#cw mention of needles

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

Hello, are you the person who made the dca!sk au? If so, I hope you don't mind if I do a ask and say: Sun kinda reminds me of "The Dismemberment Song" a little bit, ngl. Especially in the "Rib Tickler" comic where he told the person that they were squirmy. Sorta reminded me of the song, lol. Also, speaking of the "Rib Tickler" comic, did Sun count shaking as not holding still? I noticed that while he was counting, the person had noticeable shake marks around them (I would be shaking a lot too if I were them!) And I guessed Sun counted that as moving (on second thought, this might be a dumb question) perhaps they were meant to loose? Because he knew they wouldn't be able to stop shaking due to the fear and pain? But then again, he said, "I swear you're doing this on purpose" did he mean the person was moving to agitate him? Also, do they have rules against Rulebreakers about swearing in the basement during their "sessions," or, can they say what they want? (I know Sun and Moon can swear while there). Do Sun and Moon have any rules for the Rulebreakers to follow in the basement, and if they don't follow said rules will that further add to their punishment? Has Sun or Moon ever talked to a Rulebreaker on the "outside" before their "basement session?" If so, what'd they say? What's Sun's other favorite "games" to play with Rulebreakers? Do kids of some of the parents they kill ever say to Sun (or Moon) that they miss thier parent because what they thought they were doing to them was how they "loved" them? Have they ever had kids whose parent was a Rulebreaker, and the kid looks just like them it's almost creepy? (Espically if the Rulebreaker parent is already dead). Have you ever had two Rulebreaker parents, and did a double sesssion, where Moon had one, Sun had the other? Or would they "share" them? What if a Rulebreaker keeps passing out because of injuries or something else? Do Sun and Moon do adrenalin needles, a bucket of cold water, a slap to the face, etc, to pull them out of unconsciousness, especially if the "session" wasn't over and one of them didn't get to go? Does Sun usually go first and Moon go second? Have they ever had a Rulebreaker that would need to take something at a certain time otherwise it'll be life threatening, before their session was over, so they gave it to them reluctantly to extend their time with them?

Apologies if you're not the person and I'm bombarding you with stuff you don't know the answers to. But either way, thank you for reading my post! And if you're the right person, thank you so much for taking the time to answer all this, I kind of went on a extended tangent there, and I hope to hear from you soon!

Hello, yes I am! :D

"The Dismemberment Song" certainly does fit Sun in a way. He likes to go into detail about how he intends to carry out his work X3

Just as he and Moon like to play games. And in regards to the comic, Sun knew his game would be unfair. Of course someone can't keep still if their bruised and broken ribcage is being touched, it's practically impossible. Sun knows this, but Rulebreakers don't deserve fairness. Sun and Moon have no respect for Rulebreakers and will openly mock them because they both know it's more than what they deserve.

Every game a Rulebreaker plays is a game they are always meant to lose.

Rulebreakers can swear all they want; but if Sun or Moon decide they've said enough, either of them can easily silence them.

That's about as much as I can answer, it's a little difficult reading the rest of the questions QwQ but thank you for asking and showing interest in this AU!

[ask-a-gotham-mortician]

@crowned-relapse-king

The needle vending machines would definitely cut down on the chances of users sharing syringes and spreading bloodborne pathogens, and the harm reduction kits are such a brilliant and thoughtful contribution to the community. I'm sure you don't hear this nearly often enough, but you're appreciated. There's a lot of corruption in this city, plenty of folks in positions of power or working with the public that just don't give a shit about people. It's obvious that you're one of the few good ones in Gotham.

I've only heard bits and pieces about you through the grapevine, but to my understanding, you're also one of very few psychiatrists at Arkham who takes his job seriously and actually puts in effort to help his patients. This city needs more people like you. I know it seems like I'm laying it on a bit thick, but I really do have a lot of respect for you, just from what others have said about you.

All of this brown-nosing and I haven't formally introduced myself. Forgive the bad manners. My name's Emily Hawthorne, and I've been operating Blackwood Funeral Home in downtown Gotham since the former owner and my former mentor, Victor Blackwood, passed. He was another one of the good ones. Took me under his wing, treated me like family, and did his best to serve his community well, and now I'm doing my best to uphold his legacy.

[the-kr8tor]

Autumn of '88

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.8k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie is mentioned taller than R, Reader and Hobie are 13/14 in this, Puppy love, TTN! Reader and Hobie, set in the TTN universe, best friends to lovers (prequel to TTN), CW food mentions, Fluff.

A/N: This is the last of the 1k celebration fics! Thank you all so much ❤️❤️❤️

Thread the Needle Masterlist

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Head on your palm, heavy eyes slowly closing with every dreary words that your biology teacher says, you fight a yawn from escaping since the last time someone yawned in front of Mrs. Weathers they got kicked out of class. But with the boring subject about symbiotic relationships in the wild, that you most definitely already know since you did the advanced reading, you're tempted to yawn loudly and widely just so you could escape from this biology hell.

The air is crisp, October air breezing through you from the open window to your left. Clad in your cardigan and yellow corduroy pants, the cold still seeps into the thick fabrics. It's a comfortable cold but with you sitting still for more than an hour without stretching your limbs has you freezing in your seat.

You risk getting called out by Mrs. Weathers if she notices you looking out of the window for even a second. But you are so bored out of your mind that you'd rather stare at the oak tree outside than continue to listen to her yapping about symbiosis. Having the brilliant idea to hide your wandering eyes from the teacher with your hand slightly covering your profile, now safe from her piercing gaze, you watch as the orange leaves dance with the breeze.

There's a pile of dead leaves at the bottom of its trunk, and you wish you could jump inside and never have to study biology ever again. It must be so warm and cozy inside, with the orange and yellow leaves as your sky and walls, you'll live like a tiny mouse queen ruling over your land. You think of all the stuff you'll bring inside your little leaf kingdom, your sketchbook is definitely a yes, and also your big pack of colorful markers and pencils is an absolute need. You'll need some snacks of course, some eggos and cheese balls would suffice. As for sleeping, you guess you'll never need to sleep when you have so much time to do anything you want in your leaf kingdom.

Yet, you think you'll be lonely inside. Sure you can bring your gameboy or your care bears, but they can't exactly talk and have the most riveting banter with you. With a smile, you plan to bring your best friend with you to your autumn kingdom. Hobie can be your bard or your right hand man. It's perfect, you think, a perfect place where it's just you and Hobie where there's no more school to attend, no more grades to keep up, just you and him having fun in the pile of leaves.

With a sigh, you blink slowly as your eyes get heavier and heavier with every daydream. Fighting the sandman from having his sandy grip on you, you pinch your cheek subtly. Opening your eyes, a familiar silhouette appears right next to the oak tree. Long arms waving in your direction, legs jumping to get your attention. Blinking rapidly, it's none other than Hobie who has the widest grin on his face when he notices that he finally has your attention.

He motions for you to go outside, beckoning you over dramatically. Miming that he'll cry if you don't go outside. You think otherwise, quietly giggling at his antics.

After the realization, you straighten in your seat, wondering why and how he got outside when he's supposed to be in maths.

A loud thwack slams against your desk, jumping awake, Mrs. Weathers shakes her head, tongue clicking in agitation.

“If you're not prepared to listen in class it's best that you should leave, miss L/N.” She says, gritting her fake teeth.

“Okay,” you stand up to collect your things, shoving your notebook and books inside your already full backpack. Your reply has Mrs. Weathers confused, since you are her best student.

“Wait—” you've never seen her flabbergasted, your classmates snicker silently in their seats, some even clap and cheer you on.

Giving them all a shrug, you exit the classroom before she grabs you back inside. With the door shutting close, you sprint towards the exit. Trainers squeaking on the linoleum, backpack heavy, you push the double doors open with your shoulder. Hobie greets you outside just as the fresh air whips at your cheeks.

He claps slowly but surely, face proud with a smug smile. “I've got to hand it to you, Pingu, I did not expect that. I have successfully made a rebel out of you.”

Hobie stands on the grass like he owns the entire school, hands tucked inside his jeans, thumbs tapping on his metal belts that clinks against each other when he moves. For once, he's dressed for the weather, the old worn leather jacket now fits him better than last year, it was bigger on his shoulders back then. Puberty works in mysterious ways, you think. A denim vest lays on top of the leather, handmade pins of his favourite things are all tacked securely on the denim. Its edges are frayed, but you know it was intentional since you're the one who helped him do it. The thrifted ‘Queen’ shirt you gave him on his birthday is the perfect size, but you know that he'll only be able to wear it for a couple of years at the rate he's growing.

No one would think you two are best friends judging by how different your styles are, or how different you are to him. Personality wise, likes, dislikes, it's all different, sometimes you wonder how you two get along. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

“How'd you get out of maths?”

“Climbed out of the window before Mr. Keery came in.”

You doubt his story. “Yeah, right, your classroom is on the third floor, Hobie.”

He feigns hurt, “my own best mate doubts my abilities?” You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks says otherwise. “‘m great at climbing, I could climb down from that height.” You stay silent, looking at him with a raised brow and unblinking eyes. “...fine, I faked sleepin' by snorin’ loudly, happy?”

You touch his shoulder with a mischievous smile. “Hobie, you don't have to fake snore because you snore like an elephant giving birth.”

“You're very funny,” he takes your wrist to push your hands away. You now notice the new nail polish on his nails. “That doesn't even make bloody sense.”

You ignore him, mouth agape and shocked at his painted nails. “You finally coloured your nails?” You take his hand that has nail polish sloppily painted on. The paint even reaches to the edge of his nails, painting his skin with shadowy black. “You could've asked me for help, y’know.”

“It's part of the style” He shrugs, taking his hand away before you can feel his pulse pick up.

“Sure, even the bubbles are in style.” You tease with a playful smile. “So why'd you call me over here?”

“Got bored, then thought you're also bored so I went to your window so we could skip the rest of the day.” He purposely skips the part that he knows exactly where you always sit.

You gasp. “Wait, I thought we were just skipping class, not skipping the rest of the day!” Hands on your hips, you shake your head. “And here I thought there's like a really cool… stick or something.”

“A stick?” He chortles.

“Yeah, like the one you found a few days ago that actually looked like a sword.”

“Nah, I wanted to—” A high pitched whistle echoes out, startling you both. Finding the source of the sound, the school guard is currently running towards you. The hundreds of keys on his belt jingles, cheeks red from all the whistle blowing.

“Oi!” The yells, pointing accusingly at you two.

With wide eyes, Hobie takes your hand before sprinting away. He practically drags you along with him, bigger strides than you, he looks over his shoulder to check on you. Unsurprisingly enough, he has a huge grin on his lips, as if he planned all of it.

You follow his lead, dead leaves crunching under your shoes, backpack weighing you down. Yet, he doesn't leave you even though you're slowing him down. You appreciate him for not letting your hand go, but you don't like how your heart hammers against your chest when you look at your intertwined hands.

Finally reaching the metal fence, Hobie chucks his backpack over it. It's not that tall for him, he could easily jump over it with no problem, but with you still waiting on your growth spurt, it'll be a challenge for you. He knows it too, without asking he grabs your bag off your shoulders, he then quickly throws it over the other side before crouching down with his hands on top of the other.

“C’mon, Pingu, up you go!” Hobie flicks his eyes over to the guard, he's glad that the guard isn't exactly a track star. The whistling gets louder as the uniformed man gets closer. “Hurry—!”

Before he could finish saying the word, you shakily put your foot on his palm. With one strong push, and a jump from you, Hobie hoists you over the fence. You miraculously make it over, landing on your side with a groan. Hobie follows a second later, climbing like his life depended on it. Immediately grabbing each of your backpacks, then putting both on one arm, he lifts you up from the pavement with one hand just before the guard could even reach the fence; you two race off across the street, huffing and aching from the daring escape.

