd get weird throbs of frustrating pain long after it was in

I was given compression stockings that went right up to my crotch. Your toes stick out, and they put hospital socks over your feet. Some additional compress wraps were placed above my knees.

Pre op/prep didnt take too long at all. I know I have it listed as over an hour of waiting, which always made me nervous to read in other people's experiences, but it doesn't really feel like waiting. The TV helps pass the time, as do the people who are with you if any, and the nurses popping in with help or instructions or updates. The prep room was small and the bathroom was next door. The double doors open to wheel you out. Remote was given toe to control the TV and also call the nurses via a speaker.

The nurse who wheeled me in was nicest, she pronounced my name Correctly and was also really funny and friendly...

In general I knew this surgery was going to go well because I was actually able to fall asleep last night. I've stayed awake/tossed and turned for events far less stressful. Dis was also due to part of it kind of not feeling real for me! And being wheeled into surgery room added to that! It didnt feel real, it felt like watching one of many scenes from medical media of the same point of view.

I did start quaking and shaking once in the surgery room (also small, I did not look around much in fear of it making me panic last minute!)

They had me scoot from the prep bed to the surgery table. There was a pink foam headrest for me to slot the back of my head into. They strap you in with arms out like ur being crucified and thats when it became more Real for me so i started shaking a lot, but I can't tell how bad it was under the heavy blankets. I think I shook more and for longer when I went for my MRI (which also isnt/wasnt scary but the body freaks out for no reason). Im surprised at myself for being so Calm ykwim

Anyway, strapped in, had monitoring stuff stickered onto my body: my sternum, side of body under chest/armpits, and another pair I cant remember where. Hair was put up in hair net. My hospital gown was untied as the tie starts halfway across your body and goes under, but this was not done in an invasive-to-privacy way, and I was still fully covered by it (and then recovered by blankets)

(3 separate people asked me how many kids I had throughout this whole venture, and were Shocked at my response. This was the other most nerve wracking part as I started to get weirdly anxious that someone wouldn't like this and cancel my surgery or something. One of the Askers was the anesthesiologist.) Doctor/surgeon came in and asked if i was ready and talked about how he loved being under anesthesia LOL. Everybody was speaking about their opinions about childbirth and sterilization and parenthood, but amongst each other and not to influence my decision, along with telling each other to set up XYZ. Once again everybody is charmed by Cheye's usage of the word "yay"

Ive never had surgery before, so I was worried about anesthesia. In my mind i was imagining it to be being fully lucid and then your vision darkens and takes you, which was scary to me like i dont wanna be freaking out and then immediately KNOCKED out!

But it was gradual which actually made it more calming for me...the funny nurse put the oxygen mask over me, I got very nervous bc she said to take deep breaths and honestly i couldnt even breath much at all in it, and breathing out also felt very restricting and like I was going to choke, but it wasn't Distressing. I just breathed slowly and it worked anyway.

In a few seconds I felt a cool tingle in my arm that then sort of burst into my torso, and my whole body felt really light and my eyelids draggggggged half closed, but it felt very mechanical and involuntarily (like slowly closing window blinds...or like how the brightness options on a 3DS are numbered buttons ykwim? Like, Closing 1, Closing 2, Closing 3, Closed Halfway, all pressed in quick succession). Heavy heavy heavy. I stayed in that half closed state for a while! (Probably not even a full minute, but it also wasn't instant...i still had time to think and Hear conversation etc, as well as feel that there was some mechanical thing tightening around my spread arms along with the hand adjusted straps)

The funny nurse was telling me to relax and have sweet dreams and that they wld take care of me and such. And then I was out. I do not remember my vision fully fading or eyes fully closing, in my mind they stayed in that half closed state.

Ive heard ppl say it feels like blinking and waking up, but it did feel like sleep to me!!!! I know dreaming under anesthesia isn't really a thing, but waking up felt like....i was really waking up like normal and trying to remember traces of a dream after several hours of sleep.

I always thought it was silly seeing ppl ask if the surgery was over when they come out of it, but I did that. But like i swear it came out involuntarily??? Like i knew it was over....i think it was because I couldnt really SEE anything when i woke up, I could only hear staff speaking to me, and I can barely remember what they said. Vision was VERY very blurred. So I guess that question came out as substitute for Where Am I, and Who's Here With Me? Speaking felt like when audio unsyncs from a video, with my voice trailing far behind my words. I also remember being really bewildered bc there was some sort of residue on my lips, like when they're chapped and dry and cracking. I learned later this was bc of the intubation but i Didnt Know That Yet so i was just scared and thirsty.

Adding another "pain was less bad than the average period which has one Doubled Over" statement to the pile. Pain was at 3/10 or 4/10, which is to say if period pain is a whole abdomen event, this pain was small little bruises occasionally being brushed up against, just small throbs of sore pain in the 3 incision spots. I got an incision inside my belly button and that was the most present sensation, but that might also be bc I hate anything having to do with that area in general 😭 always feels weird.

My throat felt very DRY. It wasn't pain yet, it felt like when you're thirsty + dehydrated and your lips stick together at any slight moisture, but in the throat. Kept trying to look around and wiggle my fingers and toes in hopes that'd help me Come Out Of It sooner bc not being able to see was really frustrating me. I could not make out the face of the person watching over me for some time. I really wanted water !

HORROR when the person looking over me said i had a catheter still in me. Nightmare I wasnt counting on actually happening and wasnt mentally prepared for. I was told I would have one placed (make sure to ask if this is a concern for you!) but i thought they'd take it out before I woke up... I cldnt even feel it in me when I was told this! Which is good.

The staff of course had to remove blankets and open my gown a bit to access the area. But I did not feel any distress about this at the time.

Had a very funny slow motion distress response bracing self for removal. It did not hurt or sting at all, it just felt like [something I cant describe here]. Just pressure! It was pulled out gently but quickly of course.

After 1 hr i was wheeled to a separate private recovery room. The nurse uncovered my lower area to check if incisions were doing good so far as well as to check if I had been provided with a pad/underwear, as some patients have blood or other fluids come out as a result of the surgery.

parents came in, was so grateful for juice but in dismay over my food item being orange (i dont like citrus flavor) jello (i dont like jello 😭) i consumed all of both.

I also worried I'd feel weird about throwing my body parts away. But I dont feel anything ^_^ just feels very awesome and natural

Sore throat started further developing. Nurse came in after some time here, taught me how to Get Up. Was scary! I was worried about it hurting, but it was just more soreness.

Was able to go to the bathroom, went a very little bit but it was enough. I was very scared about seeing my incisions and being disgusted by them....but I caught a glance and it was Okey Yey. They are covered in surgical Glue and dont look gnarly, swollen, red or anything they look very cool ^_^ got dressed in stages as there was nothing to set clothes down on and sat back down on the bed. The bathroom connected to another room where somebody else was preparing for surgery.

Nurse came in with final post op instructions, upon describing nausea to me my skin got cold, stomach activated and krusty krab exploded with it. She was just barely able to get me a bag to throw up in. This exacerbated the throat pain. She encouraged me to get it all out especially since I also expelled gas, which is a good thing.

IV removal didnt hurt! Same level of pain as the tape around it being yanked off. I couldn't even tell it was over. I was wheeled out of the hospital. ^_^ i wore an oversized dress my sister lent me, and cheap target sandals so I wouldnt have to bend to tie shoes. My dad pulled up the car right outside. I brought a pillow to be a barrier in between the seat belt and my stomach.

Its 6:48 neow and I am laying down, but the pain is (currently) the same. I had another nausea (and release. Also exacerbated throat pain.) spell (while in walmart picking up the pain meds), was boiling alive in my very hot room, and was a bit dehydrated which may have contributed to some misery and nausea but as of right now I'm ok, i changed into lighter clothes, drank water, ate a bit, and situated self in a room with ac....i worry about getting up and becoming nauseous again 😭 i hate throwing up.

People are right about it being more discomfort than pain! You have to walk around every few hours, and it doesnt hurt but every step feels like my bellybutton is kinda pinching inward. Being tugged at from the inside. Ive gotten to a point where even chuckling makes me feel this very Sour soreness (not regular dull soreness) so maybe ill start the meds soon if necessary.... Squatting to sit doesnt hurt in a debilitating way, neither does actually sitting or putting on/stepping into clothing.

I couldnt nap because laying on my side doesnt hurt the incisions or anything, BUT its just the strange discomfort again. The weight of gravity on the body makes the incision sites feel very very weird in an abstract way i cant describe. It isnt pain. It feels like a mismatched sensation of some sort. Like if you touched your nose and somehow felt the touch on your knee. Adjacent to this. A very specific sensation sits in all the incision sites and drags down through your mattress to the ground and it feels Weird.

If you get up properly it really doesn't hurt to do so! Use your leg to get yourself fully onto your side, then use your arm to push yourself up into a sitting position.

I am very nervous from when all the good strong hospital meds wear off t_t i heard the day after is a struggle because of dis. but ive got the prescribed pain management on hand (extra strength ibuprofen and tylenol with codeine!! O_O) neow at least ^_^;

OH, AND THE DOCTOR TOOK FOTOS OF MY INSIDES LIKE I ASKED! ^_^ 🫶 I have glossy printed souvenir now! I dont exactly know wtf im looking at but its awesum LOL maybe i will ask for details at the follow up!

[munson-blurbs]

086: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Series

Chapter 001: I Wouldn't Remember Me, Either

Summary: A new patient arrives at the lab unable to recall his past. With a parallel universe seeping into the real world, you've been assigned to pull his memories to the surface, but what you remember threatens everything.

Warnings: dark themes, mostly canon-compliant (Eddie lives), violence, blood, restraint, amnesia, abduction

WC: 3k

Divider credit to @saradika

He awakens with a jolt, heart pounding in his chest. The room is bathed in a fluorescent haze that pinches his retinas and has him squinting as he adjusts to the light after days spent asleep. 

“Wh-Where…” His throat is raw, and he coughs up blood, spattering his chin and the top of the hospital gown he’s tied into. He tries to wipe it off, but metal digs into his wrists as he realizes he’s cuffed down. He gives another yank, one handcuff clanging against the gurney’s rail. Pain rips through his torso at his sudden movement, so fierce and intense that his vision blurs. He swallows the bile inching up his esophagus and lays back down in defeat. 

A group of men in head-to-toe white surround his bedside within thirty seconds of him waking up, clipboards and charts clutched tightly in their hands. They jot down his vitals that pulse on the nearby monitor, and murmur amongst themselves. One of them must have just come in from a smoke break; the scent of tobacco wafts past 086’s nose and elicits a craving for a pull from a cigarette. 

He shakes it off and musters up all of the energy he can to try and make his voice heard. “What’s going on?”

Only one of the men acknowledges his words, turning to him with a blank, stoic expression. “Patient 086,” he addresses him, the heels of his Oxfords clicking against the hard tile, “we are…pleased to have you here with us.” He lets out a singular heh, a pathetic excuse for what passes as laughter.

086’s stomach twists at this; he takes a deep breath that heightens the ache radiating behind his torn flesh. 

“Why am I…handcuffed?” he grunts out, teeth digging into his lower lip in a grimace. 

The man ignores his question yet again. “You will answer a series of questions before we can determine where to place you.” He glances down at his checklist, pen perched atop the paper, ready to write. “Question one: what is your name?”

A grin appears on 086’s lips, cracking where the thin skin is chapped. “My name? It’s…” He trails off, smile faltering as quickly as it came. “It’s…” No. I have to know it; it’s my goddamn name. He wracks his brain, a throb pulsing against his temples as he struggles to remember the most basic detail about himself. 

“Date of birth?”

Days, months, years fly through his head. Maybe April; that seems right. Or is it August? He mouths the word, rolling it over his tongue to see if it brings back a familiar feeling, but it doesn’t sway him in either direction. “I don’t know.”

