#Splinters

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

Author's Notes: shoutout to the anon who suggested this!!

I hope this makes sense. :'D Basically he falls through a hole in the wall and into the empty space between the inner and outer walls where there are pipes and such. I looked at a lot of pictures but still had trouble describing what I mean.

Content Warnings: tiny whump, faerie whump, failed escape attempt, trapped, falling, burns, injury, difficulty breathing, coughing,

--

This time Shae waits until his shoulder and foot are healed before trying to escape again. Healed enough, anyway. Sometimes if he lies on his shoulder or steps on his foot just so he will feel the ghost of pain, but he knows from experience it will fade soon enough. He healed quicker than a human might, a necessary adaptation for fragile creatures like him, but the few weeks it took felt like an eternity.

He decides his plan from before was perfect - wait for the human to return home and run out while the door is open. Easy. He just needs to be smarter, not wander too far away, not get distracted. This time he is careful, getting into position long before the human returns. When Shae hears his footsteps, he presses to the wall right by the door and gets ready.

The door opens and a breeze of frigid air blasts inside. Shae stops mid-stride and draws back, arms wrapped around himself, wracked by shivers.

Go, go, go!

But his survival instincts are too strong. It's bitterly cold out, and will only get colder when the sun goes down. He can't risk it. Not yet.

The door shuts, and Shae's heart sinks watching his chance disappear, even knowing it's the right choice. He briefly considers returning to his table, but there are risks in that, too...if the human notices he tried to leave, will Shae be relocated somewhere harder to escape? Or worse...will he be punished somehow?

No...no, he has to lie low and hide. Here he'll be warm, and can find bits of food and water to survive on until it gets a little warmer out. While the human enters the living room and notices that Shae is gone, the faerie sneaks away into another room.

Over the next few days, Shae remains out of sight, though not far. He keeps a watchful eye on the human's movements. The man does search for him sometimes, but doesn't tear apart the house to do so. He seems to understand that Shae disappeared of his own will, but also doesn't think he left the house. Sometimes he walks into a room, asks, "are you in here?" waits a moment, then leaves. And he starts leaving a plate of food and water on the floor. Shae expects it thoroughly and, to his surprise, it isn't rigged with a trap. When the human isn't around, he greedily takes all that he can from it.

The weather outside remains cold, a frost on the ground every morning, brisk winds whipping through the trees all night. Shae is glad he chose to wait, but is getting impatient, too. It's only a matter of time before the human tries in earnest to find him.

Shae bides his time by exploring the home - carefully, this time, the scar on his foot a reminder of what can happen when he isn't. He finds his favorite room to hide in is one in the far corner of the house, on the other side of the kitchen. It seems to be mostly for storage, the furniture covered by sheets and boxes and bags everywhere, providing plenty of nooks in which to hide.

One evening, Shae is carefully walking along the wall on his way back to the little nest of rags he made himself. He thinks he is, anyway...once it gets dark out, the room becomes perilous with its many obstacles, and Shae loses track of where he is. He feels his way along with one hand leaning on the wall...

...when suddenly, there is no wall.

Where the wall should be is a gaping hole. Shae stumbles, flailing to hold onto something, but it all happens too fast. He loses his footing and tips backwards into the wall cavity.

Immediately his back bumps against a vertical wooden beam. Shae quickly braces his feet against the opposite wall and presses his back firmly to the beam, catching himself before he falls. He breathes a sigh of relief.

But his relief is short lived when he looks up to the hole he fell through, now a couple inches above him. Shae chances a look down and shudders when he sees that the drop descends into darkness, no way of telling what he'll land in if he slips. He can't stay like this forever, his legs will give out eventually. He has to get back up somehow.

Shae looks around for something to hold onto, and is relieved to see a copper pipe that emerges from the depths below and curves off in the opposite direction. If he can just get onto it, he can probably climb up out through the hole. So Shae starts to slowly, carefully shift himself in that direction. One foot over, then shimmying his body to the side while keeping his back pressed to the beam, then the other foot, several times, until he reaches the bend in the pipe.