Going around a corner, Hobie leads you towards an alley. He skids off to a stop, heavy bags falling off his arms.

Hands on your knees, lungs burning, and face sweaty from the run, you check behind the corner if the guard is still after you.

“He won't follow us anymore. We're out!” Hobie exclaims, exhilarated, and grinning widely. He leans on the wall opposite of you, chest heaving, laughter echoing around the empty alleyway.

Copying his stance, cracking a smile, you laugh together with him. “You're a bad influence, Hobie Brown.”

“And you're a great influence, Y/N L/N.” His smile and his shining eyes says it all: we balance each other out. “Too bloody nice, that's what you are.”

You shake your head, chin resting on your clavicle to hide your lopsided smile. Heat on your cheeks, you seem to find yourself having the same expression lately whenever you're around him.

“Where to?” He asks once he caught his breath.

“My choice?” You ask, smile permanently etched on your lips.

“‘course,” Hobie says it like it's the most obvious thing. He was supposed to add to his sentence but he shuts his mouth before he could let the word escape.

You excitedly perk up. “The mall?”

He makes a face. “I'd rather stay in maths.”

“Arcade then?”

“They'd kick us out,” you knit your eyebrows in question. “Because we're skippin’ class, they put up that fuckin' sign a few weeks ago.”

“Oh right, I forgot. How about the record shop? Mike's cool, he might let us stay until classes are over.”

Hobie pushes himself off the wall, strutting over to you, your heart quickens for some reason. He pats shoulder with a smirk. “Your best idea yet,” taking both bags off the grimey floor, he puts them both on each shoulder. It's your turn to smirk at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say in a sing-song tone.

He clicks his tongue, avoiding your eyes. “C’mon then, before someone sees us here and thinks we're skippin' class.”

“Hobie, we are skipping class.”

“Not if we act like we're not.”

“...what?” You chuckle, blinking in confusion. “What would you do?”

“Nothin’, let's go.” He walks away from you.

“Oh come on, what will you do? Will you put on your best acting skills like how you faked being sick in front of the nurse? Because she was definitely convinced that you had chicken pox!” You giggle, following him, matching his longer strides.

“It worked, didn't it?” Hobie turns his head away from your playful glance.

“Yeah, because you had an actual fever. But sure, your drawn on chicken pox was very convincing.”

“I'm an artiste, Y/N.” He says, trying to do a french accent.

You snort, “sure, and I'm the queen of England.”

“Alright, your majesty.” He stops, “carry your own luggage,” your bag thuds on the pavement. “I don't want to help some parasite.” Smugly walking away, you feign hurt with your loud gasp.

“You…you doodoo head!” You yank your bag, wearing it properly on your back. Running after Hobie, he has a mischievous smile, one you're all too familiar with.

“Doodoo head? That the best you can come up with?” He says before bolting off, leaving you in the dust.

“Hey!” Running, you follow him with a laugh. “Asshole!”

—

Finally reaching the vinyl shop, the bells jingle as you two enter. The smell of plastic and cheap air freshener lingers in the air, the ancient shaggy carpet is soft under your trainers. Shelves upon shelves of records greet you as you roam your eyes around the different album covers. It's a slow day so the store is empty except for Mike the cashier who has headphones on.

Hobie sniffs dramatically, “home sweet home!”

Mike cracks an eye open, with a groan after seeing you and Hobie standing by the door, he chucks his headphones on the counter, looking disgruntled. The denim jacket with hundreds of patches and bottle cap pins is large on his lanky frame.

“Oh great, Hobie's here.” He says sarcastically, long straight hair flipped over his shoulder with one move from his head. “And he brought his little girlfriend. Hi, Y/N, you still hang out with this arse?” He points at Hobie who doesn't bother correcting him anymore. “Seriously, I thought you were smarter than that.”

“D’you finally have it, mate?” Hobie acts like he's the same age as Mike, even though the teenage cashier could be his older brother. Ignoring Mike's jab, he waits for his reply.

Wanting to quit his job is clearly seen on his face. Then he considers the fact that he needs to save for college. With a sigh, he points towards the end of the store, where you think ‘it’ is there.

Hobie punches the table with a thump, then he excitedly bounds over to where the cashier pointed. “Thanks, bruv.”

“Cyndi Lauper?” You ask, all wide eyed and shy. “It's not at the front anymore.”

“Over to the right, just across where your boyfriend is.”

“He's not my—nevermind, thanks.” Walking past all the display, Hobie guffaws when he finds what he was looking for. You smile at how happy he is.

He's so happy that he grabs you by your elbow, pointing at the new ‘Ramones’ album. The words “Ramones Mania” are printed in bright red.

“Finally! Look!”

“I see it, Hobs.” You chuckle, “didn't this release months ago though?”

“It did,” he sighs like he's recalling a bad memory. “But this place isn't making a lot of money from records like this, so Mike here!” He yells the last part to annoy the man. “Delayed ordering it. I had to come ‘ere every day just to remind him.”

You see Mike pressing the volume up on his walkman. Making sure that Hobie sees that he's not listening to him.

“You didn't tell me that.” You say, sounding a bit too hurt.

“Thought you wouldn't care.” Hobie shrugs, “‘sides, you don't listen to stuff like this.” He points at the album.

“I could listen to it, Hobs. I make you listen to my records and you seem to like it.”

Hobie's eyes soften. “You wanna listen to it together then? You might not like it.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “If I don't end up liking it then at least I gave it a try, right? If I do like it we have something new to talk about.”

He could only manage a smile and a curt nod. Taking the record to the listening booth that sits at the corner of the store, he leaves his bag outside whilst he opens the door for you. Placing your bag down more gently than he did, you enter the cramped booth.

Mike yells after you two, “you lot better not snog in there!” You and Hobie scrunch your faces at the man.

“We're fourteen, mate!” Hobie yells back, not agitated, just weirded out by Mike's comment.

“You're fourteen? How would I know? You look fuckin' sixteen, bruv! Tall motherfucker.” He whispers the last part, Hobie didn't hear it but you surely did.

“I thought he was cool.” You admit, shutting the booth door behind you.

“He's a wanker, just actin’ like he is. Thought you fancy him?”

“Ew.” He beams at your reaction.

You giggle, the sound bouncing off the padded walls of the booth. It's just a regular rectangular box with a shelf for the record player and a bench to sit on. It's quieter inside, the cars outside are muffled, the only clear thing you can hear is how your heartbeat gets faster and faster the longer you stay squished inside the booth with him. Sitting down, you leave enough space for him. Hands on top of the other, you roam your eyes around the cracking paint on the walls, mind making shapes from how the navy blue paint crumbles.

Hobie carefully takes the record out then places it on the record player. Sitting next to you, you can practically feel his excitement reverberating. He takes the headphones from its rack, turning each around so you and him could listen at the same time.

“Ready to shit your trousers?” He asks, eyes glinting from the single light bulb. He's so close to you that you can see yourself in the reflection in his eyes. And you can see every single strand of eyelashes that's perfectly blending in with his eyeliner.

“I don't want to poop on my trousers, I like this pair.” You joke, and you pat yourself on the back for making him laugh. “This is corduroy, Hobie.”

“Alright quiet time now.” He presses play as you hide your amused smile.

—

You bask in the sunset, eyes closed, you let the autumn air kiss your cheeks, your hands are behind you, propping you up. Despite the dusty pavement, and the looming problem of getting found out that you skipped school, you're perfectly content where you are right now. It would be perfect but you're missing something, or someone for that matter.

Cold air suddenly blows right behind you, the convenience doors close with a hiss and that's your cue to look up. Hobie appears upside down in your vision just like you thought, he tilts his head, you can see the cogs in his head turn. Placing the cup on your forehead, he laughs at your crossed eyes. Condensation rolls off from the plastic cup and into your skin.

Hobie takes it away before you could catch a cold. Sitting next to you, he hands you your bright slurpee. There's a mix of colours, red and blue melting into the orange and purple.

“They didn't have the brown one.” He says as he rips open a pack of Doritos. “There's no puddin’ pops either.”

“Aw,” you say slightly disappointed, but the sight of the box of nerds inside the plastic bag helps remedy your disappointment. “Ooh nerds!”

“Where?” As he says it, you see a grin slowly spreading on his face. “I only see one right here!” Chortling, grin wide, the orange hues of the sky paints him with its watercolour glow. You'd take this sight more than a day alone at the arcade.

“Ha ha.” You say flatly, sipping your drink too quickly, you wince loudly. Hobie guffaws into the barren space, save for the 711 behind you and the woods sitting quietly in front of you. His laugh echoes, even with his amusement, he still has the time to pat your back affectionately.

“Ow.” You rub your temple.

“What’d I tell you before? Drink it slowly, love.” The title slips out of his tongue. The second he realizes it, he hides behind his own cup, sipping wordlessly as he stares off into the woods.

Love, the simple freudian slip has you blinking at him slowly. He has never called you that before, he has, however, called you a bunch of nicknames that are either sweet or to purposely annoy you. But love? You've only heard older teenagers call each other that, and they usually have their hand inside their girlfriend’s or boyfriend’s back pockets when they do. You have no idea if Hobie has mistaken, because you're clearly not love, you're pingu, you're cheese, you're pebbles, hell, you're even lad, or his best mate. Never love, because that's reserved for someone you actually like, someone you truly care for.

Is he mistaken? Mimicking something he has heard around school?

“I should've told you about the album.” His voice wakes you to the present.

Do you care for him? Of course you do.

“What?” You breathlessly ask.

He's your best mate after Danny left, he was the only one who filled that lonely lonely gap he left. You think he's stuck with you forever, and he thinks you're stuck with him forever. Strangely enough, you both think it's perfect.

“Me pestering the shit out of Mike.” You knit your eyebrows at his words. He looks down at his boots, a small puddle at his feet reflects his own confused face. Is he apologizing? Why is he apologizing for? Weirdly enough, you both ask the same question.

You'd annoy Mike for him. You'd call the shop endlessly just so they would order his record. Even if you get in trouble for the telephone bill.

“You would've helped.” Hobie continues, eyes now looking into your own.

Care, it's a simple word, but you think it's not enough to describe how you feel about him, how you really feel about your best friend. It's much more than that.

“Yeah, I would've annoyed him too.” You softly smile at him.

“I know, love.” Because he knows you, and you know him too. Hobie utters the title more confidently, the word rolling off his tongue like butter. He makes it sound like he has been calling you that in his head for a long time. Maybe he has. “I know you would.”

He had the answer the whole time, it's not just you caring for him. It's love, it's love in its earliest state, it's love at its most innocent.

You love him, that revelation scares you, but it's better not knowing how you truly feel whenever he smiles at you and your heart skips a beat. Now you know, you'll tell him one day, one day when that feeling gnaws at your chest. But for now, you'll settle with drinking slurpees with him, you'll settle for skipping class so you could listen to records with him. For now you'll settle with loving him as his best mate, and for now, you're content just by being at his side.

[can-of-woerms]

i don't think this is normal behavior.,,, (close ups under the cut)

[an-albino-pinetree]

Pfft, my parents are actually really excited about the prospect of me getting a tattoo 😅

Guess they weren’t expecting that turn of events from their needle-petrified daughter? Anyways, my mom immediately spammed me with neat, talented artists nearby, so this is lookin more and more like a reality! 🩶🩶

[redd956]

Whump Prompt List: NMA Edition

Based off of my NMA worldbuilding line

AKA Whump that @demondamage would like. AKA: nonhuman whumpees, experiment whump, medical whump, lab whump

CW: Violence, Hospital Whump, Experiment Whump, Nonhuman whumpees, Death Mention, Needles

Draining whumpee's blood in order to centrifuge a special resource from it

Hooking whumpee up to an IV that contains some form of sedative, paralytic, or similar formula inside of it

A physically powerful whumpee needing to be held down by a group, as a sedative is forcefully entered into their system

Whumpee watching their blood exit their veins through a tube, knowing theirs nothing they can do, slowly realizing that they're taking too much

Whumpee getting their blood drained, not knowing if their captors are going to stop before it's too late, or if they plan to get rid of whumpee this way after all

Filing down whumpee's sharp teeth, their pointed claws, sawing off their horns, tying down their tail. Whatever needs to be done to keep the nonhuman whumpee from having an advantage.