He can only offer the same response to the questions about his hometown, his parents, his school. Each missed answer draws an amused expression from the man in white, his eyebrows nearly reaching his salt-and-pepper hair when the patient before him fails to recall his own life history. 

086 watches as the man nods at one of his colleagues, a short man with a crew cut, who promptly pulls a small key from his pocket. In one swift motion, he unlocks the cuffs, still standing guard in case 086 tries to lash out and attack. 

And though 086 feels the urge to fight, to demand answers he should already know, all he can do is bring his left hand to his right wrist. He massages where the handcuff has indented his pale skin, taking note of the three digits etched just below his palm. 

086

“Is this…did I…” On the same arm is a small collection of bats; recognition burns in his brain, but he can’t bring forward the memory of why the tattoos are there. 

“You already had a host of markings before coming into our care,” Salt-and-Pepper remarks brusquely, “but the numeric identifier is our way of keeping track of patient whereabouts and achievements.”

Confusion furrows 086’s brows and creases his forehead. “My…achievements?”

“Your achievements,” Salt-and-Pepper confirms, his mouth pressed into a straight line. “Once you are healed enough to participate in lessons, we can begin determining what assets you bring to our project.”

“Project?” he repeats dumbly, disorientation morphing into ire at the lack of answers. His fists clench instinctively; the older man’s eyeline flickers towards the slight movement, but he doesn’t order him to be re-cuffed. 

The already frigid air chills even more as the man offers a horrible smile. “You have an awful lot of questions, don’t you?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth with another unnerving laugh. “An inquisitive one. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to provide those answers.” He nods at the colleague holding the keys, who promptly slides the handcuff around the patient’s wrist once again, his brief moment of freedom slipping away as quickly as it came. 

“After I help with the project…then I can go home?” The patient looks at the men before him, scanning their faces for some inkling of a response. “When can I go home?” he asks more forcefully, body aches be damned. 

Salt-and-Pepper crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And where is home, 086?” His voice is soft, but his eyes are steely with malice. “Tell you what: give us your address and we’ll take you there right now.” He waits a beat, smirking with the knowledge that his patient won’t be able to remember. “That’s what I thought.”

He pivots on his heel and walks out the door. The group of men follow him without another word, their footsteps disappearing down the hall. 

086 lays back down and breathes a terse exhale of frustration. Tears sting at his eyes as the realization of his state of utter helplessness sinks in. He wants to call out for someone, anyone, to save him, but he can’t think of a single person.

This is Hell, he thinks. Numbness overtakes his body as he begins accepting his defeat. I’ve done something to royally piss off God, and now I’m in Hell. 

Fingers from his unchained hand reflexively fly to his scalp, a nervous habit that penetrates the fuzziness coating his sense of self. He’s met with no resistance, no tangles, no snags; his hair had been buzzed down while he was unconscious. 

A neuron fires: this isn’t right. I don’t know what it is, but something is very wrong. It’s the final straw that sends him hurtling over the edge. 

“Goddammit! Let me go! LET ME GO!” He thrashes against the restraints, ignoring the pain ripping through him. A stitch on his abdomen pops with a ping, fresh blood seeping through the thin hospital gown. 

Three of the white-clad men rush into the room. One holds down his free hand while another pins his head to the stiff cotton masquerading as a pillow. 086 leans over and bites the nearest man’s wrist until he can taste metal on his tongue, spitting red. The bleeding man holds strong, almost unfazed; it’s clearly not his first time having teeth sunk into his skin. 

The third man is Salt-and-Pepper. He stands to 086’s left and plunges a needle into his neck without a moment of hesitation. The syringe’s serum leaves him warm and tingly, eyelids weighed down. “Good night,” the man whispers in sing-song, his malicious chuckle warped as the patient floats into a sedated slumber. 

The last thing 086 registers before sleep pulls him back into its embrace is the voice of the man with the now-empty syringe. 

“He’ll learn.” A pause. “C’mon, Snell. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Snell. The man who I bit is called Snell. 

And then he’s out. 

270 days. You’ve been here for 270 days, each one identical to the last. Wake up, attend hours upon hours of training, sleep, repeat. Every morning brings the sinking realization that escape is impossible and freedom is a far-off dream; your new destiny is that of a lab rat. Even the hands of the wall clock have stopped ticking by, their batteries petering out some months ago at exactly 2:17. 

If only you’d ignored the phone when it rang that evening. If only you’d run the other way. If only you hadn’t quite literally bumped into Dr. Snell as you’d bolted through the woods, desperate to avoid the evil looming over your ill-fated town. If only–

“055.”

Your head snaps up from your worn copy of Of Mice and Men when Dr. Moseley calls out your identifier—you refuse to consider it your name—from the doorway. He offers a half-smile that has you shriveling inward. Ever since Dr. Brenner’s untimely passing days earlier, Dr. Moseley has been increasing your training, trying to make you the secret weapon that would allow him to step into the late scientist’s shoes.

“Yes, Dr. Moseley.” You force a chipper tone, swallowing your fear and dog-earing your page. You’ve read this book so many times that you could rewrite it from memory, but it serves as your only source of entertainment. It’s rumored that the scientists have access to a small television set, but none of the patients have ever seen it.  

He crooks a finger, gnarled with arthritis, to beckon you over. You stand up from your cot while his eyes bore into you, smoothing the nonexistent creases in your hospital gown. The tile floor is frigid against your feet; you have no socks to serve as barriers against it. Every square inch of this place is always cold.

The doctor fixes his posture and peers downward, an assertion of dominance that does not go unnoticed. “Your…expertise is needed.” His nose twitches slightly. “Come.”

You and he both know that he doesn’t even have to tell you to follow him; obedience has been ingrained in you well before you’d been brought to the lab. Before it was the doctors, it was your friends. Before your friends, it was your parents.

A semblance of a smile flutters across his face as you comply with his order. “We have a new patient,” he explains, keeping his volume to a minimum as the two of you make your way down a dimly-lit corridor. “Like you, he was raised on the outside, but there are two major differences between you and him. Number one, he’s not a good listener.” Dr. Moseley chuckles, clammy thumb and forefinger gently perched underneath your chin in a display of affection that leaves you wanting to retch. “I had to sedate him earlier today after an…outburst. And, number two, he cannot recall a thing about his past. Not even his name. That’s where you come in, my dear.”

Another unnecessary statement; besides subservience, your only real use is memory pulling. It’s what you’ve been training for since arriving here last summer.

“We need to know why he was in The Nether, what he did, and anything he may have altered,” he continues. “It’s also highly unlikely that he was alone, and we need to know who else was with him. We can’t have people with this knowledge going unmonitored.” He pauses and makes unwanted, harsh eye contact. “You will find out this information for us so we can ensure everyone’s safety.”

“Of course,” you murmur, nodding your head and casting aside the doubt you harbor over the truthfulness of his words.

Dr. Moseley pushes open the door to the new patient’s room, where Drs. Snell and Cavendish are already awaiting your entrance. You note the beige bandage wrapped around Dr. Snell’s forearm but refrain from asking questions.

“This is 086,” Dr. Moseley reports, gesturing to the gurney where the young man lay sleeping on his side, arm crossed over his face in a makeshift shield. Bits of dried blood still stick to his exposed cheek despite the attempts to clean him up. His chest rises and falls rhythmically; if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was in the midst of a peaceful slumber. But there is no peace here. There never has been. 

“Is there anything we do know about him?” The more information you have, the easier it will be to access his memories. 

Dr. Cavendish clears his throat. “I was part of the team that rescued him from The Nether,” he ventures hesitantly. “I can allow you into the memory so you will know what to look for.”

You nod, but Dr. Moseley puts out a hand to stop you before you can even begin. “If she does that, will she have the stamina to access 086?” His voice is clipped, not wanting to waste more precious time. 

“It’ll just be a moment,” you reassure him. Memory retrieval is much easier when the person brings it to the forefront of their brain; the challenge occurs when memories are tucked away as though being stored for safekeeping. 

When Dr. Moseley says nothing, you take a step towards Dr. Cavendish. “Tell me to stop if it hurts at all,” you say, taking his hand in yours. Your eyes meet his steeled blue ones as you pull the ribbon that unravels his thoughts. 

The night isn’t pitch-black, but is submerged in a bluish gray that permeates the atmosphere. Thick, tentacle-esque vines snake along the ground, and you—Dr. Cavendish, rather, since you’ve wormed into his perspective and don his skin—carefully avoids stepping on them with Hazmat suited feet. 

“I’ve got one!” An urgent voice calls from a distance. “But if he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon.”

Dr. Cavendish spins to face where his colleague stands, striding over to the crumpled body lamely laying in the dirt, surrounded by a flock of dead creatures. The victim is covered in blood; it’s smeared across his face and oozing from punctures along his abdomen. It mats his frizzy hair, tints the ground maroon, and fills the air with the smell of iron. 

“I’ll get his legs, you get under his arms.” Dr. Cavendish commands, already bending at the knees and bracing his back to lift the young man. “On the count of three. One, two—”

“That’s enough.”

Two words from Dr. Moseley drag you back to reality. You swipe at the blood that’s gathered under your right nostril and sniff, steadying yourself on the gurney rail. In front of you, Dr. Cavendish massages the bridge of his nose to quell the inevitable headache that follows memory accession. 

Your journey was brief, but you’ve gathered sufficient information to delve into 086’s history. 

“Okay,” you breathe, grabbing 086’s cuffed hand. This is a much different set-up than you’re accustomed to. For one, there’s no way to make eye contact, not while 086 is asleep. Everything prior to this has just been practice with scientists with the goal of eventually infiltrating the minds of Russian nemeses. 

A tattoo peeks out from the patient’s drooping collar, an insect’s spindly legs emerging from a soft tuft of chest hair and fresh scars. There’s a familiarity to the faded ink, but Dr. Moseley does not afford you the luxury of uncovering it.

“055.” His voice is stern. “Please begin.”

Your open eyes find 086’s closed ones as you try to ignore your nagging conscience. This is a person; someone who, as far as anyone knows, has only committed the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything within you screams no, that this is a violation, but another brusque throat-clearing catapults you into compliance.

Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood. You grasp onto the image from Cavendish and let yourself into 086’s mind. 

You wade through darkness for a bit, hyper focused on finding a resembling memory. Your temples throb as you concentrate on your search. Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood.

Nothing.

Squeezing his hand a bit tighter, you will the wave of remembrance to crash over you. You’re pouring out every ounce of energy you possess, a draining battery, as you stand alone in utter darkness.

Blue haze. Bat-like creatures. Blood. 

You latch onto something and pull yourself into it. The visual is hazy, likely because of 086’s own inability to recall it naturally, but you can hear it all. 

Unidentifiable screeching objects–possibly the bat-esque monsters you’d seen in Dr. Cavendish’s memory–shriek and thwack against metal in rapid succession just as a scream roars over the clatter. It’s not one of terror, but of vengeance, and you feel your physical self tense up with a rage you didn’t know you held.

“Come on!” bellows 086, the challenge rising up from his diaphragm and rattling his whole body.

The next sounds happen almost simultaneously: fabric tearing, fangs hungrily sinking into flesh, and an unmistakable cry of pain.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand to listen to this man wail in torment as he’s ripped apart, teetering on the brink of death. The cry becomes strangled as though his throat is being compressed, and it allows you to hear a far-away shout, a boy’s voice thick with anguish.

“EDDIE!”

At this one word, you stumble out of the memory and nearly fall to the tile floor. Your breathing becomes shallow as the present infiltrates your psyche, too distraught to keep your nosebleed from snaking down your lips. You’ll be reprimanded for not remaining in the memory longer to identify the mystery boy, but you can’t bring yourself to find it again. 