Feeling hopeful about this, Shae gives himself a minute to plan his next move. Getting onto the pipe will be the hardest part - he'll have to let go of the wall to do that. Once there, he can stand up on it and easily reach the bottom of the hole in the wall and pull himself up and out.

He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and pushes off from the wall, throwing his arms out. He grabs onto the pipe, wraps his arms and legs around it and holds on tight, body pressed up tight against the - the - hot, hot -

"Wha - n-no - o-okay, it's h - ah - it's h-hot, but I can still..."

Through his clothes the heat of the copper pipe is only just bearable. Shae hurriedly pulls the ends of his sleeves over his hands, bunching up the fabric to create a barrier between them and the pipe so he can try to get up onto his knees. Doing so makes his shirt ride up, but he doesn't think twice about it. All he can think about is how standing on the pipe will be torture to his bare feet. But if he moves quickly maybe it won't be so bad...

Shae never gets to find out.

Just as he's almost upright, Shae's hands slip and he drops forward onto the pipe again. Searing pain lights up his belly as bare skin comes in contact with hot metal. Shae screams and recoils. In his desperate attempt to make it stop, he doesn't think, doesn't plan. He lets go.

Shae's back meets the wood framework again and he scrambles to try to find purchase on it and slow his fall. All he succeeds in doing is scraping up the soles of his feet while his back drags against the old beam, collecting splinters in his skin and tearing at his shirt.

Then his shirt catches on something, a nail maybe, and abruptly stops him short, dangling over the last few feet of darkness. Shae gasps and kicks his feet in search of somewhere to stand, but only meets open air. His panting echoes loudly in the narrow space.

Seeing no other choice, Shae wriggles free of his shirt and falls the rest of the way down. He lands on his front with a soft thwump in a small pile of drywall dust, sending up a powdery puff. Winded by the impact, Shae draws in a ragged breath, inhaling a mouthful of it. He begins to cough violently, his throat burning and eyes watering. With the last of his strength Shae crawls from the pile, coughing and wheezing until sparks dance in his vision and he collapses.

[dk-thrive]

There was always some legitimate need I wasn’t fully meeting, and someone I was disappointing.

— Leslie Jamison, Splinters: Another Kind of Love Story (Little Brown and Company, February 20, 2024)

[mr-bagel-dude-that-draws]

Puppet Kissers

Some Puppette ships! for fum!!

Vynni belomgs to @snuffpuppyart

Circe belongs to @/Circus_Cyborg on Twitter

Emmy belongs to @raggstosketches

Yena belongs to @/StellaDusk on Twitter

Timelapse

[camillathe6th]

(Splinters) Happy Birthday, Mr. President

Disclaimer: everything is Malin Rydén's of course, especially since I'm stealing Ortega for this one, and really leaning into the asshole part of their brain (if they have one. We're still not sure) Context: It almost being my birthday made me think about Ortega's birthday; Ortega's birthday made me think of villain reveals; villain reveals reminded me Una and Ortega haven't shouted at each other in too long; poured my soul into this, didn't come out unscathed, this is a WARZONE. What to expect: Ortega's turning 40!! Let's celebrate :)

2022. (Ricardo)

It’s not that I’m waiting, really. Why would I be waiting? She promised nothing. I’m having fun. Look at me. Look at me, shining. I’m having fun. The beer is good, the champagne’s better, and the cocktails were created in my name. You know why? Because it’s my day. It’s my day, and I’m having fun.

“The beginning of the rest of your life!” Daniel laughs, buzzed, clapping me on the shoulder, his smile resplendent in its creaselessness.

God. I knock on the bar.

“Can I get another round?” I throw to the barman, who spills gin into shot glasses at the speed of light.