Whumpee being kept sedated or out of it, until they are needed for their magic

Muzzled and/or restrained whumpee lashing out at the doctors analyzing

Whumpee's every nonhuman aspect being analyzed, their privacy completely invaded, as doctors poke and prod, crooning over their find

A group of whumpees are captures, and they all fear the worse. However after one is found to be more rare than the others, they quickly discover that for one of them, it's going to be much much worse.

Multiple whumpees getting separated based off of the research that needs to be conducted on them

A limp whumpee, kept down for research, needing to be moved or treated as a comatose patient since the doctors dealing with them are too scared of their abilities

Testing to see what whumpee reacts painfully too, how they heal from the different things tested on them, watching them slowly grow terrified of the scientist opening their door

Taking a marker to whumpee's skin and going to town, preparing for the next set of plans

Forcing whumpee to use their magic or nonhuman abilities far past their limit

Whumpee growing more and more tired as they loose their magic/blood, watching the world darken and the noise of life muffle

Doctors taunting and teasing a heavily restrained whumpee. Whumpee, who is normally such a dangerous creature, can do nothing as they pull on their tail or forcibly spread out their wings

Hands latching onto whumpee's face, moving their head into the position they need to

Whumpee waking to the feeling of fingers prodding for the perfect injection spot

Strapping whumpee down to a table, the doctor admiring their work, thinking they'd never see a nonhuman of this type to work on

Whumpee being returned to a cell full of other nonhuman whumpees after a finish experiment, being plopped down unceremoniously in front of the others, before the doctor looks up to pick the next one

Tattooing whumpee to know what experiment group they belong to

Holding an oxygen mask to whumpee's face, watching as the mist of a sedative kicks in

[crayonverse]

details bout michael n eins dynamic. 2 me (cw physical/emotional abuse, cannibalism, suicide/suicidal idealizations, ableism, self-harm)

michael only refers to himself as eins father when he wants ein to do something, any other time hes just michael .

lets ein not refer to him as sir to make him feel more "special" .

after eins mom broke up w zack she sorta got a bit. out of it. she started neglecting ein and she became depressed. The First Step in ein distrusting others bc his mother stopped paying attention 2 him. michael used a small amount of his magic to control her and make her drown herself in the kitchen sink and then kidnapped ein, making it look like she had killed herself and ein had ran away. .

just as a small thing of me hcing ein as a transguy, michael named him ein bc the meaning of "ian" (which is what his name is just spelled weird) is "God is Gracious" as a constant reminder that michael "saved" ein. .

ein wasnt tested on w forever potions (in the early stages w the other kids) because michael absolutely could not let Zack know he had his other stupid kid. when ein found out about the testing he was extremely upset bc he wasnt "special enough" for it. picture ein 6 years old begging for medical malpractice to be used on him .

he was tested later but as a teen when michael got out, since he didnt have access to the other children. although he wasn't able to use the full potions since he didnt have access to emeralds at the moment, so he used diluted versions of the potions that weren't as powerful via syringes. ein gets a fear needles from it .

when michael n the other two idiots were locked in the pocket dimension ein went through a brief depressive period bc the One Guy he (thought) cared about him disappeared. when michael did get out he didnt tell ein immediately bc he . doesnt like ein but when he found out ein got arrested he told ein that he should stay in jail for a few months to "learn his lesson" .

slightly unrelated but when michael wanted him out of jail he also wanted ein to disappear off the radar so he faked eins death in jail. originally he wanted ein to die in like a riot but ein, sensing an opportunity, asked for it to say he killed himself instead. the opportunity being aphmau half way into her uni course looking up her old high school bullies to see what theyre up to and just finding out ein is Fucking Dead .

the potions michael uses on ein are mainly magic power related (like eins Green Laser) because he likes manipulating ein into doing things rather than using his magic because its "more fun" .

michael subconsciously views ein as his actual son (mcd travis) bc he feels like "this one is a better son" or whatever .

not a specific thing but mother knows best reprise from tangled is a Viewpoint on their dynamic 2 me .

ein is internally scared of michael but he never verbally says that and if anyone asks him if he is he denies it immediately bc he doesnt want pity. you can see it in his eyes though. elizabeth is really the only other person who mentions it but she mostly uses it to make fun of ein because she "doesnt think its that bad" (<- she is unaware) .

bc of michael ein absolutely hates unwarranted physical touch. he reacts violently if anyone grasps his shoulder from behind or touches his upper arms. the only touch he usually allows is people lightly touching his hair/head bc he still registers it as headpats (grabbing his hair usually results in him biting) .

michael usually physically threatens or abuses ein to reprimand him but sometimes he throws ein into the Metaphorical Torture Box for entertainment .

basically most of the things michael does to ein is for his own amusement .

he also heavily dehumanizes ein to convince him to do evil acts, rationalizing it to him as "you arent a person so is it really that bad??" ein does not view himself as an actual person at this point more so as a nameless soldier, a weapon, etc .

i used this for an old fic n stuff too but also michael makes ein commit cannibalism to forcibly dehumanize him more. he wants to make ein feel entirely disconnected from humanity (like michael feels for himself) so ein will basically be a "mini michael" .

ein also consciously copies michaels mannerisms/speech. only really elizabeth n zack notice it however and it just fucking freaks zack the hell out (elizabeth is also freaked out by it but mostly ignores it) .

theres just a general theme of a loss of control for ein in general. he gets a small allowance from michael and hes not allowed out overnight, all his communication is usually internally with the researchers or guardian forces. most of the time ein self isolates from them, viewing them as beneath him and michael. when they try to talk to him its a 50/50 whether he'll tell them to fuck off or he'll hiss at them .

another specific detail is pre s4 ein fucked up a potion and instead of his usual reprimand, michael used pliers to defang ein. in his head its the one thing ein can't rationalize about michaels actions (the one "seed of doubt" he has). he usually makes excuses for michael's actions towards him but being defanged is the only one he struggles with since he knows that michael knows how important his wolf side is to him .

pre s5 and just like at the end of s5 (when ein was seen on the bridge) he was going through another depressive episode bc he missed his ears and tail. he was mainly just going through the motions of his daily life but he was barely holding on. michael repeatedly discouraged ein from committing because the plan would be messed up because of it (michael said that directly to him) and he would imply that ein would be a traitor if he went through with it. .

michael actually flipped between discouraging and encouraging ein to commit to see what he would do. .

he's caught ein self-harming before, w ein attempting to either drown or smother himself. michael doesnt like doing this regularly but most of the time he lets ein hug him so he feels "comforted". other times michael just scolds him and tells him to not do it again. .

i also hc ein as a low empathy autistic (bc # me) and he used to stim very openly and loudly but michael disliked that part of him so he "trained" ein to not stim in public which just results in him being constantly overstimulated, a contributor to Ein being fucking mad all the time. hes like a hair trigger away from a meltdown at all times .

the only method of stimming ein can usually get away w is when he scratches his arms/scabs. unfortunately he doesn't trim his claws and it usually results in ein making himself bleed or reopening scars. michael has attempted to get him to stop doing this but its pretty much a compulsion for ein at this point.

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

I don't remember if I asked this about the SK bois

Who's the most likely to rip and tear Rulebreakers using their hands? That and inject them with non-lethal but agonizingly painful for the reciever

Also, could I 3d model your SK bois? No telling when I'll finish modelling, but I'll send to you when I do (I said the same about making Kandi's OC and its been like 6 months since then-) Just my personal project, I have no intention to make them marketable, not that I even know how to do so.

Sun. If his sadism is high enough he will get hands on. Especially if the Rulebreaker pisses him off enough or the punishment fits the crime. But Sun has used his hands to rip apart Rulebreakers--even while they were still alive.

As for injections, I'm not sure. It's a possibility. They would have to find a way of getting the tools needed.

And sure! As long as they're not used anywhere without my permission.

[whumpfish]

Extractions! (Tooth vs. Nail)

I've been wanting to do this one for a long time, for all you torture fans out there...

So I metabolize lidocaine like a motherfucker, and any time I get a local, I always have to get a second one halfway through whatever is being done. For the most part, doctors and dentists listen to me when I say this... for the most part.

Tooth

(The oral surgeon did not give me my second shot when I asked for it.)

1. Any fillings you have will collapse under the pressure of an extraction, even a medicated one. (I'm not sure if this is true for metal ones; all of mine are plaster.) It produces a half-crunch, half-thunk sound that reverberates in that half of your skull and sounds absolutely terrifying.

2. The pain of an unmedicated extraction is acute and radiating at the same time. The acute part feels more like having a stiletto stabbed upward into that space than a tooth taken out in a downward motion.

2a. In maxillary extractions, the stab goes straight up, and depending on the location of the tooth, that stab can feel pointed anywhere from your eyeball (frontmost) to right into your brain (rear).

2b. Mandibular extractions* stab downward from the chin (frontmost) to the hinge of your jaw and straight down your throat (rear).

3. The radiating part spreads like a flower blooming, from a concentrated central point outward in a rolling movement.

4. Your ears might pop like an airplane taking off as that blooming pain reaches the hinge of your jaw. Sometimes only in the one ear.

Nail

(I have been doing minor self-surgery** for years because I am genetically predisposed to ingrown nails, and if I don't catch it in time, they grow straight down and I have to extract them to be able to trim them. If I really don't catch it in time, they grow straight down and then curl backward, and I have to get an actual surgeon involved.)

1. Self-surgery, split off edge of nail, 0 to 1/2" down and backward: You have to wiggle these in a sawing/rocking motion back and forth in order to get that tiny bit of root to let go, and when you "saw" backward it feels more like a steak knife than a butter knife, this time moving with the direction of the nail. Then it reverses when you actually yank.

1a. The yank hurts more than the sawing, sharp like a stab from a steak knife instead of one being pushed in slowly.

1b. You will get the best whump out of a whumper splitting off the edges of the nail and doing this and then yanking the middle part

2. Medicated: Locals in the toe/finger area hurt like a bitch. They're sharp and needling like a stiletto to a paper cut, then if someone tried to pry that cut open. At the same time, they feel hot, almost burning. (Hotter than anesthetic being pushed through an IV, if you're familiar with that sensation.) And there are so many nerves involved that just the first round of locals takes 3-4 shots.

3. Unmedicated, grown down and backward, 1/2" to 3/4": The last time I went in, my surgeon said "given the amount of times I have to shoot you up, you'll probably hurt less if I just yank." (She was right.) This sumbitch goes in both directions, down/back from where the root is, then forward. The down/back is a stabbing pain. The forward is like somebody trying to pry open that papercut, a sensation probably caused by the fact that you are in fact messing with something stuck in a very small cut in the skin, in my case the cut was just caused by the nail that has now been removed.

4. If it is a toenail extraction, you are going to bleed significantly more than teeth or fingernails, because your body has to work harder pushing blood up through your leg veins than it does pushing it down into your shoe. Especially when you take a step. Ibuprofen makes this worse. If you take ibuprofen at all that day, expect your shoe to fill up when you take a step. (Mine did, scaring the tar out of everyone present, including me.)