Dr. Moseley catches you by the crook of your elbow, keeping you upright long enough for you to get a better look at 086. His hair is shaved down to the scalp, patchy in places where his curls were particularly knotted and hard to remove. He’s added a few more tattoos to his collection since you’d last seen him almost one year ago, including a swarm of bats trailing up his arm. His fingers are naked without his signature rings; the base of his knuckles are tinged green from the costume jewelry. But it’s him; it’s definitely him.

Patient 086 is Eddie Munson, and for good reason, he absolutely despises you.

--

[nico-di-genova]

In My Mind, You are Safe

Chapter 3

Alternate link to read on A03 Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“He knows?” Lance manages to ask the night after he wakes up, motioning with his head to his dad who slept snoring deeply on a leather couch in the lounge. “About us?”

“I did a bad job of keeping it secret.”

Lance thinks he maybe had too, what with the ass grabbing played as camaraderie and the way he couldn’t stop staring at Fernando during debriefs. His father wasn’t a dumb man, but rather a very observant one. He’d known Lance was smoking pot at fifteen not because of the bloodshot eyes and the smell, though those would have been the obvious giveaways, but because his reaction time during training took a hit.

‘If you’re going to smoke weed, you better do a damn better job of hiding it,’ He’d demanded.

Lance never touched the stuff again, he knew he’d get caught.

But with Fernando he thought he had maybe been a little better. They had rules about it. No kissing in the paddock, the garage, not even their drivers rooms unless it was a special circumstance – the circumstance always ending up being Fernando was needy and Lance was bored. They didn’t go to each other’s hotel rooms until it was late enough that no sane fucker would be wondering the halls. Nothing obvious could be left above the neckline, because Lance had already gotten looks from his father after the weekend on Fernando’s ugly yacht where they spent half the time naked and the other half sipping champagne. All those rules seem to have been thrown out the window the moment Lance ended up in intensive care.

Intensive Care

The word makes him shudder.

Fernando sees the movement and presses a kiss to Lance’s knuckles, “Cold?”

“Kinda.”

It’s not really a lie, the AC is set on Ice Box and he’s got nothing but a thin sheet, a stiff blanket, and bare legs beneath a hospital gown to protect him.

“Here,” Fernando pulls the Aston Martin sweatshirt from the back of his chair and helps work it over Lance’s head. It takes an extreme amount of maneuvering, and gentle tugging, and he can’t put one arm through the sleeve because of the IV in his hand. It kind of sucks at providing any actual warmth, but it smells like Fernando so that’s a comfort all on its own.

“Thanks,” He rasps.

“Of course, Lancito.”

“I missed you,” Lance blurts out, which doesn’t really make sense because he was just with Fernando in the paddock. Just with him in his driver’s room. But Lance also thinks he maybe remembers the dark. The emptiness. The distant voices that sounded like they were right beside him and yet a world away all at once. He thinks he remembers being scared.

“I missed you too. Stop talking, you will irritate your throat.”

Lance wants to make a joke about Fernando not wanting to hear him speak, but that would take too many words and he already kind of feels like he’s breathing around fire. Instead, he accepts the water Fernando offers him and sips slowly through the straw to draw out the soothing effect. He has to be careful with how much he drinks, and he can’t have solid foods yet, which Lance chalks up to normal post coma recovery, but might also have something to do with the abdomen injury as well.

He knows it’s serious because when he’d asked the doctor how long until he could get back to racing she hadn’t given him an answer. And Fernando couldn’t look him in the eye. They don’t lie to each other, brutal honesty has always been their forte. That, or steadfast avoidance.

“Careful,” Fernando chides when Lance sips too quick and chokes on the liquid, some of it escaping his mouth to dribble in a cool line down his chin.

Lance rolls his eyes. Fernando should be used to the sounds of his choking by now, he’s certainly gagged himself on worse than a few drops of water.

“Brat.”

Lance smiles around the straw, all innocence and fluttering eyelashes.

“You are lucky you’re in a hospital bed.”

Which, he isn’t, far from it, but for the moment things feel almost normal so he ignores the remark.

--------

There is an argument about who Lance will go home with.

Lance’s Switzerland apartment is out of the question, his agency being robbed by the injuries his body is still trying to adjust itself to. His dad knows he can afford better around the clock care, people to help Lance with everything from changing his bandages to holding his dick while he pisses. Fernando knows Lance doesn’t want that, knows the humiliation of it would probably kill him faster than his car in the wall should have. They don’t ask for Lance’s opinion on the matter though as he sits silently in the bed between them. Watching them fight for custody of him, it’s familiar, reminds him of being small and wondering if he was going to have to have two bedrooms after his parent’s divorce.

“He needs help Fernando. Doctors, nurses, staff – not just you.”

“I have taken care of him before. I know what he needs.”

Healing from a head wound and a piece of carbon fiber tearing through his body isn’t really the same as a cold, but Lance appreciates Fernando’s commitment. He doesn’t say this of course, because neither one of them seem to really notice he’s there, just continues sipping slowly from the cup in his hands and picking at the starched blanket over his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt anymore, swallowing doesn’t take as much effort.

“You think you know better than me? I’m his father,” his dad states. As if it needs stating. As if Lance wasn’t born with Lawrence’s name over his head and a silver coated thumb in his mouth. As if there were any injury out there that would make him forget who he belongs to, down to the blood and marrow of him, the very making.

“I am his-” Fernando pauses. They never really put a name to it. There hadn’t been much discussion about what he and Lance were before he started bleeding out in Fernando’s arms. Not that he would remember that of course, doesn’t remember much about barreling into the wall at top speed. The doctors say that’s probably for the better.

“Boyfriend?” Lance supplies helpfully around the straw in his mouth. He’s continuing his bad habit of gnawing on the plastic, the taste reminiscent of the tube he had woken up choking on, but also of the bottle he would carry around during race weekends.

Fernando motions at him appreciatively, “Yes. This. I am this.”

His dad’s scowl deepens, “This isn’t a fever and some rest. It’s physical therapy, cognitive therapy. He will need someone 24/7.”

He is sitting right here, and he doesn’t necessarily agree. Lance is needy in the same way a cat is, he craves attention only as long as it is wanted, too much and he will probably begin scratching at you. But there hasn’t been much in his control since he lost the wheel at Silverstone.

“Okay. I will do that.” There’s not a hint of hesitation in Fernando’s tone, when Lance knows there absolutely should be. Whatever unestablished thing is between them, it’s far from stable enough to rest Lance’s entire laundry list of medical issues on, or at least Lance thought it was.

“I can hire someone too, Lawrence,” Fernando pushes, “You are not the only man with money. Lance has not lived with you since he was a child, yes? He needs familiarity. Routine? That is not in your mansion. Let him come home.”

Home.

Is that what Fernando’s place is to him? Most of his memories there are the sort that speak less of a home and more of the flat you wake up in after a one-night stand. Strewn clothes and half-finished bottles of beer on the kitchen counter, The warm press of Fernando’s body along his bare back. Would he be healing on the same sheets they routinely fucked on? Propped up on the pillows that know the shape of his teeth?

Is home where you have a drawer and your PlayStation hooked up in the living room? Or is it the childhood space where you keep a collection of Pokémon cards and karting trophies to collect dust? Lance isn’t sure, mainly because he’s never stayed in one place long enough to really understand the feeling.

His dad throws the last card in his arsenal, the thing they all three have been wondering at.

“And what about the season? You’re done then?”

Fernando bites his lip, thinks on it.

“I go back when he does.”

No one wants to state the obvious, least of all his father. Fernando has played the winning hand, deploying the same dirty tactics he’s fond of utilizing when behind the wheel.

Lance stops chewing on the straw. He stops picking at the blanket. Instead, he just stares blankly at the fabric and tries to tune their bickering out. He’s getting a headache, the kind of stabbing pain that only comes when he tries to think too hard about a memory that has escaped him. It’s easier to blame the pain on the bright fluorescent’s, or the way Fernando’s voice is starting to rise, instead of the crack in his skull.

In the end, he goes with Fernando. He asks to go with Fernando, because as much as he loves his father, he cannot stand the thought of trying to make himself fit in a space that no longer knows the shape of him.

“We did get along, so you know,” Fernando says when Lance is buckled into his passenger seat, groggy from the meds they’d dosed him with. Supposedly, they’re supposed to help Lance with the nausea, manage it during the ride.

“When I was ‘sleep?” Lance slurs, still not calling his coma by its name. He’s got his head resting on the car window even though the nurses had warned him not to do that. He’s supposed to be focusing on stationary things within the car, like the warm weight of Fernando’s hand on his thigh, not watching the trees whip by outside while his skull rattles against the glass.

“Yes,” Fernando says, focused on the road with an intensity Lance has only ever seen him possess when behind the wheel, and therefore does not realize the implication of his answer. That he and Lance’s father could only get along as long as Lance was the unconscious white flag waving between them. He tries to backpedal. “No, that is not-.”

Lance shrugs, lethargic, “S’okay. Go back to sleep for you then.”

“Querido no, that is not what I meant,” Fernando actually sounds pained, the nickname rolling of his tongue with an ease Lance did not realize could be familiar to them. Lance just feels exhausted. Consciousness actually takes a conscious effort these days.

“Lance?”

“Hmm?”

“I did not mean that. You know I did not mean that, yes?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He’ll probably forget the conversation by the time he wakes up anyway, memories leak out of him now the same way his blood had.

--------

Surprisingly, Lance has more at Fernando’s UK home than he remembers. Or, unsurprisingly, depending on how much you take his brain injury into account.

He’s got half a bottle of shampoo in the shower, a razor and toothbrush at the sink, most of his hoodies and a good chunk of his sweatpants. Somehow, his favorite pair of socks has even ended up here, thrown in with Fernando’s dirty clothes and discovered by the cleaners. He takes to padding around the place in the loungewear, hood pulled over his head and keeping his hands tucked into the hoodie pocket – subconsciously splaying a palm along his stomach as he always has, but now pressing at his healing abdomen with newfound curiosity.

Fernando will catch him doing it sometimes, grab him by the arm and then the wrist until he can pull Lance’s probing fingers away from the tender skin and entwine them in his own.

“It won’t heal if you pick at it.”

“Feels weird. Itchy.”

It also sometimes hurts so much that Lance finds himself crying silently into the pillow while Fernando sleeps soundly beside him. The phantom pain of an injury he does not remember. When Fernando checks that the healing is coming along nicely, Lance deliberately does not watch. He hasn’t actually seen the incision since he accidentally looked while a nurse at the hospital was cleaning the wound, and nearly lost his light lunch of applesauce and pudding at the sight. It’s ugly, disgusting, and Fernando seems completely unphased by it.

Fernando squeezes his hand, raises it so he can press a kiss to Lance’s knuckles, a quickly forming new habit for him, “I’m sorry, cariño.”

Apologies flow from him easily now. He apologizes for splashing Lance with water when they’re washing dishes. Apologizes for grabbing Lance when he slips in the shower. Apologizes for the simple way the words seem to flow off his tongue now. It’s strange to Lance, stranger than waking up choking on a plastic tube with your dad on one side and your long-term fuck buddy/partner/boyfriend/mentor on the other. Stranger even that it’s coming from Fernando Alonso of all people, who notoriously does not apologize.

Lance is used to arguments between them ending in mutual silence on either end of the couch, not Fernando pressing a kiss to the furrow between his brow and asking for forgiveness.

“Stop doing that,” Lance grumbles, for what must be the hundredth time.

“Sorry.”

“Fernando.”

“Sor- okay,” and then he kisses Lance’s cheek with the gentleness of atonement anyway. Lance misses when Fernando would just slam him against a wall, crowd him against the marble of the kitchen counters, and talk Lance into sinking to his knees. Not that it ever really took much talking to begin with.