At least there’s that: they didn’t spare any expense, not for me, not for Charge. Charge, this monument. The roguish hero of yore. The declining hero of now. Keep a monument around long enough and it starts to erode and mold. Maybe they splurged because they expect me to drop dead before the next decade hits. They’d be right to hope, but they’ll be wrong in the end. For my fiftieth, I’ll ask for the mayor to pop out of a giant cake. I’ll ask for a gold statue of myself in the nude, with eyes of brown diamonds. I’ll ask for a generator so insane it’ll send me into space. Hedge your bets and start saving, assholes.

For now, I get everyone who’s anyone in Los Diablos, and the newly reminted Heritage museum all for me myself and I, sparkly and new after two years of rebuilding. A little like life, huh? Sparkly and new, after two years of rebuilding. Crystal chandeliers, gilded moldings, sculpted handrails, camouflaging the bomb-cracks left underneath.

All that’s left to see now is whether the bomb-cracks have unsettled the structure long-term.

Gingerly, absently, I touch the smooth scar on my lip. Can’t even feel it anymore, really: with time, it’s sunk into older skin, a little paler, but unraised. Just an adornment. Gilded moldings.

“Not for me,” Chen says when I hold out a shot glass. “Moore’s not coming?”

Fine. Then I’ll drink both.

“Don’t know. You know how she is.”

“It’s your birthday,” he says, raising an eyebrow judgemental enough that Daniel cringes from second-hand anxiety.

“I saw her yesterday, and she definitely knew about it,” he tries to help, and fails.

“Of course she knows,” I roll my eyes, downing a glass. “I haven’t been subtle.”

“Are you ever?” Argent snorts. She’s eating what appears to be a third slice of the cake that was rolled out an hour ago, glittering with magic candles and out of which the mayor definitely did not pop, despite her wearing a ridiculous feathered-collar suit that she simply can’t pull off. Continued here.

[minty-mumbles]

Whumptober Day 3: “Make it stop”

TW: Blood and injury, medical aid without painkillers, restraints, unreliable narrator (kind of)

A/N: Yeah I know it's the 5th and this is late. I forgot I was doing whumptober to be totally honest, I'm so sorry lol