Pain Intensity Verdict:

Teeth > Nails. By a LOT.

Happy yanking!!

*Because of nerve fuckery, dentists using the sonic cleaning tool despite my warnings results in a pain on the level of extractions, and the sensations described here are based on my experience with that.

**This never fails to horrify my friends. They'll see what I'm fixing to work on and say, "Oh ouch, that's bad, go to the doctor," and I'm just like "nah, just get me isopropyl alcohol and some office supplies, I got this."

[ensinia-internetstranger]

TW: NEEDLE IMAGERY Made another one. He's 1/5ths of the machinery used to properly Marmalise someone You can call him The Inoculator, Inoculator, or simply, Hyphen One ((Or -1))

[the-kr8tor]

The One Where They Build a Bed

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, R has nicknames, TTN! Hobie, TTN! Reader, Thread the Needle oneshot, set during chapter 5, Best friend! Hobie, CW food mentions, FLUFF

Thread the Needle Masterlist

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Buy me a ☕?

A/N: Happy anniversary TTN! 🎉

The floor under you sparkles in the yellow lamps Hobie scattered around the sparse bedroom. Having just moved in, the bedroom is spick and span with it's newly painted dark blue that you and the rest of the band helped paint; albeit there are streaks left on the wall and splotches of paint dotted along the floors. It's a pretty good painting job if you look at it from further away. Hobie doesn't seem to mind though as he busies himself with laying out all the pieces of his new bed frame.

Music filters in from the living room, you got to pick out a record this time since Hobie and the others picked the songs while they were helping around in the houseboat. The rushing of water from outside keeps you awake as you mend another hole in his bedsheet. Hobie notices you blinking away sleep, teasing you with a sudden loud clap near your face.

Laughing, Hobie quickly flinches away before you could grab his hand and take a playful bite just like he predicted. “I knew you'd do that, Gromit.” He turns to the giant box again, hiding his tender smile behind the cardboard box.

“And you're always too quick for me.” You're glad he's turned away from you lest he notices how you look at him like he's everything to you. He is, but he doesn't know that. Not yet anyway.

“Nah, there were a few times you got me.” Hobie heaves the biggest part of the bed, it's a simple dark varnished wood with carved lines along the sides.

You puff out your chest proudly when you remembered the times you bit him after he decided to tease you. “Once during our first summer job at the record store and that one time at that pancake place.”

He sighs, taking out a small toolbox from the almost empty closet. “Now I want flapjacks.”

“We can get some after this.”

Hobie side eyes you with a soft look. “You askin’ me out, Gromit?”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat for a moment whilst his piercings shine in the yellow light. After a moment of slight panic, you flick a roll of thread at him, landing on his foot. “We just ate.”

Hobie chuckles as something flashes behind his eyes. “You were the one who suggested it, love.” He picks up the booklet of instructions, skimming through it before tossing it over his shoulder.

You blink, scoffing. “Wha— we needed that!”

“I read it.” He shrugs, pushing and sliding the tool bag over to you, metal clinking against metal. “Come help me like you wanted to.”

Dropping the bedsheet, you close the small distance over to the tool bag and sitting down cross legged a few paces away from him. “You skimmed it, Hobs.” Stretching, you try to grab the fallen booklet, paper brushing along your fingertips. You struggle to get it while Hobie watches with amusement.

“D’you need help?” His tone is laced with sarcasm.

“Nope, I got…” You finally reach it, grabbing it and sitting back in place. “It!”

“Congratulations.” You roll your eyes. He sits down, hand filled with screws that he places next to him. “Now hand me the screwdriver.”

“Say please.”

Hobie's hand reaches out over to you, fingers flexing, and sighing as he huffs. “...please.”

You tamp down a laugh. “Of course, Hobie. Anything for you, Hobie.” He snatches the tool from your hand with a playful glare. “No thank you?”

He pats the floor next to him, and then he waves the tool in front of his face. “I'll say thank you once you give me the right screwdriver.”

“That's the right screwdriver.” You dig into the bag, exhaling once you see the other tool that matches the screws he's practically shoving in your face. “Fine,” with the right tool in hand, and the bag in the other, you stand up to sit next to him and the piles of wood. You place the screwdriver in his waiting hand, his face is smug as he elbows your arm playfully.

“Thank you, Gromit.” He utters genuinely.

You nudge right back, “you're welcome, Wallace.” Meeting with his eyes, you smile kindly before you return your attention towards the instructions.

You have no idea how you made his heart leap in his chest from the simple look.

“Says here that you should do the legs first before the one you're currently bolting in.” You don't hear him reply nor grunt in return. So you look back at him, missing how he's tenderly gazing upon you when he turns away a second before you could see it. “Hobs, it says here to do the legs first.”

“I know what ‘m doin'.”

“I didn't know you're a bed frame expert.”

He stops his hands, slowly craning his neck to look at you with his nose scrunched. “We just started and we're already arguin’.” Dropping the screwdriver, metal clanging on the hardwood floor, he narrows his eyes. “The curse is right.”

Laughing, you hit his shoulder with the booklet. “What curse?”

“That when friends put together a piece of furniture they end up fightin’ and endin’ their relationship.” Hobie cups your shoulder and tilts his head. After years of friendship, you still have no idea if he's serious or not. “I think you should go home.”

After a second, you make a sound from the back of your throat, shoving his hand away. “That's not real. If anything would've ended our friendship, it would be the time you accidentally wore one of my projects thinking it was one of my jackets only to accidentally spill paint on it.”

“In my defense, I made it better.” He cracks his façade as a smile slowly creeps on his lips.

“Right,” you start to stand up. “I'm going home.” You're completely joking, hiding your smile by turning away.

Hobie grabs your hand, looking up at you through his lashes. “‘m jokin’, please stay.” You surrender, sitting back down with a pout. “See, I told you that it ends relationships.”

“I'm going to end you if you don't stop saying that.” You glare at him, genuinely not wanting to end your relationship with your best friend over a cheaply made bed frame. He understands what you truly meant, and shares the same sentiment.

He grabs your cheeks, squeezing it until you no longer pout but your glare stays as he tries to make it up to you. “It’s a test of our friendship then. But I know we're stronger than this bed frame.”

“A well placed kick on it is stronger than the frame.” You move to bite at his hand once again, but he's again too fast for you as he removes his hands on your cheek. You won't tell him that you wanted his warmth to stay just a little bit longer. “Why'd you even buy it when your mattress is older than the queen herself?” You decide to build according to the instructions while he continues what he wants to do.

“Oi, watch it, I paid good money for this.” The sound of wood clicking together by screws fills the room as waves lap against the sides of the houseboat that rocks back and forth softly. “It's strong, the bloke who sold it to me even jumped up and down to show how strong it is. ‘sides, my old one was being held together by duct tape.”

“Sure, Hobs, I believe the salesman who wanted to make his commission.” You sarcastically say.

“Wanna bet?” His face is suddenly close to you, breath fanning across your cheek. You turn slowly, poking his cheek as he smiles.

“No, because it'll be an easy win for me.”

“We'll test it out then.” He doesn't realize the double meaning of his words once it's already out of his mouth. You do though, judging from how you blink slowly as if you're trying to let the words sink in. And how your lips are slightly parted, to which he flicks his eyes at briefly. “I mean—” He clears his throat, leaning away as your cheeks heats up and his heart thumping loudly that he's sure that you can hear.

“I–I know what you meant, Hobie.” You absentmindedly read the instructions while he mentally slaps himself.

For a while, an awkward silence hangs around the room, stifling Hobie as he works on the next piece of the bed frame. He can't handle it, so to stop the awkwardness, he throws a single screw at you. The metal lands in the middle of the instruction booklet while you were reading how to combine the pieces you and Hobie made.

“What?” You move to stare at him while he whistles innocently, hands busy with a piece of the frame. “Are you bored already?”

“Yeah, because my personal chatterbox stopped talkin'.” He smirks at you, waiting for your reaction.

“Your personal chatterbox has a splinter in her finger.” You fake a frown.

His eyes widen for a moment before scooching closer to take and inspect your hand that you showed him. “Shit, where?” He roams his eyes around your palm, fingers brushing gently along the pads of your fingers. “I don't see it, love.”

You teasingly tilt your head, a smile ghosting over your lips. “It’s there somewhere.”

“Where's the torch—?” He pauses as he hears you snicker. Looking up, he drops your hand but not letting go of it as he sees the mischievous expression on your face. “You little shit.” Grinning, Hobie squeezes your hand once before reluctantly letting go. He looks into your eyes, wanting to say something, anything to keep his mind from wanting to kiss you. For a hot second, you think he's about to say something that you two have been longing to hear. “D’you want tea?”

You exhale, hand placed on his arm like it's magnetic. “Only if you let me help.”

“Good,” he pats the back of your hand where it rests on his arm. “I don't want to dig around my boxes alone.”

‘You’ll never be alone,’ You wanted to say, but you could only stand up, hand reaching down to him as you help him up to his feet.

—

After what seems to be forever, (technically two hours and thirty minutes) the bedframe is finally built. It's bigger than you thought, enough for you and Hobie to comfortably sleep in. You shake the thought out while you wrangle the bedsheet on top of the mattress.

“Catch.” Hobie tosses a pillow with a new pillow case at you, smacking you on the face. “You didn't catch it.” He laughs, the sound echoing around the room.

“Yeah, no shit.” You throw it at the end of the bed, tired and too sleepy to retort something clever.

“I can drive you back to your dorm.” Of course he notices, sitting on the edge of the bed, he slips the end of the bed sheet neatly; finishing up the nicely made bed.

You drop yourself face first on the bed, cheek squished on a pillow. “Too sleepy.” You also don't want to go back home when your unfinished project is waiting for you there.

“Yeah, it's late. D’you want to stay the night?” Hobie lays down next to you, head facing your tired face. “I still have your PJ's from last time.” He's whispering, careful not to turn your fatigue to frustration, especially when you're stressed about your final project.

It's not the first time you and Hobie slept on the same bed, still, it makes your heart jump at thought. “The red checkered pair?” You softly reply back, completely relaxed into the bed.

“I think so, yeah.”

You fight a yawn. “Can I stay? I don't want to intrude. It is your first night here.”

“If its you? Intrude away, love.” His pinky grazes your own, you instinctively lace your finger around his. “Soon, this'll be your place too.”

You beam at him, squeezing his finger, restraining yourself from embracing him. “Okay, I'll stay the night.” The gentle rocking of the houseboat lulls you to sleep.

Patting your hand, he lets go before standing up. “I'll get your pajamas for you—” something hard hits his foot, looking down, he picks up a lone screw. “Ah shit.”

You sit up, elbows propping yourself. “What is it?” You ask blearily.

Hobie guffaws, showing you the screw. “I think we forgot one.”

You can't help but laugh despite the fatigue. He pockets it in his jeans, keeping it safe, a memorabilia of the time you helped him build his bed.