Fernando doesn’t fuck him anymore, which he thinks is maybe the biggest travesty to come out of all of this. Instead, he trails careful fingers down Lance’s side, presses kisses to his neck, his shoulder, his jaw with a tenderness that should be considered foreplay. Then he pulls away, leaves Lance half-hard in his sweatpants, and pretends he doesn’t notice the pout on Lance’s lips. Lance doesn’t beg, at least not before Fernando has gotten him undressed, and he’s not going to ask Fernando to suck his dick while the man is on his knees making sure Lance’s abdomen is still healing properly. So it becomes another thing they just don’t talk about. Lance is worried he’s picked up his father’s habit for avoidance.

--------

Nearly three months after his crash, Lance’s morbid curiosity gets the better of him. His therapy is going well, all three of them. The physical therapy for his legs, because they’d gotten fucked up too, though on a much smaller scale, and for his hands and for – well, for every part of him, is almost familiar. He’d done a few rounds of physio for his wrists after his bike accident, though those had been high intensity because Lance actually had a deadline. The cognitive therapy is more of a challenge, because his memory is still shot to shit, but he can remember Chloe’s birthday again so at least there’s that. The therapy therapy is kind of annoying, only because Lance has never really seen the value of shrinks picking apart his mental state to begin with, but it’s easy. Sometimes they play Jenga, sometimes they talk about how Lance is scared he’ll never be the same again, sometimes Lance excuses himself to the bathroom and screams until his voice is as hoarse as it had been once the intubation tube was removed. It’s all a process.

But he still doesn’t remember the crash.

He can see the reflection of it in Fernando’s eyes sometimes, the fear, the shame. The guilt is the worst, usually brought on when Lance jerks awake from a dream he cannot remember and finds Fernando watching him in the dark with eyes shining.

“You okay?” He will ask, propped up on an elbow and tracing a finger along Lance’s spine. The touch sends shivers through Lance, want and need all bundled up in the foggy confusion as his brain tries to reorient itself.

“Fine.”

“You are sure?”

“Definitely.”

Talking was never their strong suit. But Lance has always been able to read people, an ability fine-tuned after years of rejection. He likes to know when people are planning to turn on him before it happens, doesn’t want to be blindsided by a journalist asking him some probing question only to see if they can get a response. He can see Fernando’s guilt, and eventually he caves and searches for the why.

F1 TV, or his father, or maybe the FIA have made a herculean effort to scrub the full footage of the crash from the internet. But Lance has grown up in the age of the digital, so it doesn’t take him long to find it on YouTube, under a video titled “Canadian Buries it in Wall – ’24”. Inventive.

What he remembers is this, sitting beside Fernando in the pre-race briefing. Both of them trying to listen to Mike explain the stacked pit strategy again, but also occupying themselves with each other. Lance, dick still aching from being teased in his driver’s room, was feeling particularly vindictive. He’d been inching his foot slowly up Fernando’s pants leg, his hand up the inside of Fernando’s clothed thigh.

Fernando hadn’t responded. Sat ramrod straight in his seat and kept his eyes glued ahead. Until Lance just barely brushed his knuckles along the bulge in Fernando’s pants and received a sharp pinch to his own thigh in response.

“Ow!” Lance had yelped, loud enough that a few engineers turned to look at him.

Lance had blushed, “Hit my- hit my knee, sorry.”

And then he’d woken up in the hospital. The irritation to his thigh replaced by the throbbing pain that occupied his entire body.

He wants to remember, and so he hits play. He watches himself drive like he’s analyzing onboards for where he can maybe improve, with the same detached feeling. There’s Fernando behind him, and Russel ahead, and Lance in the middle of it all holding his ground. Fernando’s given the order to back-off, told not to fight because Lance’s tire management has been better, and he’s got the speed and clean air for now. Their fight is with Russel, except that Russel was six ahead and Fernando wanted to play sooner rather than later.

The commentators say Lance is driving surprisingly well, he tries not to grind his teeth.

And then Fernando pulls out of the slipstream, makes a charge to overtake in the straight, and Lance sees himself move. Just a twitch of the car, a fraction of movement in an effort to defend, before Fernando’s front right tire clips his back left and Lance spins. He can see himself try to overcorrect, but then the car goes sideways, the tires leave the track when he skitters across marbles, and he’s flipping until there’s only the wall to stop him.

The red flag is immediate, so is Fernando’s stop when he pulls into the gravel and doesn’t even hesitate to book it to Lance’s on fire car.

“Lance. Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright,” Andrew’s voice comes through the broadcast, but Lance’s own response does not. It’s eerily quiet, especially in the empty space of Fernando’s house when the man isn’t there to bring life to it.

They play a message from Esteban who drives by, the Frenchman’s voice laced with worry as he asked, pleaded, for Lance to be okay. Lance understands now why Esteban had looked so pale when they’d spoken last. When Lance had been curled up on Fernando’s couch, shrouded in shadow because the lights hurt his head, and Esteban had been sat in the chair across from him. He’d thought it was maybe because they were in Fernando’s house, thought the strangeness of the setting might have just had Esteban on edge. He hadn’t realized it was because his best friend had seen his on fire car and thought for a moment he might not get out.

It's suddenly a little hard to breathe. He blames the tightness in his chest on his ribs, even though those have healed by now.

“Lance?” Fernando’s voice in the doorway, quiet, worried.

Lance jumps, winces when he pulls at something sore, and slams the laptop shut with enough force that he’s a little scared to open it again. His eyes dart to Fernando’s and-

Oh. The guilt. He’s drowning in it.

“Fer, I’m sorry, I- fuck. I just…I didn’t- I’m sorry,” and now he’s the one gushing apologies, wanting so badly to tear his gaze away from the tears building in Fernando’s eyes. He shouldn’t have looked. It was easier when he didn’t know the shape of his body in the wreckage, when he didn’t know it had been Fernando who ran to him, who crashed into him. Pandora’s box and all of its contents are spilling across the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says again, because Fernando still has not moved from the doorway and he’s not sure what else he could do. He can’t walk to him, his leg is still aching from physio, hence the whole curled up in bed watching his own life-threatening crash while Fernando was supposed to be out picking him up a ridiculously overpriced smoothie from his favorite place down the road.

“No,” Fernando chokes, “No. Lance. No. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I-“ Fernando chokes again and then he’s sobbing. Lance’s spirulina, coconut, gold flaked smoothie still clutched in one hand and his free one wrapping around himself as he doubles over in the doorway.

Lance does go to move then, sore muscles be damned.

But when he grabs Fernando, the man only sobs harder. He doesn’t pull away though, he needs Fernando for the support now. His thigh is killing him.

“Fer, Nano, baby, please. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, because Fernando doesn’t cry. He bottles everything up, ghosts Lance for a week, and then comes back as if nothing was ever wrong in the first place. Lance doesn’t know how to comfort him, and he doesn’t think that’s something to be blamed on the memory loss, he’s almost certain this is entirely new to them.

Fernando collapses against his chest, Lance stumbles under the weight of them both. His body protests the sudden movement, something sharp and hot spiking it’s way through him, starting in his leg and moving to the incision scar on his stomach.

He gasps, tries to breathe through the pain. It’s kind of like how his wrists were after a race, before he plunged them into a bowl of ice, he can manage.

“I’m okay,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too tense. There’s sweat breaking out along his brow. He kind of wants his smoothie. “I’m okay, Fer. I promise.”

Fernando’s tears are soaking the fabric of his hoodie. Lance cradles the back of his head, and ignores the damp feel of them against his chest, ignores the warm heat of Fernando’s breath as he tries to find air.

“An accident,” he wails, “I swear, Lance, I swear.”

“I know.”

He saw, just now, could clearly see himself moving and see Fernando slamming the brake to try to stop it. He sees Fernando running. Running to him. People who hurt Lance intentionally are hardly ever concerned enough to check on him afterward, some of them think he deserves the knife twisted inside him simply because he can afford the medical bill. He knows Fernando would never try to hurt him, but he also knows nothing he says could absolve the guilt.

“I know, dude. And I love you, but could we maybe move this to the bed? My leg is killing me.” Fernando, thankfully, lets himself be maneuvered until Lance is sitting on the edge of the bed and Fernando resting solidly in his lap, knees bracketed on either side of his thighs. It’s the most contact they’ve had since Lance woke up, it’s making him a little heady.

Fernando rests his cheek against Lance’s shoulder, cries into the crook of his neck, and Lance tries to soothe him as he takes intermittent sips from his smoothie that he’d pulled from Fernando’s grip before it ended up spilled across the sheets. He rubs a hand along Fernando’s back, a pantomime of how his dad used to calm him down when he had a rough race and had to blow off steam in his driver’s room. It’s not working very well. Lance is maybe bad at this.

“I shouldn’t have watched the stupid video,” he grumbles. Knowing the how has not brought him any peace, only made him realize the true severity of his injuries. His therapist might have been right in saying to stop pressing at the wound, Fernando too for pulling his hand away.

“I could have killed you,” Fernando cries, “I almost killed you. You- you were-“

“I know, Nando, I know. Please, just- just stop. Please.”

It’s too much too fast. Fernando’s guilt, his own brain trying to process it all, the headache forming at his temples and the exhaustion crashing down on him. He’s tired all of the time now. And not in the lazy way he once was, like a big cat stretching in a patch of sunlight, more like someone who’s been crumpled in their car and extracted without all of the pieces smoothed back out.

He wants to sleep. He maybe wants to cry himself.

“Thought I would lose you,” Fernando mumbles, miserable and quiet, his stubble rough against the soft skin of Lance’s neck when he speaks.

“You didn’t. I’m safe. I’m right here.”

Lance hadn’t realized he was Fernando’s to lose, didn’t really put the pieces together until now that he maybe belonged to someone other than his family. He didn’t think anyone would ever actually want him. It’s a weird feeling, makes something beneath the scarring and the healing wound in his gut twist.

“You have me. I’m right here. I’m safe. I’m here.”

I’m okay, he thinks, and he starts to believe that it will be true.

[pettypiastri]

my boyfriend's boyfriend

jamie drysdale x fem reader ft. trevor zegras

requested by @corneliaskates: "okay in light of these photos… I’m making you write jamie for me what about like moving in with him but like moving in with him also means moving in with trevor and… chaos ensues"

wc: 2.3k

warnings: blood in the context of undercooked food and also minor injury, reference to Jamie's shoulder injury and doctors offices, swearing, mention of drugs in a medical context, chaos, buffoonary

a/n: just some fun casual writing for a collection of scenes that i think you’d likely see upon moving into the zegras/drysdale household, pls enjoy the chaos! lots of this unhinged behavior we already knew about the 2 of them but a few details came from the recent "The Players Lounge" podcast episodes with jamie and trevor so go listen! (also would the homies wanna see me write for mason mctavish cause i really would love to do so)

Jamie stares blankly at the doctor as he continues to come to. He doesn’t hear the inquisition the doctor made. The first thought on his mind is the only thought he's had since he skated off the ice, his left shoulder in a dead hang: his season is over, there’s no way around it. 

“Mr. Drysdale?” The physician tries to get Jamie’s attention. 

“Yes, umm I’ll be there to help him. I’ve taken time off work.” Jamie turns his head slowly to look at you. He barely registers what you’ve said. He almost wants to ask you to repeat it but he knows he heard you right. The doctor shifts toward you, flipping through the aftercare instructions and various medications Jamie will have to take. You’re collected, attentive, and receptive all the while Jamie’s eyes bore into your profile, trying to understand. He’s still drowning in self-wallowing and frustration and now is trying to parse through the funny sort of feeling in his heart watching you prepare yourself to be a part time caretaker for him. Not only are you here right now, you’ve just admitted out loud, without any previous discussion between the two of you that you are not just willing but going to help him during his recovery?? He feels an intensity to communicate his love and appreciation for you that he’s not used to but ends up manifesting as,

“Will you move in with me?” The door to the exam room has just barely clicked shut from the doctor’s exit. Your spine is rod straight now from where you were previously collecting your purse and coat. Jamie’s always been a fiddler, twitching and messing with loose skin on his finger or the belt loop of your jeans, but now he sits perfectly still as he stares at you. 