(Read on AO3)

~~~

Let it be known that Wind hated Wild’s era. He really did. 

Wind hated Wild’s stupid era because it had stupid moblins who had stupid bomb barrels that they liked to pick up and throw. 

To be frank, Wind was used to explosions. Many members of their group didn’t hesitate to use bombs for their own benefit. But the heroes’ habit of exploding things was only fun and exciting when it was them who were the ones doing the exploding. When it was a moblin in Wild’s era with a bomb barrel, it was decidedly less fun.

Fuck.

Wind winced as he was jostled slightly, the movement sending shooting pain through his back

Damn Wild’s era. Damn it all to Demise. 

Wind was jostled again, and a strangled wheeze forced itself from his mouth. Distantly, Wind could hear the heavy drawl of Twilight’s accent. The rancher was probably apologizing. 

Wind hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t pick his head up from the shoulder it was resting on. He tightened his hold around Twilight’s neck the best he could without strangling him. As hard as he tried, though, it was difficult to keep a grip on someone when you were bleeding out. Twilight’s arms hooked under Wind’s legs were really the only thing keeping Wind from falling to the ground at this point.

Every step Twilight took was agony, making what was left of his tunic rub against the open wounds on his back. They'd been walking for at least ten minutes now, and Wind’s world had narrowed down to the repetitive movement and corresponding spikes of pain that came with it. 

He was broken out of his daze when Twilight's gate slowed down. Wind lifted his head ever so slightly, and found that they had arrived at their destination.

A stable. Wind couldn't remember which one it was.

Wind barely had time to send up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god allowed them to finally arrive before people were swarming out of the strangely shaped tent and surrounding Twilight and Wind.

Wind only tucked his head back into the crook of Twilight’s neck, trying his best to ignore both the loud conversation happening around him and the blood he could feel trickling down his back.

What he wouldn’t give to be wrapped up in a warm blanket in front of a fire right now. Maybe with a cup of hot apple cider, cuddled up against one of the other heroes. Maybe Sky…. Sky was the best at cuddles, even if he had a tendency to fall asleep and then not let you go until he woke. But Wind wouldn’t mind that right now, to be honest.

He would love to be able to cuddle someone and have their arms wrapped around his back without any pain. Wind knew that was a wistful thought. No one would be touching his back without it causing pain anytime soon. 

That stupid moblin had made sure of that. 

Wind hoped one of the other heroes had killed it in a very painful way. He scowled into Twilight's neck at the thought of what had happened, and- 

Oh, Twilight was moving again. 

Great.

Wind sighed, and fought back tears. He was in pain and this whole situation sucked, but he was not going to cry.

He wasn’t.

He just felt dizzy. His thoughts were swimming and his muscles were too weak to support himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself to raise his head from where it was buried in Twilight’s pelt and try to focus on his surroundings. That was probably the effect of the blood loss and shock setting in, Wind thought faintly.

But then he had no choice but to move because Twilight was releasing Wind’s legs. Wind had half a second to panic, thinking he would hit the ground. 

He didn’t. Instead, he found himself sitting on the edge of one of the beds inside the stables. Wind wondered briefly when they had moved inside, but decided it wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. 

Suddenly, hands were touching him. For a few seconds, he resisted the touch. He didn’t know who was touching him and he did not appreciate it. But he was too weak to do anything about it and found himself being maneuvered anyways. 

He found himself laying face down in the bed. His face rubbed into the fabric beneath him, and it took him a second to realize that it wasn’t the blankets he was feeling. It was a towel, spread out over the bed. 

That was good. Wind was glad someone had thought to do that. He wouldn’t want to get blood on the stable’s bed. That would be pretty rude. But! With the towel under him, Wind could take a nap here and not get any blood on the bed! That sounded like a really good idea, in Wind’s humble opinion.

And now that he wasn’t constantly being jostled around by Twilight, the pain was actually starting to fade! It still hurt, but it was a dull background pain that he could ignore. 

Wind didn’t know how long he lay there, content to drift in and out of awareness. He could hear people talking around him, and something that maybe sounded like an argument, but he didn’t worry about that. He was sure it would sort itself out without his help…

He gave a little sigh, rubbing his face against the rough fabric of the towel. It felt nice- a sensation to focus on other than the pain in his back.

He continued to drift for what felt like a long, long time. He wondered if the others had left so he could take a nap. That was nice of them… 

A touch to his neck startled Wind out of his daze. He let out a startled breath, feeling too tired to try and say anything. Fingers pressed at Wind’s neck for a moment- feeling for a pulse, Wind realized- before they withdrew.

There was more talking, and then an expectant pause. Wind said nothing. If they wanted him to talk, they were out of luck. He couldn't summon up the energy to go wading through the fog that clouded his brain to pay attention to whoever was talking to him. He couldn't summon up the energy to anything,

After a few moments of silence, the voices picked up again, and then Wind felt a touch on his back.