[pencildragons]

hyping myself up writing chapter 7 of glory be (codywan timetravel but sideways and back) by posting a snippet for you all :] have 500 words of cody being very autistic in his consideration of language <333 (i didnt even write him as autistic on purpose i just had a Realisation that he super super is. because i am projecting how i am autistic in my consideration of language)

“Hey, Cody,” Jon says. Cody, seated upright in his bed, turns towards her. Face white-and-gold and blank as ever, she holds one of the glowing things, a little slimmer than what he reads his holobooks on. The pain in his head is sharp and ugly, and it makes him feel sharp and ugly in places that there is no logical reason for such feelings to be. “Yes,” he acknowledges. Jon bobs her head to the side, flesh appendages flicking in brief amusement. No—they have a name. He read somewhere that they have a name. It is a thin word, fitting like a block of real-wood under the hands of his mind, tucking in beneath his chin and sitting comfortably around his glands. He knows the shape of it, the feel, but the word itself—escapes him. This makes him feel the sharp-ugly feeling in different ways, ways that are not pain. The name of them fits the same shape as cherry blossoms do—he read a holonovel about a cherry blossom gardener, and had found the idea so interesting that he borrowed an encyclopaedia all about the genus as soon as he had finished the series—but it does not reside in quite the same place. Still it evades him. (Stubbornly, the only thing that remains undeveloped is his command of speech. The alt-comm augment is difficult to use, and the amount of language it contains is overwhelming. Cody does not know where to start. And even though they are nearly healed and unburdened by bandages, his hands are clumsy and uncoordinated in a way that fills him with—an emotion. Anger, maybe. He is not certain. He is not certain. In his holobooks, hot, tense feelings are ascribed to anger. (He does not know yet if he likes ascribed. Master Vergu said it once, and it was a thin and papery word between his lips. He does not know. It is not as hideous as alright, but—it is still a disdainful word.) Cody does not feel hot and tense; instead, there is terrible pressure beneath his eyes and in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, curling down to swell resentfully in the soft pouches of the glands beneath his chin. He thinks it is anger. He does not know what else it could be.) Jon is silent in the way he has learnt means that it is his turn to speak, which means he did not hear what she said. The terrible pressure mixes with the sharp-ugliness, intensifies, takes a bitter edge. Xahx. (He thinks this word is something like fuck in his holobooks, but he has only ever heard Jon say it, and only twice at that, sharp and harsh and not meant for him to hear. Fuck is—boring, a character in a holobook would say, and he finds it a dull-round, thin-flat and shallow word, like a machine-pressed circle of metal. Xahx, punchy like the sharp, thick needle in the back of his hand that drip-feeds him analgesics, is much better.) He shifts, flicks the glowing thing containing his holobooks on and off again, bright, dark, bright, dark, and looks at Jon in a way that he hopes will convey his ignorance. The silence continues. It feels—thick. Awkward, if he was a holobook character.

(reblogs appreciated!)

[toburnup]

3 minute fic: bruise

well, this ended up being the prompt i used for a 20 minute writing sprint, so heeereee you go, friend 🥰 (yes i know this is from AGES ago but better late than never)

A bruise on the inner thigh. That’s all it is. But Eddie can’t stop staring at it, for some reason. They're in gym class and Steve is sitting, legs crossed, on the gym floor, stretching his legs and his shorts have ridden up enough that Eddie can see the light purple mark peeking through. 

He’s so curious about it he feels like he’s going a little crazy.

Did Steve walk into something? Did some girl press her thumb into the spot a little too hard, make him flinch from the pain? Or did Steve somehow give it to himself, press a finger to the spot until the bruise formed.

Eddie can’t stop looking at it. Feels like the bruise is imprinted on his eyes. He finally tears his eyes away and sees Steve looking at him, saw where his eyes were. Eddie knows his ears are turning red and he slowly turns away, tries not to move too quick because that shows guilt, and he doesn’t have anything to be guilty about. It’s a bruise. It’s Steve’s leg. That's it.

Why can’t he look? 

Months later, he sees another bruise on the side of Steve’s neck. This one is a little more obvious to pinpoint the origin of - it’s a hickey, so that means the girl had her lips pressed to the soft skin, nose brushing the cute little hairs at the back of his neck. Pink tongue pressed to the skin, biting down. Eddie wonders if Steve swears under his breath when that happens, or if he grunts low like it doesn’t really bother him. Or maybe he doesn’t make a sound at all. Maybe he just grabs her thighs and pulls her against him, ignores her sucking on his neck.

Usually, people seem to be a little self conscious of hickeys. Eddie doesn’t know, he’s never had one, but he’s seen people wearing light scarves in the middle of summer, he’s seen makeup carefully applied overtop. He’s seen popped collars. But Steve wears his shirt like normal, doesn’t seem to be aware of the evidence sitting on his neck. Or if he is, he doesn't care. Eddie sits behind him in class, can’t stop staring.

He wonders what it would be like to suck on Steve Harrington’s skin. If his cologne would smell better at that distance, or if it would be cloying and bitter on his tongue. 

Steve turns, catches Eddie looking. Like he knew Eddie’s eyes were digging into the back of his neck, pressing their own mark into his soft skin. 

Eddie looks away, looks at the paper on his desk, pretends he doesn’t see Steve at all. 

In the Upside Down, Steve is covered in bruises. All over. Eddie has some matching ones as well, but it’s nothing like Steve’s. Knees bruised from being pulled along the ground, arms covered. Elbows, shoulders. Mottled and dark. Eddie wonders if he's always bruised so easily. Can't stop staring at the one on his chin. 

In the hospital, Eddie looks down at his arms. He has bruises but they don’t match Steve's anymore. They’re small rings of purple and green skin, bruising around needles that are inserted into his veins. Needles with painkillers, and more. More things that Eddie can never remember the name of, just knows that it's the good stuff.

The bruising around his mouth is finally disappearing, the bruising from the tube that was down his throat when he wasn’t awake enough to feed himself, couldn’t quite breathe on his own. 

Steve is sitting beside his hospital bed, hand draped over the side. His bruises have mostly faded, and that’s how Eddie knows just how much time has passed. Steve smiles, small, when he sees Eddie is awake and Eddie feels the betrayal of the heart monitor machine as it picks up, the telltale beeps getting closer and closer together. 

“Someone’s finally awake.”

“I’ve been awake for a while.” Eddie mutters, tries to sit up. Steve half-stands like he’s going to help but Eddie just gets up on his own, breathes heavy when he leans back. 

“Ow.” 

“Yeah, ow.” Steve laughs, and his fingers brush against Eddie’s wrist that’s trapped against the bed. His arm doesn’t want to work anymore, the nerves apparently too damaged to do much else other than rest right now. 

Maybe it’s Eddie’s heart that’s a little bruised. That’s the only explanation he has for the pain he feels when Steve leaves after a few minutes, says he’s sorry that he has to go so soon. Eddie smiles, feels weak as he does it, says Bye softly to Steve’s back as he leaves the room. Then he closes his eyes and feels the familiar dripdripdrip back into his veins, falls into a weird sleep where Steve is covered head to toe in bruises and Eddie has a cloth, washes his skin, washes all the bruises away. 

Months later, Eddie falls in physical therapy. He’s trying to train his legs to do the things they were so good at before - walking, running. He can manage several shaky steps before he has to cling onto the railing, but on this one day, he misses and his therapist barely catches him in time, arm bumping painfully against the railing.

“Shit.” Eddie wants to cry, wants to feel like he’s getting better but he doesn’t know how to do that here, has never had to do this before. Feels so frustrated with himself that he may as well be one giant bruise. 

The bruise by his elbow forms quickly. His skin is pale, he never goes outside anymore, and the purple is harsh against it.

Steve who visits, brings Eddie lunch, points it out. “You okay?”

“I fell the other day.” Eddie says, pulls his sandwich toward himself with his other hand. “It’s not a big deal, just a little mishap during therapy.” 

“Jeez.” Steve chews, swallows. “That sounds painful.”

“Little bit.” 

He’s used to it, Eddie thinks. He’s used to not getting things quite right. 

When he’s back home, Steve visits. Eddie is glad, was a little worried he’d never see Steve again once he was out of the hospital. Wasn’t quite sure if Steve was visiting out of a sense of obligation or if he wanted to see Eddie, see him for real. 

Steve shows up and immediately picks up Eddie’s hand, sees the small oval bruise on his wrist. “What happened?” 

Eddie knows Steve is worried about Eddie doing something stupid, about Eddie picking up a needle. He wants to explain to Steve that that’s not what the hell track marks look like, that those would be up on the soft part of his arm. 

“From my guitar. The neck.” Eddie gestures with his hands, how he holds his guitar. “It’s been a while, I forgot that it hurts like hell.” 

“Oh.” Steve doesn’t drop his hand, just holds his wrist up closer to his face like he’s inspecting it. “Good. I thought - never mind.” 

“I’m fine, Steve.” Eddie says, tries not to let the frustration seep through. And Steve knows it because Steve sort of knows him best now. And maybe he sees the Eddie is feeling uncomfortable in his own skin, tender and unsure. Because Steve slowly raises his hand up to his mouth, presses his lips to the bruise on the inside of his wrist. Makes Eddie’s breath catch as he watches, feels Steve’s breath float across the sensitive skin. 

“What’re you doing?” Eddie whispers, but Steve’s eyes are closed and he’s just holding Eddie’s wrist to his mouth. Pulls it away, just to press it to the skin again, slightly higher up. Kisses, so softly, makes Eddie wonder how his heart can still possibly be so bruised when the rest of him has managed to heal. For the most part.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Steve says, and Eddie can feel the words against his skin. “Every day, I think about it. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” Eddie says quietly, and when he pulls his wrist back toward himself, Steve doesn’t let go. Lets it be the link between them, uses it to pull himself close. Eddie’s on the couch and Steve puts all his weight on his arm, braces himself against the cushions. Slowly presses his lips to Eddie’s cheek, and then his lips. 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Steve says again, like he can’t quite believe it, and then his hand is cradling Eddie’s head and he’s leaning in, kissing him again. Doesn’t bruise him at all, holds him so gently that Eddie thinks he could heal a little faster, heal bit by bit, just like this.

[seventh-district]

I Don't Care If You're Contagious

He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

When he comes home bloody and drained from a job you regret missing out on, you and Matt both find comfort in one another, unorthodox though it may be.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - Minors DNI

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 11,154

Contains: [spoilers for The Malenkee Saga (Jimち ASMR)] [not canon compliant] [SH / NSSI] [Reader's gender isn't specified but they're kinda implied to be fem] [blood] [blood consumption] [blood play] [comfort] [consensual, but not safe or sane] [descriptions of food and eating] [domestic? maybe?] [gun] [first kisses] [implied murder/death] [implied SA & violence] [needle play] [pet names] [praise] [PTSD] [scars] [traumatic memories/flashback] [unnatural abilities] [you and Matt are both criminals, mentally unwell, and so, so in love with each other 🖤]

Note: This fic is a sequel to this one, and while it isn't required reading, I'd recommend that you do if you want to have the full context going into this one.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy and fiction, and should be regarded as such. I don't condone replicating the acts depicted. If you're interested in this sort of play, please educate yourself, take the appropriate precautions, and use the correct tools.

The delicate scent of freshly chopped vegetables simmered in broth fills your small kitchen. Taking it in with a deep breath as you slowly stir the pot, you smile, content in the peaceful moment. Bringing the ladle to your lips, you blow away the rising steam with a few unhurried breaths.

Once it’s a tolerable temperature, you sample your work, and hum a quiet note. It’s… on the bland side, to put it mildly. If this pot were for you alone, you’d be reaching for the spice cabinet post haste. It isn’t, though, and you don’t even find yourself lamenting that fact, given the company you’re soon to be sharing it with.

When you’d first begun attempting to feed Matt, you started with something you considered quite basic and mild. A simple bowl of oatmeal. Forgone were any of your more extravagant toppings and mix-ins, you were sticking to the bare minimum. Oats, water and milk. A pinch of salt, a small spoonful of sugar, and just a dusting of cinnamon. It doesn’t get much more basic, (or flavorless…), than that.

Or so you thought.

The memories of his favorite cuisine must've fallen too far into the back of your mind. Mixed in and tucked away with all the other parts of your past you’d rather not dwell on, the taste, or lack thereof, of his signature “soup” was hardly the worst of them.

It was hardly the best either.

Rather unremarkable aside from the bizarre circumstances of its initial presentation, it wasn’t the taste that you found so off-putting. It was the texture. Clumps of bread that’d grown far past soggy, nearly turning to sludge amidst the watery broth, it was just… unpleasant.