“Where’s the big red button, I think they gave you too much of something bud.” Humor always serves as a great deflection tactic for you but Jamie won’t let you off the hook.

“No no, I’m serious. Do you want to move in with me?” Your expression remains slightly standoffish as you draw closer to the bed. As you prop yourself on the hospital bed, you notice his eyes are inviting, stoic: a safe place to land. Lazy fingers reach to soothe Jamie’s uninjured arm. 

“Would you have asked me if you hadn’t torn your shoulder?” Jamie’s nod is emphatic. 

“Yes, it probably just would’ve taken me a bit longer to ask. You still make me nervous-- but like in a good way, in a good way.” Jamie stumbling over his words endears you like nothing else. “I kind of hate being without you, not in a weird codependent way, I just really like who I am when you’re around.” 

Your mind is already made up after Jamie’s unbridled honesty but you still have to ask,

“Shouldn’t you run this by Trev first maybe?” He is a member of the household, though not much of a contributing one. To sell his conviction, Jamie’s eyes don’t leave yours as he reaches for his phone in the back pocket of the jeans he thinks he’s wearing. He gets an awful fright meeting bare skin under the hospital gown. Creasing at the waist with laughter doesn’t hinder you too much as you dig for his phone in your purse. He takes it sheepishly from your grasp. As he dials Trevor’s number, you urge him to put it on speaker phone.

“Jimmy! How high are you, man??”

“Z, Y/N’s gonna move in with us.”

“I thought she already lived here?”

—

Since the moment of Jamie’s injury you’ve been practically inseparable. Surgeon consultations, post op, helping him dress, cooking for him, you’ve truly been there for it all for Jamie. Now that he’s several months post op and regained most all of his range of motion, he’s been eager to pick up some slack. 

“Are they closed?” 

“Jamie my love, yes. I’ve literally had them closed every time you’ve asked in the last 15 minutes.” You sigh, patience thinning at both the frequent reminders and… well… how goddamn slow Jamie’s being. To pass the time, you’ve taken to concocting a game with the yellow spots on the inside of your closed eyelids.

“Dude it’s been fucking hours would you hurry up already?” 

“Trevor, no one asked you.” Jamie snips at his childish best friend. It’s date night tonight and Jamie wanted to cook for you. Trevor decided, because he is cripplingly codependent, that he just had to sit on the living room couch to scroll Instagram. You’ve mentally taken the under on Trevor stealing some of your bread with olive oil within the first five minutes of it being in front of you because ‘Jimmy why didn’t you make any for me too?’

“Okay it's ready, you can open!” Slowly doing as you’re told to readjust to the well lit dining room, you catch Jamie scurrying around to his side of the table. His face holds an adorably pleased expression, you can tell he’s very proud of himself. The spread in front of you is barbequed steak, bread with olive oil, and a green salad; a shockingly balanced meal. A normally restless boy, Jamie vibrates with excitement even more now as he waits for your appraisal. 

“Jamie baby, it looks amazing! Thank you!” Crows' feet emerge to compensate for his smile becoming impossibly wider, yet he’s still a bit shy, bashful after your praise.

“I’d hope so, it took you long enough Jimbo,” the peanut gallery croons again. You don’t even acknowledge Trevor as you begin to saw through your steak… until red liquid begins to pour out… Stunned and surprised, your mouth gapes for a moment, finding the gentlest way to put things.

“Jamie,” drawing out the final vowel, your eyes flick to his. His expression is eager with eyebrows raised in question.

“How long was this steak on the barbeque for?” 

“Like 10 minutes I think? Why?” Jamie pales slightly at your question.

“I think the heat was too high babe.” Jamie observes his steak with a close eye and then oggles yours from across the table before reaching for his knife. 

“What do you mean? You said it looks amazing, I mean look at those char marks!” 

“Jamie baby, it's practically still moo’ing…” Trevor bursts out laughing, his stupid wheeze accompanying Jamie’s panic. As his knife breaches the admittedly lovely crust, bloody liquid pours out of Jamie’s steak as well. The color of his cheeks grows to match that of what's on his plate. Jamie starts to say something but it’s Trevor’s voice you both hear instead.

“Just put it in the microwave.” 

—

The team returned last night from the East coast road trip. You and Jamie have been in denial about Trevor’s return, trying to stretch out the silence with a lazy day on the couch. Trevor however has had other plans.

“Why do I have the least blanket right now? I’m literally the tallest of us three.” 

“Because no one invited you to join?” You shove at Trevor’s toes that are digging into your thigh from how you’re sardine-d on the couch. He whines as you do so, pushing at you back. Harder. “Ow Trevor stop!” 

“What I’m not fucking doing anything!” 

“Guys! I can’t hear what they’re saying!” Jamie bursts, effectively shutting you both up. Trevor glares at you as you snuggle further into Jamie’s chest, Jamie's arm visibly tightening around you. The face you give Trevor is smug. 

“Fine, I’ll just go somewhere else then.” As he stands from the couch he makes an equally childish display of flipping the blanket up and over your head, messing up your hair and covering your eyes.

Jamie coos quietly at you not to say anything or react so you remain calm and settle in to watch the rest of the current episode of Yellowstone with your boyfriend.

A few minutes later when there is a distinct cacophony of falling caps, banging metal doors, and at least a liter container of liquid (hopefully closed) hitting the floor, it’s not hard to tell Trevor has decided to do his laundry. He comes back upstairs acting as if nothing was afoot. 

It’s not until an hour later when Trevor has made the switch to the dryer that you notice something actually might be off. Wafting up from downstairs is a distinct smell of burning. You pause to be sure your nose isn’t confusing something else before voicing your worry.

“Do you smell that?” Jamie sniffs violently enough to be audible. 

“What are you– oh shit!” Jamie moves from behind your back leaving you flopping onto yours from his quickness. “Trevor!!” He shouts while bounding down the stairs. “I told you, you have to clean the lint trap every single time you use the dryer!” His voice grows inaudible the farther downstairs he gets. Trevor peeks his head out from his room. 

“Was he talking to me?” You can’t help but laugh, hands covering your face in disbelief.

“Why are we friends with you?” 

“I’m fucking awesome, duh.”

—

“Okay don’t panic–” Is all you hear before you start to panic. “But umm Z might’ve slipped on the roof…” 

“Tell me you’re joking. Why are you calling me? Oh my god Jamie, call the trainer or something! Is he hurt?” It’s brisk in the shade where you stepped out of your office to answer the incessant calls from your boyfriend. You’re still not off for another hour. 

“I think he’s okay. Definitely tore open his leg but we put some stuff on it. He’s still complaining about it but you know him, he’s always complaining about something so I think he’s okay.” As Jamie finishes, your phone vibrates with a text. “I sent you a picture of it.” The picture reveals a shallow cut about 6 inches long down the front of Trevor’s calf. There’s still remnants of blood around the cut itself and more notably about 12 normal sized bandaids placed like a patchwork quilt over the area of interest. Idiots. “We didn’t wanna get in trouble with the team…” Jamie says softly, decidedly embarrassed.

“I see. Okay well great job with the band aids you guys. I’ll pick some more up on the way home and some other supplies. Why were you up there?” 

“I was playing guitar and Trevor came up to tell me he could do it better and then promptly took it from me.” There’s a pouty lilt to Jamie’s voice that makes you wonder if Trevor’s really the one that got hurt. 

“Did he damage your guitar Jim Jam?” A shiver rakes your body as you’re desperate to get back inside the office.

“No, thank god.” He’s quiet, waiting for your reply. 

“You’re doing great Jamie, it’s really coming along baby.” He chirps a thank you, easily excited by your dismissal of Trevor’s insult. The two of you say your goodbye’s over Trevor’s whining in the background. 

On your way home, as promised, you stop at a drugstore to grab some gauze and larger wraps for Trevor’s ‘injury.’ You send a snarky picture of two contending boxes of Band Aids side by side to Trevor. Your caption ‘Mandalorian or Tangled?’ Something tells you Trevor’s reply is completely serious when your phone lights up with ‘Flynn Rider.’

—

Jamie slips into your shared bathroom as you’re fanning gently at your face. He smiles kindly but doesn’t start a conversation. Instead he reaches for his toothbrush and sets to brushing his teeth. The two of you don’t normally get ready for bed together at the exact same time. Typically one of you is asleep on the couch and being prodded at by the other to come to bed. Well, you normally prod at Jamie while he normally gallantly carries you to bed without disturbing your sleep. As he brushes his teeth, Jamie observes you as his entertainment. He steadies himself with a hip popped against the counter and one foot crossed in front of the other. 

Jamie’s attention does not bother you. Being the type not to speak until prompted, Jamie’s stays silent, his watchful gaze comforting if anything. That is until his lips form a small smile around his toothbrush that begins to grow. Finally you flick your eyes over to him in the mirror and notice toothpaste beginning to trickle down his chin. A drop that was lingering ominously begins to fall so you lurch forward to catch it in the palm of your hand, not wanting to risk the white carpet square Jamie’s standing on. 

“If you keep smiling like that you’re gonna get toothpaste on yourself Jamie. Be careful.” The toothpaste in your palm is flicked into the sink before you promptly rinse your hand. Jamie heeds your warning, deciding it's time for him to rinse as well. After his hands are towel dried he moves to hug you from behind. The smile is still on his face.

“Seriously, what are you smiling about, mister?” A giggle escapes your chest. You feel Jamie’s shrug against your back as you dig for another product in the drawer next to you. 

“Dunno, I’m just so happy you’re here.” Around you, Jamie’s never shied away from honesty and it’s something you’ve always appreciated. The last few months living with Jamie and Trevor has been chaos, hell at times, and insanely stressful but you’ve still found joy in every moment. So you meet Jamie’s honesty with some of your own when you say,

“There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

Later, when the two of you find yourselves curled around each other in bed, under an excessive number of blankets, it’s like Trevor has ESP for when he’s being left out of affections. A knock on the conjoining wall confirms this theory. His voice is muffled but you can still make it out.

“I love you guys.” Jamie chuckles and kisses your forehead, shaking with laughter of your own.

“We love you too Trevor.”

[us-the-voices-and-more-voices-2]

post kryptonite arc for Luther

Luthor sends a gift to Conner which has a gift card that reads “here’s your baby blanket -love lex”

Conner: what

the Kent’s who are just vibing in the background: oh what’s it sweetie?

Conner: Lex sent me my baby blanket, wasn’t.. wasn’t I a test tube baby?

the Kent’s: honestly no idea ‘Kon sweetie I don’t know’

Conner: it’s a really nice blanket?? I just am so confused.

later a fair month later

Luthor rocks up to the Kent’s house and knocks on the door, it opens.

luthor: Son, I am so sorry for everything I’ve done, but I have to check your health and make sure your DNA isn’t dissolved or something.

Conner who opened the door since the Kent’s were out

Conner: Lex. *conner crosses his arms* go away.

Luthor: yeah, I know I’m not the best parent I could be. But I do need to make sure your genetic code isn’t compromised or something, you really should be testing for it every 2 weeks. It’s been 3 years, I just want to make sure my son is okay. *lex gives Conner puppy dog eyes*

Conner: you made me in a test tube I’m more superman’s son then yours.

luthor: I literally carried you for 12 months, I was there the day you were born was superman there when you took your first breath? first steps? Spoke your first words? No he wasn’t I was. Your as much my son as he is.