His torn up back which was covered in open wounds and pierced by pieces of debris 

Wind decided that he didn’t like that. He didn’t like it at all. 

Then the touch was moving and tugging something out of Wind’s skin, and Wind discovered that he did have the energy to scream and thrash, after all.

For one blissful moment, the touch was gone, and Wind was hopeful it would stay away. Then hands wrapped around his legs and his upper arms, and were pressing him down onto the bed, and Wind felt all his hope flickers away.

The torture seemed to go on forever. Every so often there would be a pause in the pain as the touch on his back drew away, and Wind would hope that it would be over. But all too soon, the touch would be back.

He couldn’t get away from it.

The hands clasped around his limbs were gentle but firm and unyielding. Wind hated that. He hated everything. Everything hurt, nothing was good, and the pain was never going to end.

There was another spike of pain from his back, like someone was digging their fingers into his existing wounds and tearing the cuts further open. Wind twisted, still trying to get away, but the hands stopped him again.

He gave a strangled grunt, his voice finally being pushed past the breaking point. He couldn’t scream anymore, but he could still move. His shoulders were still being held down by the hands pressing on his upper arms, but he could still move his arms. He reached out blindly, trying to find something to grasp onto, some bit of leverage that could get him away from this torture,

What he found instead was more fabric. Part of the towel, maybe? 

No, it felt different. 

Not caring what it might be, Wind gripped it hard, and used it to pull himself forward. To his surprise, the hands didn’t seem as prepared for this, and he was able to drag himself forward. There was a swell of noise around him that he ignored. The new fabric beneath him was soft, and the worry of staining the sheets was long gone from Wind’s mind, so he buried his head into it.

Apparently, the hands had decided Wind could stay where he had dragged himself. They didn’t shove him back to his previous position, but the torturous touch on his back returned.

Wind whimpered, not knowing what to do anymore. 

Why was this happening?

Slowly, though, something trickled into his mind. He was hyper-aware of any and all sensations that weren’t pain in hopes of finding something to latch onto, something else to focus on. Slowly, ever so slowly, Wind realized the new fabric was warm under his touch.

He sucked in a shuddery breath, and before he registered what he was doing, Wind was lifting his head up to stare straight into a familiar face.

It took his brain a few seconds to register safety and comfort at the sight, and a few seconds more to register that the face belonged to Time.

Oh.

Wind was clinging onto Time’s pants, and he’d just had his face buried in Time’s lap.

Okay. 

Wind knew in normal circumstances, he’d be embarrassed, but he didn’t care.

Time was here.

One of his brothers was here.

That meant everything would be okay, right?

Wind blinked up at Time, and the man looked down at Wind with an odd look on his face. 

Wind wanted it all to stop, and Time was good at making painful things stop. When the teasing from the other heroes got to be too much, Time would step in. When Wind had been injured before, Time had stitched him up with gentle, steady hands. When Wind had been kept up with nightmares, Time had made him a cup of tea over the campfire, and let Wind lean against him without any questions.

Time had never failed to offer comfort before.

“Time,” Wind croaked, his voice ruined, “make it stop. Please, make it stop.”

But Time didn’t help. He was looking up, away from where Wind was being pinned down by his hands. Wind thought Time’s mouth might have been moving, but he couldn’t tell what Time was saying, let alone if the old man was speaking to Wind or someone else. 

No matter what Time was saying, he wasn’t letting Wind go, so it didn’t matter. 

Time wasn’t helping Wind, it wasn't making the pain stop. 

Time was hurting him.

Wind was shaking now, unable to stop himself. He was too tired to cry, in too much pain the thrash anymore. Everything was getting worse, and no one was helping him.

It was a relief, really, when he finally slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

[panda-eggs]

laying under a splintered table

[i-gwarth]

some people will just create the most beautiful, evocative, soul-altering art you could possibly imagine, bring unhoped-for light and joy into your otherwise miserable life, and fundamentally define your aesthetic tastes for the rest of your existence and then continue on with their day like it's just another tuesday

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Alex Hamilton (editor) - Splinters - Berkley - 1971 (cover by John Holmes)

[thetabase]

Wake up puppet boy.

[roguecanoe]

Drawing some ghost hugs to cope with the fact there is only one more episode of this season and I am not ready-

[lilshitpeta]

[dk-thrive]

You are alive. Be alive.

— Leslie Jamison, Splinters: Another Kind of Love Story (Little Brown and Company, February 20, 2024)

[andreabadgley]

It’s Thanksgiving break, and I’m happy with my cat and my book (and my kids home from college, and my husband beside me on the couch).

[inflashback]

I’ve had a splinter in my hand for two days and didn’t realize because my hands are so fucked due to a.) eczema flare b.) cuts from the show c.) paint from the show d.) exhaustion FROM THE SHOW. Anyway theatre forever I love you theatre. the splinter came from a dowel I yanked staples out of for two hours

shoutout to my roomie who explained it wasn’t just a normal flare up

[dhaaruni]

You have to claim responsibility for the harm you cause. You have to believe it’s necessary.

 — Splinters by Leslie Jamison

[pancakessolar]

look what i made at school! (i accidentally made an extra D-) ❤️

@kadetheradio