You could never wrap your head around Matt’s apparent genuine enjoyment of the dish. In the beginning, before you knew him better, you’d thought he might just be fucking with you. Surely no sane person could like it at all, let alone name it their favorite. But therein laid the error in your reasoning. You weren’t dealing with a sane man at all.

When you once questioned him on it, he gave you a vague yet sincere answer. “Oh, it’s an old family recipe.” The words had rolled off his tongue with ease, and your brow furrowed. He rarely spoke of any family, hell, you weren’t sure he ever really had one. When you pressed further though, his answer quickly fell apart. When required to actually try and recall any detail as to this supposed family, he drew a blank.

It wasn’t that surprising, in all honesty. It didn’t make you doubt him much, either. Even less so nowadays, with your approximate knowledge of just how old his idea of “old” is. The mind can only recall so much, can only reach so far back before everything starts to fade.

Sometimes you mourn the amount of his memory, his history, that’s been lost to the unrelenting passage of time.

Sometimes you wonder who he’d be mourning, if their memory still lived within him.

You blink, and pull your eyes back into focus.

You stir the pot on the stove before you.

Best to keep yourself grounded in the here and now, you suppose.

Regardless of Matt’s supposed love of that awful soup of his, you weren’t too keen on it yourself. You’d been far too afraid to tell him so the first few times he fed it to you, and you were hardly in a position to decline. But time passed as it always does and you gradually turned from his captive into his companion. You learned that you needn’t fear a disagreement so trivial. Eventually you brought it up, letting him down slowly so as to not insult his… family’s cooking.

He took it far better than you’d feared, only seeming a bit… saddened, that you’d exaggerated your initial assessment of the dish. You weren’t sure if his sadness stemmed from your newfound dislike of his soup, or from the reminder of your initial fear of him. You never asked.

You couldn’t imagine that eating nothing but bread and water could be good for him, but then again he’s shown great enough feats of survival that you suspect he may not even need food at all. The black scars on your wrist suggest that you may now share that trait too, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your taste. You still crave food, and if the two of you are going to be eating together, you’d like it to be something you both can enjoy.

That’s how you found yourself presenting him with an innocent bowl of oatmeal, figuring it wasn’t that far of a step away from his preferences.

You quickly gathered that you’d underestimated his palate’s sensitivities.

You’d tried not to stare as he pulled the bottom of his mask up, the sight still relatively rare to you then. With bated breath, you watched him take a tentative bite of the benign breakfast food. To his credit, he didn’t cringe, or gag, or any other outrageous reaction you’d feared. He just… frowned. And your heart sank a little. Had you used too much water? Not enough milk? Too much salt? Not enough sugar?

Your inner worries were soon quieted as he politely questioned you, holding another spoonful up in front of him. “Why is it… spicy?”

It took everything in you not to laugh, both from pure surprise, and at the meme he was unknowingly quoting. “I… is it? It’s spicy to you…?”

He took in a second thoughtful bite, and nodded. “Yeah… kind of? It’s a little thick… and has this… I don’t know.” He brought his hand up to cup his exposed jawline in thought. “It’s… hmm… no, not dirt, oh what’s the word… earthy! Like… spicy… wood, or something.” You bite back a smile at his explanation, and catch how he mirrors yours when his eyes land on you. “I… I think I quite like the sweetness of it though.”

You quickly gathered that he was awfully sensitive to- well, just about every flavor, the more intense ones especially so. And his baseline for “intense” was adorably low. It made enough sense you supposed, given you’d no idea how long he’d been eating that same flavorless glop of his. It did raise a brief question in your mind though, the answer which you’d silently searched for when you were next alone.

A brief search in your phone’s browser shut down your fleeting line of thought that perhaps he’d never been accustomed to such flavors. It seemed quite the opposite, in fact, given that apparently Britain had taken over the cinnamon trade during the 1800’s. So, it was unlikely that the spice, and similar others, weren’t available to him in some capacity then. Well, if your attempts at surmising his origins were correct, that is. It didn’t seem to be considered a rare commodity by those times either.

Shaking the tangling web of thoughts from your mind, you dismissed it in the same way you’d learned to treat his many other anomalies. Perhaps he’d lived in… unique circumstances even then. Perhaps the true extent of his “old family recipe” has simply been lost to time, leaving him with memory of nothing but the utter basic ingredients. Perhaps your rough calculation of his true age was incorrect. The variety of reasons were plentiful, multiplying, and eventually, overwhelming to your tired mind.

Best to not dwell.

You were appreciative of his continued willingness to try your offerings, having not been too badly put off by his first impression of your “spicy” oatmeal. You began modifying your simple recipes, removing more and more flavor until you were left with the tamest possible versions of them. He came to enjoy your oatmeal, once you’d upped the water and forgone the cinnamon. He’d quite enjoyed your vegetable soup, too, once you parted ways with your beloved garlic and onions.

It wasn’t a hard sacrifice to make, in all honesty, because the satisfaction of finding something, anything else he liked to eat, far outweighed the loss. Besides, the omissions only applied to the initial recipe. Nothing stopped you from seasoning your own serving after the fact, which you often did. One would think you were eating Carolina Reapers with the way his eyes widened at the sight of you seasoning your food.

You never considered yourself to be much of a genuine spice lover, you just liked some flavor in your food. It became a lighthearted joke between you both. He continually balked at the sight of your heavy-handed garlic powder pour, and you gently poked fun at him over his bland taste. Watching him contentedly eat his watery oats, you once playfully remarked as much, affection lacing your quiet words as they crossed the kitchen table. “Matthew, you’ve got to be the whitest man I know.”

You doubted he’d get the reference, which only made his honest response infinitely funnier in retrospect. In the moment, though, it just made you a bit sad. “…You know other men…”

It wasn’t a question, nothing more than a quiet, trailing statement with a jealous undertone. He seemed saddened by such a reminder, and you quickly felt the urge to remove the frown settling on his lips. Rising from your seat and closing the space between you, your hand found his shoulder as you bent down to his level. After planting a long kiss on his temple, you reassured him softly. “None of them have ever held a candle to the ways in which I know you.”

You recall the feeling of his muscles relaxing beneath your touch, and you smile.

Using the edge of your ladle, you gently press it down and part a soft carrot slice in two. Nodding to yourself and giving the pot one last stir, you reach out and return the range’s dial back to its vertical off position. It’s then, in the otherwise quiet room, that Matt’s heartbeat grows noticeably louder in your ears.

It took a little while to adapt to at first, this new constant pulse in the background of your mind. When he first explained it to you, you’d had a fleeting fear that it would grow to annoy you, but you’re relieved to have found that to be far from the case. It’s comforting, above all else. A soft, constant reminder that he’s still alive, and still with you, even when he isn’t physically with you. And like any constant sound, you grew accustomed to it. Before you knew it you found it fairly easy to let slip from your focus when you so desired, and just as easy to tune back into when you wished.

Even when you weren’t paying specific attention to it though, it was always unmistakable when he first came home. Its volume being based upon your proximity, the steady beat always made itself re-known when he drew close. He was an otherwise quiet man, the many years spent in his particular occupation lending him an innate degree of stealth that he carried with him everywhere. He could never sneak up on you again, though. Such was the price he paid for giving you his heart, and he’s never seemed to mind.

So it wasn’t the silent unlocking of your door, nor was it his silent footsteps through the short hall that told you he was home. It was the steady thump of his heartbeat, catching your attention as it grew louder.

Smiling, you turn away from the stove to face the doorway just in time to greet him as he’s rounding the corner. “Welcome ho-…-ome…” The disheveled sight of him then causes your face to fall. You falter for a moment as his exhausted voice greets you in turn, making his way to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. Reaching a hand inside his jacket, he pulls out a thick wad of cash, dropping it on the table with little fanfare as you make your way over to him.

The heavy scent of iron lingers on him, and your hands hover for a moment before gently landing on his upper arms. Catching his gaze, you question him in urgent concern. “What- what happened? Are you okay?”

He pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the table next. “Of course I am, doll…” His unconvincing statement is punctuated by a quiet groan as he lowers himself into the chair. Your hands slip away from his arms, and when you register a cold wetness on the left, your breath hitches. Your eyes flick down to assess your palm at the same time as his preemptive reassurance hits your ears. “It’s not mine.”

The blood that soaked his jacket tints your hand a shade of red, not black, and you release your breath.

Reaching for a hand towel and wiping it away without a care, you resist the urge to put your hands on him again. You want to feel, want to search his pitch black clothes for any patch of blood that might not be red, but you refrain. You don’t ever want to overwhelm him.

Turning behind you and pulling your own chair near, you release his name in a shaky breath. “Matt…” You have to ask. “Did it… go south?”

His elbows thunk lightly against the table as he props them there, leaning forward. “Only…” He sighs. “Only a little bit.” He eyes the cash on the table. “I still got the job done.”

You follow his gaze, and frown. Reaching out, you lift one end of the stack with your thumb, watching the hundreds flicker past as you riffle through them. Pulling your hand back and crossing your arms, you voice your doubt. “Was it worth it? I don’t ever want you taking a job for the sake of the-”

“This wasn’t about the payment.” He gently cuts you off, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not why I took this job.”

“Was it… personal, then?”

“…Not quite.” His gaze drifts up from the table to stare out the small window above the sink. “It was… a moral thing, I guess. If I’d passed on it, there was a risk of it becoming personal. But- even if there wasn’t… I’m not the type to let a man like that walk.”

You question him gently. “…Like what?”

He glances at you for a moment, hesitating on his words. “He… had a reputation. Real big, strong, the cocky type. Liked throwing his weight around, starting fights…” Matt laughs. “He was so overconfident in himself, that- word was- he never even carried a gun. Thought that his sheer strength, “street smarts”, whatever, would be enough to carry him through anything.”

You roll your eyes at the notion. “Sounds like a real prick, yeah. But still, that’s not enough to get a bounty put on himself… right?”

You can’t see the way the edge of Matt’s lips tug up in the slightest smile at your words. It fades fast regardless though as he continues talking around the dark truth of the matter.

“Fist fights weren’t the only way he liked to… throw his weight around. He also had a penchant for targeting people that he knew couldn’t stand a chance at fighting back. He… enjoyed taking things that didn’t belong to him.”

The dark, disgusted edge that Matt’s voice has taken tells you that he’s not talking about material possessions. Your stomach drops. “…Oh.”

“Yeah.” His gaze locks onto the table. “There are… certain lines that you just don’t cross. He quite enjoyed crossing them. I quite enjoy killing those who do. So, no. It wasn’t about the money, doll.”

You uncross your arms, taking a deep breath. The metallic sting of the low-life’s remains wafts off of Matt and hits the back of your throat. The two of you sit in thoughtful silence for a few moments, and you come to a conclusion. “I wish you’d have let me come with you.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “Like I said this morning, love, it was too dangerous-”

“Don’t you know how much I’d have loved to get in on a job like that?”

He breathes. In, and out. “I… do. I do. But I couldn’t risk it. Not this time.”

To his credit, he was often quite lenient with your requests. As much as he’d sometimes like to keep you here, safe, tied to the bedpost to never leave again and subject yourself to the cruel, dangerous world outside… he doesn’t. He’s come to recognize the strength that resides within you. He knows you can hold your own. He usually does let you accompany him on these jobs. He can even admit that you two make an excellent team.

That’s why you didn’t argue this morning when he insisted that he handle this one alone. The both of you have come very far. If he has reasons for wanting to work alone sometimes, you’ll step aside. But seeing him now, looking so worn down… knowing the type of revenge you missed out on, even if it wasn’t yours to take… it’s hard to stomach that you could only sit back and wait.