Conner: *completely baffled* what?

luthor: uh, don’t you know how difficult it is to make an artificial womb that WORKS? It was actually way easier to just carry you to term.

Conner: WAIT, WHAT?

luthor: I could not trust a random woman to carry something so precious, uh so I did obviously? *lex rolls his eyes* it’s way easier to just make a man have a kid than make an artificial womb, you know how hard it is to make one of those right? It’s genuinely harder than making any advanced ai or anything and when it’s easier and healthier and most importantly SIGNIFICANTLY CHEAPER to just carry a clone to term you do it. I don’t know what those justice league characters said to you but no it’s just so much work.

Conner: YOU WHAT?

Luthor: yeah obviously, why did you think half your dna came from me?

Conner struggling between retching or crying just stares

luthor: oh you don’t believe me, wait I have a few pictures in my wallet.

*lex shows conner an adorable candid shot of baby Conner playing with some blocks, and a photo of what looks like Lex in a hospital gown holding a tiny Conner, and one more of Lex showing Conner mercy and making Conner wave to her*

Conner: *shocked*

luthor: anyway why would I hurt my son after all? Seems kind of well, not even acceptable or useful. Honestly I just want to make sure you’re not dying. Those justice people are so bad at making sure people are healthy especially someone so unique as you son.

Conner: wait, does that mean your technically my mother?

luthor: yeah, doesn’t matter though does it?

Conner: my birth mother is you.

luthor: yeah obviously

Conner: well now I have a answer to all those pesky questions about who’s my birth mother, do you mind if I just call you lex because it’s gender neutral and no one will ask questions.

luthor: sure? Please son let me test your blood.

Conner: why did you put me in a test tube then?

luthor: ever heard of sudden infant death syndrome? Also I thought if I force grew you to adulthood you wouldn’t have to suffer through hormonal problems and all that, since you’re not exactly a stable organism I thought I’d save you from that hell. But yeah in retrospect it was pretty cruel to rob you of your childhood. You were a really cute baby though.

Conner: I have no idea what to do with this information.

luthor: so, *quickly pricks and draws Connor’s blood* I’ll be back in 2 weeks.

conner: WAIT YOUR JUST GOING TO LEAVE???

Luthor: yeah, see you in a fortnight bye son!

prev | current | next

[bats4sophie]

Hey guys,,, I know Arkayne Faith (Oscar x Kayne) Isn't a super popular ship in the malevolent Fandom, but for those few Arkayne Faith enjoyers, here's a quick fanfic I made of them. It might be slightly out of character, I'm sorry, I haven't relistened to any episodes with Oscar in them recently.

TW: Mentions of blood, injuries, a little bit of angst (I can't help myself)

Arkayne Faith 💕

Oscar stumbles to get his footing. He looked around this new, strange place that he had suddenly been placed into with no explanation as to why, all he knows is that he was in the hospital, resting off his arm injury after Arthur had severed it, and now, he was in a cold, dark expanse, feeling the breeze blow about his exposing hospital gown, and the cold stone floor leaving his bare feet feeling numb. But he was far to confused, and far too angry to focus on that yet. All he could think about, and had been thinking about was how Arthur had just...left him. Of course, he knew there must have been some reason for Arthur leaving, but he still felt completely unbridle rage towards his former friend. And now, he was alone, confused, and afraid, with no idea where he is, or why he's there.

He slowly lowers himself down onto the stone cold floor, and draws his knees up, hugging them against his chest, hiding his face in his knees as warm tears of fear and anger well up in his eyes. As he was letting all his emotions come through, however, he hadn't noticed a new presence in front of him, until the thing spoke up, at first in an overly cheery sounding voice, which quickly changed up.

"Sorry about that, I just had to check on how Arty was doing on my special mission, and i forgot all about bringing you here! I swear, sometimes my mem-"

Kayne pauses as his wild eyes search over Oscars scrunched up form, how he didn't even look up at him as he spoke, and instantly knew something was wrong. Kayne had not only been watching Arthur in his journey in New York to evade the Butcher, but he also kept a close eye on Arthur's new acquaintances, mainly Oscar, and he knew that this behaviour was definitely out of character. His grin did not dissapear, but fell slightly as he crouched down next to Oscar, cocking his head like a confused puppy, and slowly lifted Oscars head up.

"Hey, hey, lefty... whats wrong? Why the long face, huh? It's not about the whole "Arthur cutting off your arm and leaving you for dead" thing, is it?"

Kayne did not even give him time to answer, springing back to his feet with a cackle.

"Ah, well, who needs Arthur anyway, huh? Not us, thats for sure! Tell you what, I can be your new purpose, instead of Arthur, how 'bout that? Like my own little... sacrifical lamb. Suits you, too. You remind me of a little new born lamb, with that fluffy hair! Just precious."

Oscar slightly lifts his head, looking up at the thing in front if him, slightly confused. How did It know so much about him, and Arthur? He sniffled a little, and wiped his eyes, now frowning as he stands up, studying Kayne. He takes a step closer, and asks in his thick, Scottish accent,

"Who....are you?...And where are we?..."

Kayne cracks another grin, also stepping closer, mirroring Oscars movements and almost closing the gap between them, when he starts circling Oscar, looking him up and down like a particularly interesting bug.

"Well, I go by many, many names, lefty, mainly the crawling chaos, the God of a Thousand Forms, Nyarlathotep, blah blah blah.... But... you can call me Kayne. How does that sound, huh?"

He cackles once more, starting almost as abruptly as it finishes.

"And as for where we are...hm.."

He rubs his chin, feigning thought.

"Well, just a nice little place i fixed up for the two of us, Oscar. You and me, since Arty is out of the picture for a bit."

He stops right behind Oscar as he finishes speaking, the slapping of his bare, bloodied feet coming to a halt as he does. He leans in close, speaking lowly right next to Oscars ear, as his other hand comes up to gently hold Oscars other shoulder.

"I think you'll quite enjoy it here, with me. I won't leave you, no, not like Arthur did. You can devote yourself to a real, true god, Oscar. How does that sound to you?... Fabulous, isnt it?"

His hand creeps up the side of Oscars neck, leaving traces of dark brownish blood against his skin and clothes, till its resting in his hair, carding through the dark curls, staining them with reds and browns, but he doesnt care, chuckling to himself as he kneads through them. Oscar swallows thickly. Despite being utterly terrified, he can't recall the last time someone was quite so gentle with him, and he found himself almost...enjoying the company of this new character, however unsettling he seems.

YIPPIE YIPPIE YIPPIE I might write more for this but it is almost one o'clock in the morning rn 🏃 So uuuuuh yep. If you've read up to this point and enjoyed it please, please, please reblog. I can't stress enough, it helps other people see my stuff, and gives me a whole lot more motivation to see people enjoying my stuff so yeah. Laters 💛💛

[theamityelf]

What would happen if the class 78 Kamukuras (especially Taka) met Kamukura AU Makoto

Oooh, my initial thought was that it depends on how far Taka's character development got to go before Makoto was Kamukurized (assuming the other events of the Kamukura Wrangler AU still happened), but I kind of love this as a thing that happens before Taka has gotten far in his character development.

Like, Taka has had every opportunity to change his mind about viewing all the Kamukuras as abominations, including recovering a few memories of being Normal Taka, therefore learning that elements of his past self still exist in him, but he's stubbornly refused to change his mind. Makoto's reassurances don't sway him, the moments of humanity he starts to see in the others don't sway him. (It's partially his habit of moralizing normalcy, and partially the fact that his ever-increasing love for Makoto seems to validate his moralizing of normalcy.)

Then the scientists take Makoto, and they change him.

I'm imagining they have to knock-out gas all the Kamukuras in order to get Makoto away from them.

At first, Taka is in a state of half-hoping they returned Makoto to his family (because the alternative is unbearable) and half-planning how to make sure everyone in this facility dies. Just absolutely ruthless and undiscriminating justice. He stalks around, ominously quiet.

Yasuhiro is also ominously quiet, but he doesn't seem upset. He's almost vacant, compared to his usual vaguely-amused self. Just kind of drifting from room to room with a very ambiguous look, like whatever he sees in the future is actually holding his attention for once.

Hifumi draws a limp arm that is unmistakably Makoto's, and Taka almost straight up kills him.

Junko knows what's happening to Makoto through sheer intuition, and she feels the perverse stir of despair inside herself, bringing her something like pleasure even as she plots out the painful deaths of those responsible.

Kyoko and Chihiro both separately manage to sneak out of the Kamukuras' living area. Chihiro goes to look for Makoto, and Kyoko goes to look for files/records on Makoto, but they're both returned before they can find what they're looking for. (Kyoko got close.)

Makoto is returned to them scarred, shaven, red-eyed, and dressed in a hospital gown. He's just deposited into their room, in much the same way he was when they first met him.

He's in his Makoto Kamukura characterization, and I am undecided as to whether it's better if it's before he's even aware of himself as a person, or after. As in, it could be a somewhat responsive Makoto or a wholly unresponsive one. I think I'm going with unresponsive, for the drama.

Taka sees him, and he's devastated.

At first, he fully turns his back on him and walks away, saying, "Another abomination."

But after spending some time by himself (while the others try to get a response from this new Kamukura), he realizes that he wants to see him again. He doesn't want to discard the new Kamukura, because...

Because it's Makoto.

And Makoto accepted him for who he was, despite every reason not to, so he can't...

He can't abandon him over what they did to him.

He goes back to Makoto (and the others). The group parts for him, out of curiosity. Taka holds Makoto's face between his hands. Makoto's eyes scan his face, learning and unfeeling.

Red eyes. Kamukura eyes. But Taka can't bring himself to hate them.

"You're still in there," Taka says. "You are, because you have to be." He understands, now, why Makoto was willing to live among them for as long as he did. Willing to tell them about their past selves, even perform those selves for them. Why he smiled that sad smile every time one of them got the behavior exactly right, without any of the motivation. He understands that the same part of him that was unable to let go of Makoto before will still be unable to let go of him now, whether he is in there or not. "And even if you're not entirely yourself anymore, you're not going to be like me, because you're not going to hate yourself for what you are. You are not an abomination. You said that we are not abominations. You said that we're still the same people, at our core, and I have to believe you now, because I can't lose you. Okay? Makoto?"

And I'm thinking Makoto doesn't respond yet. He's still not quite aware of himself.

Taka has to hold his hand, take him to bed, take him to meals, etc. for a few days before Makoto suddenly speaks up to ask him, "Why did one of your eyes change color?"

And immediately he has everyone's attention again.

[vintagegirl01]

I have a feeling we aren’t in the 21st century anymore! (Chapter 2)

AU Young Leto Atreides x fem! reader

Part 1:

Summary: You find yourself in a time and place you aren’t familiar with. Now trying to find your way home, you come across a man unlike any other.

A/N: The reader’s dialogue is in pink and Leto’s is in blue. Also, thoughts will be italicized.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a coolness on your forehead. Reaching for your forehead, you feel a wet rag there.

You then open your eyes to see that the same man that you were talking with earlier seems to be in conversation with some medics (you’re assuming). However, you notice that these individuals tending to you seem to have a diamond tattoo on their forehead. Also, you seem to be wearing some sort of gray hospital-looking gown instead of the clothes you came in.

____________________________________________

So many thoughts are running through your mind right now.

How did I end up so far into the future? Last night, I was sleeping in my bedroom and I woke up in some strange place. A planet to be exact. This has to be some weird fever dream. Maybe I finally cracked under pressure and this is a result of that.

Yes, that’s what this is…A fever dream. The sooner I come to terms with that, the sooner I’ll wake up in my room and in my own time.

As you are trying to reason with yourself, the handsome man and medics notice you’re awake and speak up.

“You gave me quite a scare, my lady. When I caught you in my arms, I felt your forehead and you were burning up. Therefore, I thought it was best to bring you here where my medics can take care of you.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything.

“Don’t be afraid, my lady. I don’t wish you any harm. I just want to help you”, he says, taking your hand gently to his to soothe you.

Great! I really must be losing my sense of reality for the handsome man to be this gentle and kind with me. Why does this have to be a dream?

“Get some rest, my lady. We’ll talk later.”

He then takes your hands and gives them a gentle kiss. You blush as you feel his beard tickle your hands.

The handsome man then walks outside with the doctors following him.

Though this is nice, I can’t stay here.

_________________________________________

Leto walks out to talk with his medical team away from you. He feels you’re afraid right now and doesn’t want you to be anymore than you already are.

Leto can’t figure it out but there’s something about you that draws you to him. Not just in looks but in the way you presented yourself to him so far.

“Make sure to keep me updated on progress every hour.”

The medics nod and make notes of this.

“Thank you.”

Leto walks away to let the medics get back to caring for you.

He isn’t too far away from the medics calling him, telling him that you were no longer laying down where he last left you.

Where did you go?

Tags:

@autismsupermusicalassassian

@gills-lounge

________________________________________

[emerxshiu]

rat brainrot going hard

sorry for not posting this week, i was cooking some stuff but this drawing took almost the entire week to do, worst part, it was a shitpost

i still dont know why this took me so much

so uh, almost all my drawings this week have been related to this two(and lis) so much so that i struggled because i wanted to draw other things so i would just stare at a blank sheet of paper for over half an hour, god that was torture, tho i dont mind drawing the sillies, sometimes it gets a bit boring drawing the same over and over y'know? im also going to take this as an opportunity to ramble about my forgo gijinka, because surprisingly i hadnt done that yet.

og image

ok now to actually talk about the wet rat

ive tried doing a gijinka of em since i joined the fandom (my first gijinka was fecto elfilis (well not really they were fnaf, but i mean when i got into kirby and when i started using the term gijinka))

but most of the time it just looked like elfilin but like...evil, with a different ear and a hospital gown, thats it, so i barely drew them since i didnt like that, but on february, i actually sketched an idea that i liked, and thought it looked cute but a bit off (i mean off in a good way)

(yes im posting this image again because i think its the best drawing of my forgo (im very inconsistent with my style ok))

they have their eyes closed most of time, like in game, i considered giving them legs but i ended up with the tail, since i didnt want to end up with like a fourth evil elfilin, the arms are like that so i can have em be small and weird like in the actual game, but i also made it so they can like change it, that way i can make em have hands and stuff if necessary (like to hold that frying pan for example)

not sure if a lot of you notice it but um, bro has no neck, i took away his neck privileges, i did it just to see but i ended up falling in love with that and stuck around, and also that allows me to draw them bending their head like in the drawing above because their neck isnt necking and i like that, i like being able to draw characters doing stuff that shouldnt be anatomically possible or is abnormal (i did something a bit similar with void) thair clothes are rugged because well forgotten land you know what i mean, but in general theyre actually pretty simple

i also did the drawing in digital

i tried doing very sketchy lineart, i tried a new brush in this one and thats the one im using for my last drawings (not sure if anyone noticed the brush change) it was pain painting it because i did it all with the brush in the same size, not changing it, god did my hands hurt and it was a bad idea

i accidentaly downloaded the following 3 drawings twice lol

sleepy zzzz

i think they would wear something like this to sleep, i dunno i just wanted to draw em in something cute, and sleepy, with elfilin slippers (the mug also has elfilin btw) oh and also i like changing their hair, here one of their long bangs is tied into a bow, kinda like callie from splatoon, i have some drawing im probably wont post, one more of forgo wich looks very much like the upper one but like eyes closed, and one of fecto elfilis gyaru because my sister asked me to draw them like that, bad thing is i didnt look up references on gyaru since i couldnt use my phone at the moment, i did like the hair i did for them in that one tho, they have their bangs tied up in a bun, and then left the rest loose, making it look longer than it actually is. i might redraw it, but actually looking up gyaru so i can make something more accurate, i like the style, but im not too informed on it

elfilin being silly like a kitty :p

not much more to say on this, just sillines :3

there is totally not a cropped drawing there

based on the kirby manga, where they make it so elfilis sings really bad, at first i didnt like it that much since i had imagined they'd sign great, but after i while i started to find it a bit cute so now its a headcanon, they like to sing but suck at it.

writing this just made me remember i wanted to do another drawing too for this with kirby and them singing, but i forgot to do it, im kinda tired (and its late) ill probably draw it, but for next post or another one

tried drawing fecto forgo as a plushie, silly.

i wanna learn how to sew so i can make plushies of characters (like prince fluf!) but im way too lazy, i will get around it some day! (hopefully)

elfilin too as a plush

i also wanna learn to sculpt, i tried doing a clay kirby once, but one his feet broke in half, and one day my mom put it in a box, and his eyes fell off and stuck to the box :(

i really wanna do figures for characters i like or dont have enough merch or my ocs (prince fluff, flamberge, fecto elfilis)

but as i said, im way too lazy and unmotivated, though its be nice, one day, maybe one day if i stop procrastinating

it doesnt have the same ring to it as "feto rata mojada alien" wich is how my sister and i call them (she doesnt know that much about kirby, but i sometimes show her my drawings (reluctantly sometimes, but im the older so like >:) she has too if she wants to show me her stuff too))

silly rat and wet rat, thats how i call em (because wet rat alien fetus is too long sometimes)

you can tell the brainrot was too strong (were near done(kinda))

they gain a mouth whenever i fell like it very much

artblock hit, and all the rest of pages i stared at them for 30 minutes

it felt weird looking at my fecto elfilis with the eyes so big, it looked off (in a weird way)

dunno, tried drawing them in a different pose i i dunno really

i think these are from tuesday. i did more but those were oc (mostly splatoon) or other kirby character related, and i want this to be a rat post (might post those tommorow or another day maybe)

i dunno (x2), i tried drawing elfilin like elfilis, i really liked the hands here. i still struggle a bit with anatomy but i think this was quite good for my usual character just stading looking at the front or a quarter profile. im considering making this into a fully digital drawing, what do i say by considering im actually doing that fuck it, i just think it looks kinda cool

"This new creation, driven by pure chaos, was defeated by the bright light of Kirby's hope."

Chaos Elfilis reminds me of a moth. kirby's hope is a bright light.

you can see my thought process. i just thought itd be a bit cute and kinda silly and funny.

the kirby fandom wiki, said that chaos elfilis looked akin to a moth, and it just stuck with me, so i wanted my gijinka of them to be moth inspired, and thats when i saw just how cute moths are! i mean im still a bit scared of insects but at least now i kinda like em.

i feel like i need to say sorry to that one moth i desintegrated in a matter of seconds with a book because i thought it was an spider and didnt think (im so sorry little guy)

but ah yeah elfilis, moth, it made sense to me since chaos elfilis has the soul of morpho knight, who is a butterfly, and moths are kinda like butterflies too. and i thought itd be cute

so uh yeah i sometimes like making my chaos elfilis be a bit like a moth, that includes liking light, a lot, so uh kirby is like a lamp in here because i said so

now to talk about the desing since for some reason i hadnt earlier, as i said before, they are very moth inpired so uh im might say that word way too many times (im sorry i suck at explaining stuff)

their horns are thinner to resemble moth anntenae, and they curve just because i thought it look cool, and to differentiate it a bit from fecto elfilis. their bangs tie into a bun (i forgot to draw that but i dont wanna go and change it now, way too tiredv man and i still have to post this on other places) the bun looks a bit like an eye, because well, they are basically a soul boss, and moths have things in their wings that look like eyes, btw chaos elfilis doesnt have their wings here because i got lazy and i didnt want them to like cover most of the drawing. the things coming from their bun are like the trhee things theyve got in their head, theyre shaped like that to resemble insects legs a bit, fecto elfilis also had the 3 things (i dunno how to call em sorry) as their eyelashes, but chaos elfilis has just white eyelashes, because the bun already has the 3 things and because my morpho has white eyelashes so (i still havent done my morpho gijinka yet, i just know im gonna give the butterfly some white eyelashes cuz cute and pretty grimm reaper) the rest of the hair is shaped into like a ponytail but like, adn shaped, with whats left shaped like a lil moth

the waistband they have is a nod to morpho, they used to have a bow shaped just like the butterfly morpho appears as, but i took it out because i thought it crowded the design way too much, and also because it was too on the nose. the arms have those golden things because my fecto has it and because my og chaos elfilis gijinka had them so i wanted to bring it back, the hand fades into white because the red in the hand wasnt hard to distinguish so i came up with that to make it easier to see.

the red part of the pants are actually a bit fuzzy akin to a moth and the white part has those stripes to loke like insect stuff because y'know akin to a moth. the boots are like the red part in their legs their model in-game has, so i just made em tall boots, the high heels? originally it was platform just ike my fecto but then i wanted to draw them in high heels when i was slightly redoing chaos elfilis, and welp, i loved it and now theyve got high heels. those rings around the ankle are inspired by the ones leaongar has around their arm. also can you tell anatomy is not my strong suit? and that i dont draw high heels often?

i made a slight change in my kirby, making the sleeves be a different color, since the one he had before i felt was way too white, and i wanted to have more saturation in it

i also forgot but elfilin is supposed to wear that during forgotten land, and then i decided that after the anding of the main story he changes clothes, but i forgot about that while doing this so he has his pre-ending clothes (also because i still cant really decide on their second outfit for the post-game)

god im so tired i wanna talk and show more drawings but o shit im sweating why is it so hot in here

um thank you for reading all the unnecessary long rambles about why i do certain stuff in my gijinkas, i appreciate it a lot (im still sorry about writing walls upon walls of text but i just cant help it)

Jambuhbye! :D

[swaps55]

Mezzo - Ch 2 - Soldier

Pairing: mshenko | Rating: M Tags: Canon-typical violence, trauma, dealing with your problems poorly, body autonomy struggles   Summary: The twists and turns of ME2, through the eyes of everyone but Commander Shepard. Chapter Summary: Welcome back to your life. Thank you to @sinvraal for betaing!

Chapter 2: Soldier | Read on Ao3

October 2185, Horse Head Nebula, Fortuna System, Lazarus Station

In the shadows, his eyes glow red.

It’s only for a moment as Shepard strides through the doorway, the eyeblink before he steps into the hazy emergency lighting of Section B-12 of Lazarus Station, pistol raised, like an angel of death rising up from hell. By the time he opens fire it’s gone, his eyes the same blue they’ve been in every photo and every vid Jacob Taylor has ever seen. By the time the first mech sparks, shudders, and drops, Shepard is as flesh and blood as the Hero of the Citadel could possibly be.

The dead man back from the grave doesn’t give Jacob a second glance as he takes on three more mechs, wearing nothing more than a battered hospital gown, a few smears of soot and a line of blood dripping from his elbow.

I’m seeing it with my own eyes and I still don’t believe it.

Jacob shifts his weight against the thin metal railing spanning the walkway from B-12 to B-13, the only cover between him and the mechs. Apparently, blowing all their cash on a corpse didn’t leave Cerberus with enough funds for bulletproof infrastructure. As the slab of medigel covering the hole punched in Jacob’s thigh can attest to.

The mechs can’t tell the difference between a science project and a soldier, and all three of them take aim at the newest threat. Shepard hisses as he fires the pistol and gets nothing but the bleat of a spent heat sink in return. He swears under his breath, scrambling to find cover behind a bench, drawing his knees close to his chest as a mech politely declares him a security threat and sprays another burst of submachine gun fire. A line of sweat smudges the soot on his face, and he’s breathing about as hard as he was the day Wilson pulled the trigger too soon and nearly sank the whole project right at the finish line.  