Your silence doesn’t sit well with him, so he continues to explain. “I know you can hold your own. As much as I hate to see you have to do it, I know. I know. But against a man like that, if there existed even the smallest chance that we could be overpowered and you could be subjected to… him.” He shakes his head, resolute. “No. I won’t ever risk that. I couldn’t live with myself if he’d so much as laid a finger on you.”

His eyes meet yours, and to your surprise, they’re almost pleading.

You hold his gaze for a moment before responding, letting the air’s tension ease. “…I get it.” You sigh, but it’s mostly one of acceptance. “But Gods, Matt, you look like you could collapse. How big of a fight did he put up, anyways?”

The old wooden chair creaks beneath him as he leans back, giving it his full exhausted weight. “He was a good fighter, I’ll admit. Strong too.” He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

“Are you though? For- for all I know he could’ve hurt you fifty different ways, you healed on the way home, and I’ll be none the wiser! It’s not like I can just strip you and look for myself, I have to take your word for it!”

He’s grateful for the mask hiding the way his cheeks flush at your sudden mention of stripping him. He tilts his head to the side, searching for a more convincing answer.

The way his head moves causes the fabric of his mask to stretch out across his cheek. Not much, but enough. Just enough for your worried gaze to catch the tear in the fabric and the way it pulls apart, exposing a sliver of skin beneath.

You bolt up, leaning in close to him before he can even understand what you’re staring at. His wide-eyed gaze flicks toward you, but he doesn’t pull back. “…What is it?”

You reach a cautious hand out, giving him time to stop you, and he doesn’t. Pinching the material of his mask between your finger and thumb, you wince when you feel that it isn’t dry. Gently pulling down, you part the fabric far enough to get a better look beneath. “You have a tear in your-”

You can’t see much through the hole without tearing it wider, but the smeared black stain on the otherwise pale skin of his cheek causes you to falter. “…It’s not a tear.”

You pull your gaze away to look into his eyes. “It’s a cut.”

Recollection seems to hit him at your words, and he raises a hand to meet yours, his fingertips blindly assessing the area. When he pulls them away they’re tinted black.

Sheepish laughter escapes him as you release your hold on his mask, your frown deeper than ever.

“What can I say? He, eh… he brought a knife to a gun fight.”

You don’t laugh. “He cut through your mask. He hurt you.”

At your tone, Matt scrambles to do damage control. “It was barely a scratch! You- you know- one thing about big guys like him? They’re not all that nimble- or- or- agile like me. He hardly even landed any hits on me!”

Your eyes widen. “‘Hardly’? Are there more!?”

He shakes his head, hands held out in a placating gesture. “No! I- I mean- I don’t think so! It’s… kinda hard to tell… y’know? I was so caught up in the moment, it’s… easy to miss something as small as the sting of a blade.”

You stare at him, mouth agape for a moment in incredulous silence. You eventually close it, bringing your palms up to drag them down your cheeks in exasperation.

You suppose for a man who’s been shot as many times as he has, the pain of a cut would hardly even register by comparison.

His name comes out as a whine this time. “Matthew…”

“I’m sorry, love…” You can’t read much of his expression, but he sounds guilty.

You force yourself to take a calming breath.

“…No, no… it’s not your fault that he hurt you.” You could argue that it’s his fault for taking the job alone in the first place, but that’s hardly fair of you to say. Not when you know how much of his motivation was to keep you safe.

“You… don’t have to show me, if he hurt you elsewhere. Not if it isn’t vital. But please, at least let me help somehow. I can- I can wash those clothes for you.” Your gaze roams across the cut in his mask. “And I can mend that hole.”

“You don’t have to do any of that, doll, I-”

“I want to.” You cut him off with conviction. “I’ve- I’ve got food for you too… if you want it…” You add, gesturing to the pot on the stove with less conviction.

His gaze lingers on you as your tense shoulders fall, and his own tired muscles relax in response. Thoughtfully, he slowly begins to shrug off his jacket. “Yeah… yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”

You stand, coming around to lift the fabric from his shoulders. His voice grows soft. “…Thank you.”

-

With soup in your stomachs, Matt’s freshly washed clothes tumbling in the dryer, and himself currently in the shower, you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you set a freshly rinsed bowl in the drying rack. Retrieving the nearby hand towel from the counter, you admire what you can see of the sunset from your kitchen window, sifting through the thoughts and emotions cluttering your mind.

Matt’s order of operations this evening were strange, but hardly anything about him isn’t, so you don’t think about it too hard. Whatever compelled him to eat before his shower makes no sense to you. But hey, everybody’s got their preferences, you suppose.

Thankfully, his mask and jacket seemed to be the only two things that had any significant amount of blood on them. He let you take them off, what with you so eager to get them in the wash and rid your kitchen of the metallic scent. You imagined his shirt and pants didn’t come out completely unscathed, but with his penchant for an all-black wardrobe, it was hard to tell. You weren’t about to have him strip right then when it seemed all he wanted to do was take a nap right there at the table. It was fine, the rest could go in the wash later.

Returning from the washroom to the kitchen, the sight of him smiling at you, politely requesting soup with blood still smeared across his cheek gave you pause. When you questioned him on it, he blinked at you with tired eyes, stating that your cooking would give him the strength to go shower afterwards. You figured he was mostly saying that in an attempt to lift your spirits, surely he wasn’t that hungry. Nevertheless, it made you smile.

Pulling your mind from the past and your gaze from the purple-orange sky, you drape your towel over the oven door’s handle. With the kitchen back in order, you close the curtains, kill the lights, and make your way to the dryer.

You interrupt the machine and pull the dry mask from the drum before shutting the door and allowing the remaining larger, thicker, still-damp fabrics to finish out the cycle.

You flatten the balaclava in your hands as you make your way to the bedroom. Matt’s humming escapes from the crack beneath the bathroom door, along with the sound of running water as he continues his shower. Thoughtfully running your thumb over the slit across the mask’s left cheek, you stop at your dresser. Pilfering through the top drawer for your little sewing kit, you decide to make good on your offer to mend the hole.

Clicking on your bedside lamp, you kick your slippers off and settle atop the sheets, laying your supplies out in front of you. Analyzing the fabric, you pick out what you’ll need. It’s a pretty clean cut.

You push aside the quiet question of how sharp the man’s knife had been.

Should be easy enough to mend it close to new with some tight, careful stitching.

You push aside the quiet question of if any part of Matt might’ve needed stitching.

Cutting a length of black thread, you ready the needle, and set to your quiet work.

You shake your head at the prior thought, finding that it won’t leave you be. There’s never any need for stitches when it comes to Matt. The same likely holds true for you now as well. You both heal too quickly for that to be necessary.

You find yourself wishing that’d been the case for you back when you had a knife stuck in your gut, countless safety pins pushed through your skin, and a maniac cornering you, intent on bleeding you out the hard way.

“Death by a thousand cuts.” He’d told you.

Long as you may live, you don’t think you’ll ever forget it.

You try not to dwell on those memories, but it’s hard not to lament what could’ve happened. How differently things could’ve gone if you’d had the power that you possess today. How you’d have pulled that blade from your stomach without fear and shoved it through his throat so fast he wouldn’t have seen it coming. How you’d have torn that hideous white mask off of his face just to watch the shock and pain contort his features as you twisted the blade.

You watch the needle push through the fabric in your hands in a rhythmic, repetitive motion, your body on autopilot as your mind lingers in the past.

Maybe if Matt hadn’t had to show up and save you that day, things could’ve gone differently. Maybe the two of you wouldn’t have had to part ways afterward. Maybe your next meeting wouldn’t have been handcuffed together in an unfamiliar room.

Who knows. It’s a waste of time to wish you could change the past. And if things hadn’t gone the way they did, maybe you’d have never seen him again at all. Maybe there’s a reason for everything happening exactly how it did. Who knows.

An unknown force suddenly jostles you and you yelp, startled out of your thoughts. You immediately hear Matt apologize, and you turn, quickly gathering that the “unknown force” was nothing more than him, plopping down on the bed next to you. You open your mouth to respond, but you’re interrupted when you go to move your hand and an instinctive hiss of pain comes out of you instead.

Looking down, your eyes widen at the sight of your sewing needle, pierced straight through the pad of your left index finger.

“Oh, no!” Comes Matt’s shocked voice from beside you after his gaze follows yours. “Ohhh, no, no, no. Did I make you do that?”

You assume your fingers must’ve slipped when he startled you, but you aren’t about to blame him. You struggle to find your words as you stare at the tiny impalement. “It’s… it’s fine, honey, I was just… zoned out. Didn’t even notice that you’d left the bathroom…”

You gather Matt’s mask in your free hand, unable to put it down given that it’s still attached to the thread, attached to the needle, attached to you. Pinning the fabric between your wrist and your chest, you twist your body and hold your hand out under the lamp to your left. The thread attaching you to the mask grows taut, tugging lightly at your new piercing, and you feel your mind slipping.

You don’t feel yourself in your bed anymore, and you don’t see your nightstand in front of you. You feel yourself pinned to a wall, and you see that awful man pushing another pin through your skin. He’s rough and careless, pressing them deep to catch on more than just skin, tugging them back up to fasten them and make sure this hurts as much as possible.

Tears well up in your eyes as you feel someone take hold of your wrist. You instinctively pull away, and their soft grip tightens.

You hear that awful, wet, sputtering voice in your mind, muttering its nonsense, growing louder, angrier. You try to make sense of its repetitions. You shut your eyes tight and all you can see is blood. All you can hear is the blood spilling from his lips… his tongue. Tongue. That’s right. Someone cut out his tongue. Who? Was it you? Have you forgotten that too? Is this your punishment for such a crime? But- no- why would you do that? Did you do that? Did you do that? Do you deserve this? What did you do to deserve this?

What did you do?

What did you do?

What did you do, child?

Matthew’s voice cuts through the noise at last, shouting your name.

When you open your eyes, you meet his through a watery gaze.

He lowers his voice, but his heavy, serious tone remains as he begins to ground you.

“It’s over. He’s dead. He’s dead, and gone, and never coming back, and you didn’t do anything. You never did anything to deserve that. Not any of it.”

You’re tempted to close your eyes, wanting his voice to be the only thing you can perceive, but he stops you. “Ah-ah-ah- no, no, poppet, stay with me. Want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, raising your free hand to wipe at your eyes. He keeps one hand around your other wrist, holding your injury steady as he tugs at the collar of his bathrobe. He then reaches for your free hand with his, and you hardly have time to be confused before he’s slipping it beneath the thick fabric of his robe, bringing your hand to rest on his bare chest. The bold move shocks you halfway out of your mind’s haze, and for a brief, blissful moment all you can focus on is how warm he is.

Guiding your hand, he settles it directly over the part of his chest where you’d planted his last two hearts. “Do you feel that?”

The steady twin thumping against your palm aligns with the rhythm of his pulse in your mind. You nod. He rests his hand atop yours, a silent invitation to keep it there.

“Good. Focus on that for me, okay? Focus on that while we breathe. Just follow my lead, I know you can do this.”

He patiently guides you through a few long minutes of breathing, until you’re able to match his measured breaths. As soon as you feel able, you try to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Matt, I don’t know what came over me, I just-”

He gently hushes you. “Pumpkin, c’mon, none of that. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay? Just breathe. In…” You copy him again. “Aaand out…” You manage to let your shoulders drop on the exhale this time, and he smiles. “Good. There we go.” His hand slowly leaves his chest, and you wordlessly slip yours out of his robe, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

You risk another glance at your injury, and to your relief it doesn’t make your head swim this time. Matt still tries to distract you from it, leaning in to break your line of sight. “You don’t have to worry about that, doll, I’ll take care of it-”

You nod, but still cut him off by tugging your hand closer for a better look. “You can- I’ll- I’ll let you, I just… wanna see.”