“Here,” Jacob calls out, pulling out a spare thermal clip. 

The barrel of Shepard’s pistol takes aim at Jacob’s heart faster than he can blink.

He holds up one hand in surrender, the thermal clip in the other, before tossing it. The gravity well wavers weakly as Shepard leans to catch it. His hands shake enough that he fumbles it, then fumbles the pistol before he finds the sink eject. 

Shepard shouldn’t even be mobile. Despite being a living, breathing human being for two months now, with brain healthy activity and everything, Miranda had put a moratorium on any further attempts to wake him up. Nothing like trial by fire.

Again the gravity well flickers like a weakening pulse. Shepard inhales deep, a small sound sticking in his throat that sounds like a dog getting kicked, before rising back to his feet and squeezing the trigger. Death didn’t fuck with his aim. 

If the dead man can put down a mech, so can I. Jacob tells the bullet in his thigh to shut the fuck up for a minute as he leverages himself up high enough to shoot. 

The last mech goes down with a squawk and pop. 

“Shepard,” Jacob says, but Shepard is already on him, hauling him to his feet and pinning him to a bulkhead, arm against his throat, pistol pressed against his gut. Red gleams through the unhealed scarring on his face. There had been another skin graft scheduled for tomorrow.

Not quite perfection up close, huh?

Read from the beginning | Read the rest on Ao3 | The Mezzo Playlist

[silvers-smuttery]

Commission: Bruce's Blondes

“I must say, Mister Wayne, this evening has been simply delightful”, Karen Starr complimented the gentleman sitting opposite of her in his limousine. The two had arranged a meeting to discuss a joint business venture of Starrware Industries and the Wayne Foundation. Needless to say negotiations went off without a hitch as both business partners shared the same goal behind it. The rest of the evening was mostly a pleasant dinner between Karen Starr and Bruce Wayne, filled with laughter and mild flirting, which eventually turned into quite overt flirting as the alcohol kept flowing. Or at least, that’s the excuse either of them would present, should the gentleman’s hand creeping down her back, or the lady’s leg rubbing against his be met with controversy. Not that it was.

“I’m certainly glad you enjoyed it. Just one moment, I’ll have Alfred drive you to your hotel”, Bruce took the compliment, holding his champagne out to clink their glasses together. Bruce knew Karen’s real identity, and she knew his. It was that spark of trust that has even led to this business venture to begin with. Seeing his teammate in the stunning, white shoulderless gown, her gaze smoldering as she looked at him with bedroom eyes, did get Bruce a little hot under his collar. Maybe the two could see just how hot things would get in her hote-

“Actually, I never booked one. I was hoping the great Bruce Wayne would be hospitable enough to let me stay the night~”, Power Girl smirked, sipping on her Champagne. She knew from the beginning how this date was going to go. No need to book a room when you know you only need one. And if things hadn’t worked out, she could have simply flown home, followed by an awkward day at the Watch Tower.

The proposition actually managed to startle Bruce. Seeing the stoic Batman’s alter ego choke and cough up his sparkling wine only served to broaden Power Girl’s scarlet red smile, drawing out a small fit of giggles. Though Bruce had an idea that it wasn’t meant as a joke. “My place? Uhm, sure, I’d love to”, The fact that Bruce was THIS startled however did peak the blonde’s curiosity, as well as raising her eyebrow as Bruce caught his composure. Was Bruce keeping secrets from the team again? This twist was certainly unexpected, though really only made the blonde that much more excited to go.

Finally stopping at the front entrance of the large mansion, Bruce was ever the gentleman, extending a hand to help his guest step out of his car. Arm in arm, the two kept advancing towards the door. “A word of warning. My new employee is a little… eccentric”, he explained plainly as he opened the door. Before Karen could even soak that information in, she was greeted by a high-pitched scream, followed by her face getting engulfed by something soft and squishy.

“Welcome home, Mister B. And here I was thinkin’ ya might stay the night out with that blonde bombshell!”

“No Harley, in fact, you are currently smothering that blonde bombshell”

“Oops, sorry. Miss Starr!”

Karen heard that right, didn’t she? That was Harley Quinn. And when her wide eyes were freed of what had to be Double-Ds of cleavage, her suspicions were confirmed. Before her stood Harley Quinn, not in her bodysuit, but in a ridiculously small and revealing Maid Uniform, apparently with nothing else beneath her black apron decorated with red frills. The blonde business woman’s mouth hung agape at the display, a small smile slowly creeping onto her face. Finally tearing herself away from the scandalous sight, Karen shot an excited side eye at Bruce. “That is quite the uniform you have for Miss Quinn, there Bruce”, Power Girl teased, trying hard to hold in her laughter.

“Ya got that wrong, Missy”, Harley interjected, pointing her finger right on her guest’s nose. “I made this one all by myself, so Mister B can have some eye candy while I work”, Harley almost moaned as she let her hands drift over her almost naked form. "Mister B was so kind in takin me in, and makin me his, I say he deserves it.” Harley twirled around, striking poses that barely left anything to their imagination. Her enormous butt was only covered in a tiny thong threatening to tear, while her front was only somewhat obscured by that uniform, barely able to contain her tits. “And I see you very much agree, Madame Starr!”, Harley chuckled. Before Bruce or Karen could intervene, Harley had already closed the distance between her and the other blonde, hands clammering at Power Girl’s big tits. “Gosh, these are firm. Are they really real?”

“Harley, please!”, Bruce interjected, hoping to get his maid to stop groping his guest, but it didn’t seem like she minded much. Power Girl only shot him a salacious look that told him. “You better make this fun, or I’m going to tell the League!”

“Yes, Miss Quinn. 100% real, as your boss is going to learn in a few minutes.”

Bruce was lost. It had become very apparent that he had lost control of this situation, and could only try to get it back. “How about we head up to bed then. Good night, Har-”

“Not so fast, ya blonde bimbo. Don’t think you can pull this on my watch!”, the blonde maid exclaimed, drawing attention back to her. “Don’t think I don’t know whatcha been doin’ all night. Flaunting your body all around to make Master B’s cock hard as a rock and give him balls as blue as a smurf!” Harley kept her hands clammering Karen’s tits, nails digging into her skin as much as they could given her Kryptinian physique. With her frustrations expressed, sorta, Harley moved down to her knees in front of her boss. Before they knew, Bruce’s pants were down at his ankles, his thick dick standing tall as Harley moved to cradle it. “In this house, this musky hunk of cock is my responsibility, ya better get back in line”, the blonde scowled, sticking her tongue out at Karen, before using it on that musky tip.

“Harley-”

“Oh, you don’t think this delicious gentleman is enough man to share? How greedy, Miss Quinn!”, Power Girl chuckled teasingly as she let her dress fall completely in front of Bruce, who took note of her distinct lack of underwear as she settled down right next to Harley. This situation was spiraling more and more out of control. As good as two twirling tongues from busty blondes felt around his burly dick, he had to take charge.

“ENOUGH!” Bruce’s yell echoed through the halls of Wayne Manor. Any moans and slurping sounds halted as the two women looked up in shock and surprise, at the stern growling voice the two had heard so often before. Albeit from different sides. “Bedroom! NOW!” Bruce didn’t wait for either of them to move on their own. He simply grabbed Power Girl and Harley’s blonde hair and dragged the two women along as he walked. Pained grunts were accompanied by hearty, growling moans as they followed his command, biting their lips while their soaked pussies left a trail behind them as they crawled on the floor..

Arriving at the master bedroom, Bruce practically threw the ladies onto the bed. Almost instinctively, the blonde ladies raised their asses at the patriarch of the house, huffing and panting out moans as they shook their cheeks and folds to entice him, drooling in excitement onto the soft sheets below. Their eyes met, giggling like school girls making a silent bet with each other, though their chuckles were cut short by a harsh smack against each of their cheeks, turning into shrill shrieks. “Go on, beg for it. What do you want?”, Bruce demanded them to speak, shoving two fingers into each of their soaking pussies and making them inhale sharply.

“Please, Master B. I am your maid- No! Your pet. I’m yours to use and dump your fat load into any of my holes and everywhere on my body. Slap me, beat me, dump all of your delicious spunk on me that this bitch tried to keep for herself!”, Harley panted like a dog, grinding her pussy on his fingers before biting down into the blanket she laid on.

“Yeah, let me be your loyal bitch dog. I need a big, strong, muscly stud to handle and breed me. You’re one of the few men who could handle me. I teased you all night so you could put a baby in your breeding bitch! I want my belly full and round with your baby batter for the rest of my life! *bark bark bark*!”, Power Girl continued with voicing their desires, eyes rolled up to the back of her head as she started fucking herself on his hand.

“Good girls”, Bruce praised them as he let his dick smack each of their asses, giving the illusion of making a choice when he had already decided which bitch to breed first. Karen’s tongue rolled out of her mouth when he pumped his cock into her waiting core in one go. The pressure inside the cunt from Krypton was almost overwhelming and it would have been for anybody who wasn’t the Batman. Bruce kept his composure while his hips rocked into the blonde’s wide womanly hips. Perfect to bear his seed when he was ready to unleash his load.

Harley couldn’t help but pout when he saw her Master breed the new skank first. “Well, ya got lucky you're the fancy new toy here”, the former jestress chuckled as she crawled over to her master’s new girl to suck up her lazy tongue and force hers into her gaping mouth, as Bruce grabbed Karen’s hips to pound her firm ass harder. It was her duty to support her Master and make sure he spread his seed as best as he could.

Bruce was focused on pounding Power Girl, so he was too preoccupied to pay attention to Harley crawling off the bed, until she turned up behind him. He had to take a pause when he felt Harley spread his ass cheeks, before her hot, wet tongue found its way to his rim. His balls churned and twitched when he felt her tongue his asshole. “I knew you were worth it Harley, good girl!”, Bruce praised his pig-tailed maid, which made her dig in deeper and more voraciously. Power Girl used the slight pause in the action to adjust her position, rolling over onto her back as she pulled Bruce in with all her body, arms and legs completely wrapped around the human stud and making him kiss her passionately.

With all the attention from two busty bombshell blondes, Bruce’s dam eventually broke. His balls exploded with a flood of cum pumped right into the Kryptonian’s baby chamber, which slurped up every little drip until it couldn’t possibly drink more.

“Oh, god..." Oh fuckk… I think I can feel my eggs getting fertilized. If you didn’t get me pregnant right now, nothing will, he”, Karen laughed, as much as exhaustion allowed her. Even she worked up a little sweat, though by far not as much as the stallion hunched over her, dripping the musky liquid over her. Once she noticed Harley at his backdoor, still lapping away, Power Girl whispered into his ear, “I think it’s time you gave her a treat too.”

Moments later, Harley was also on her back, back on the bed as Bruce thrust his dick into her waiting pussy. If anything, Power Girl's encouraging words made him rock her world even harder than he did hers, caressing his muscles as she watched her twintails bounce as the happy maid got pounded. "You want to see her get the same treatment?", Bruce asked the woman by his side.

"You know me so well. Not like we're going to give her a choice, but I don't think she'll mind", Karen Starr whispered in Bruce’s ear, her hands gently wandering down from his pecs to his abs, over his crotch towards Harley womb, caressing and pressing down on her baby chamber. She playfully bit his earlobe as she felt Bruce shoot another load into his maid, knocking her up too.

"You know there is no doubt our project will make me come to Gotham more often. What would you say if I just stayed? Y’know, so you can watch both of us progress~”, Power Girl offered herself to Gotham's Billionaire Playboy, sealing it with a deep kiss while Harley drooled her scrambled brain out of her mouth, basking in the warmth of her boss's seed flooding her ovaries.