He allows it, his careful grip on your wrist remaining. “See what?”

You turn your hand under the light. “How deep it is.” Your stomach turns a bit as you stare, but you’re relieved to find that it’s not that bad. The needle simply slipped through the soft pad of your fingertip, not hitting anything else. You feel silly for caring, what with your body’s capabilities, the risk from something like this is as trivial as a paper cut. You suppose you just haven’t gotten used to living in a more resilient body. All of your old fears still linger, unnecessary as they may be.

Regardless, you look away as you allow him to take your hand back. “…Okay, Doc, have at me.”

Matthew chuckles. “Me? A doctor? Goodness, what is this world coming to…”

Attempting to keep the mood light, he playfully considers your minor injury as he steadies your upturned hand on his knee. “Now, this is a pretty cool piercing, I’ll admit. But it’s also a pretty inconvenient one, isn’t it. So as- uh- oh, what do the kids say these days… hardcore as it looks, I’m gonna need to remove this, alright?”

You nod, laughing beneath your breath, and he finds himself satisfied with the small smile he manages to bring out of you.

“I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can, yeah? Want me to count you down?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head. “Nah, it’s fine. In your own time.”

“Alright, love. Deep breath in for me?”

You inhale, and one short, mildly uncomfortable moment later, you’re freed from the painful intrusion.

“There we go.” You open your eyes as he takes the needle with its attached thread and balaclava out of your hold. Playful as ever, he scolds the offending object as he sets it aside. “Bad needle, bad! No one hurts my poppet, not even you.” He shakes his head, and you huff a laugh at his commitment to the bit.

As sweet as your partner is being, your focus still shifts to your sore finger, held in your own lap now. You watch two little beads of black blood form on both ends of the puncture wound. They swell, and slowly begin to roll down your finger as Matt returns to kneel in front of you.

A half-baked thought occurs, and you act on it immediately. Holding your finger out to him in offering, you feel a sense of déjà vu, recalling the first time you made an offering like this. His eyes widen at the sudden presentation, and far be it from him to presume, he questions you.

“Would you… like me to go grab a bandage for that, dear? It should… stop bleeding on its own very soon, but, I don’t mind if you-”

You shake your head. “That’s not necessary. I, uh… I’m offering.”

His brows raise. “Offering?”

“Y-yeah. A taste. If you want it.”

His tongue briefly pokes out to wet his lips, a minuscule movement, but you catch it. “Are- are you sure? You were just pretty upset, I don’t want to make anything worse…”

You nudge your hand closer, an odd sense of desperation fueling you. “I’m sure.”

Conflicted but clearly craving it, he brings your finger to his lips carefully. You take in a breath, nodding. Painfully slow, ready to stop himself at any second, he finally tastes you, and you exhale involuntarily. When he pulls away, there are already two little dots, tiny twin scars adorning both sides of your finger.

Damn, you sure do heal fast.

Why does that disappoint you?

You catch him eyeing the twin trails running down the length of your digit, and you encourage him to do what he likely considers too obscene. “Go ahead, if you’d like, love.”

His unsure gaze flicks between you and the remaining blood on your finger several times, before eventually giving in when you don’t waver. His tongue peeks out again, chasing the trails down the length of your finger, and his cheeks are burning red when he pulls away.

You feel lightheaded at the sight, in the best way possible. Sighing out a breathy “There you go…”, you take your hand back, admiring the pinprick scars.

“Thank you… you, uh, certainly didn’t have to offer that…” Matt’s appreciation goes in one ear and out the other as you quickly find yourself in the grips of a brand new idea. A newly born desire.

A stupid one? Maybe.

A dangerous one? Perhaps.

A weird one? Certainly.

You turn and pitch it to him before you can think any better of it.

“Can we do that again?”

He blinks a few times. “…Pardon?”

You reach for your sewing kit. “Can we…” You fish out a pin-filled cushion and present it to him. “…Do that again?”

You imagine the gears in his brain stuttering and shifting as his face cycles through several different expressions. “You want… to do that… again? All of it?”

You nod, a slightly less than subtle smile on your face. “Uhuh!”

“You want to pierce yourself again? On purpose this time? Because I- I promise you there’s easier ways to draw blood-”

“It’s not that different from a cut.” You interject. “And I… certainly don’t have to be the one to do it, but I can be… if you… don’t… want to.” Your voice is barely audible by the time you get the full sentence out.

“You want me to do it?” He reaches up, placing his palm on your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” His question is mixed with disbelieving laughter, and the sound is contagious.

Now laughing too, you nod, pulling his hand away and taking it in yours. “Matt, I’m high on endorphins right now, I’m better than okay.” You squeeze his hand. “And I’d quite like to make this last.”

What remains of your rationality pipes up, reminding you that perhaps he doesn’t want to. You sober up a bit at the thought.  “That- that is… only if you want to.”

He shakes his head. “No, I- wait that’s- that’s not a no! I mean- it’s not a yes either- at least- not yet! I…” He sighs. “I just… don’t want to bring up bad memories again.”

You alleviate his concern with admittedly shady logic at best. “We can make new ones! Re… I don’t know… re-route the association.”

He frowns, clearly skeptical.

“I promise you, Matthew, I wouldn’t do this if I thought it would upset me.”

You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

“How can you know that it won’t?”

“I… can’t. Not for sure.” You place the pin cushion gingerly on your knee, and you crack a smile. “Not unless we try.”

He considers you for a long moment, and you release your eager hold on his hand,  reiterating your prior point.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to.”

He takes the cushion in one hand and slowly pulls a random pin out with the other. He asks you a very serious question.

“Will you tell me to stop, the moment you don’t like it anymore?”

Surprise paints your features. “Of course.”

He sets the cushion aside. “You’re sure you’d rather I be the one to do it?”

Your breathing picks up. “I’m sure.”

He notices, because of course he does, and he smiles, voice regaining a playful edge. “Well then… what kind of doctor would I be to leave a patient in need?”

You hate to admit the effect such a silly statement has on you, but from the way he’s watching you like a hawk… you probably don’t need to admit anything.

You ask one more time. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? Don’t let me pressure you…”

He toys with the tiny, sharp instrument, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’d be lying if I said the idea of this doesn’t… entice me.” He gently pokes at one of his own fingers, testing the waters. “And having you put this level of trust in me?” He meets your gaze. “It’s nothing short of an honor.”

“Then…” You feel heat rising to your own cheeks, and flex your fingers before offering him your left hand. “Please?”

He takes it in his, and pauses with a question. “Are you sure this is where you want it? Other areas would likely be… less sensitive. L-less painful, I mean. They… might also bleed less though…”

You nod. “Yes. I want it all, pain included.”

He smirks, running his thumb along the length of your middle finger. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?”

You pout playfully. “Only a little? …Gotta step up my game then…”

He shakes his head, laughing beneath his breath. Focus returning to your hand, he requests your preference. “Through the fingertip, like the first one?”

A rush of excitement tightens your chest. “Yeah, uh… the middle one, this time, please.”

He holds the appendage steady, readying the pin. “So polite…” He glances up at you. “A countdown this time, or no?”

You shake your head. “No… uh, again, in your own time.”

He picks up on the slight nervous edge in your voice. “You don’t have to watch, love.”

You consider it, and close your eyes. “Just… for this first one.”

You feel the tiniest point of pressure against the pad of your finger.

“No second thoughts yet?”

Your lips curl up at the edges.

“None.”

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he mentions it. “Breathe for me, doll.”

You obey.

“In…”

Your lungs fill.

“Out…”

You breathe out, slow at first, and then hard, as you feel the thin metal pierce through your sensitive skin. Your free hand grips the bedsheets and a sudden heat washes over you. Matt’s calm voice is quick to fill your ears.

“Good, good. There you go, you’re okay.”

You open your eyes and sure enough, he’s mirrored the first injury. Not too deep, just enough to hurt, and draw blood when removed.

His thumb rubs distracting circles into your palm. “How are you feeling now?”

Your shaky breath turns into quiet laughter, and you feel a little unhinged as you look him in the eye. “Good… really good.”

Relief softens his features, and warms his smile. “Good. You did very well.”

Your cheeks heat from the praise, the feeling mixing deliciously with the slight throb of pain. “You-” You take in a breath. “You can take it out now.”

He shifts slightly in his position beneath you. “You sure? I’m in no rush, doll, we can take our time with this.”

“I know, I know… but I want it to bleed.” You unfurl your right hand from the sheets, reaching out to rest it on his left shoulder. “Besides, I hate to make you wait for your reward.”

His brows raise. “Reward?”

“You didn’t think I’d have you pierce me just to keep the blood all to myself, did you?” You grin. “It’d be an awful waste.”

“That’s…” His own breath grows slightly heavier, and you revel in it. “…Very generous of you, love.”

He takes the end of the pin between his fingertips, careful not to tug on it. His eyes ask for permission, and you grant it with a nod. You don’t close your eyes this time. You do squeeze his shoulder, though.

Slowly, gently, he pulls the pin back, and you watch in rapt fascination as it moves through your skin. Your breath hitches the slightest bit when it slides fully out, and comfort spills from Matthew’s lips. “Sh-sh-shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay… it’s out now.” The mixture of comfort, pain, and praise that he’s giving you is enough to make you dizzy. You love it. Maybe too much. A brief thought passes that you may never get enough.

It fades when he looks up at you, and you see the restrained desire in his eyes. It mixes with surprise. “Oh-oh! I didn’t know you were watching that time…”

You raise a brow. “Is that okay?”

A beat passes, and he laughs, soft and breathy. “Of course. Of course it is.”

Blood is already beading at your fingertip, so you raise it up in offering. “You’re really good at this.”

He eyes your fresh little wounds and a faint sense of satisfaction blooms deep within him. “…Am I?”

His eyes close as he takes the tip of your finger between his lips, and you bite back an embarrassing noise when you feel him apply light suction. “S- shit- you sure are...”

Your lidded eyes graze across his features, and they catch on the new scar adorning his cheek. They remain there even after he’s released your finger, and as you allow that hand to fall to your lap, you reach out to him with the other. He doesn’t pull away when you cup his cheek, but he does comment after a quick breath to collect himself. “Like I said earlier… ‘s just a scratch.”

You gently brush over the raised line with your thumb, a pout turning your lips down. “Scratches don’t leave scars…”

He cups a hand over yours, blinking slowly. “I’m okay, truly.” Tongue poking out from between his wet lips again, he smiles. “Feeling better than okay right now, thanks to you.”

You look from his scar, to his eyes, and back to his scar a few times as an urge blooms within you. It’s a familiar one, often fought back, and re-emerging with renewed intensity every time.

You let it win tonight.

Leaning down toward him, giving him ample time to stop you, you move to press a kiss to his cheek. He makes no attempt to object.

His breath catches, almost imperceptible if you weren’t so close, as your lips meet his freshly scarred skin. You linger for a moment that feels like forever, before pulling away. When your eyes open and meet once more, the room feels warmer.

…Maybe it’s just you.

His eyes flutter closed again as he leans into your touch, still cupping his cheek. His other hand finds yours, joining it on your lap.

As the two of you bask in your respective little highs, you feel uncharacteristically bold. So when a question arises, you don’t dismiss it as you’ve done in the past.

“Matthew?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think about kissing me?”

His eyes blink open.

“I… do kiss you?”

You smile at the innocent confusion.

“Not… not like I just did. Not on my cheek, or my forehead, or my hand…”

Your thumb brushes past the corner of his mouth.

“On my lips.”

His eyes widen.

“…Oh.”

You didn’t think his face could grow much warmer, but it does.

“I… well…” He seems reluctant to answer, and you wonder what’s holding him back.

“It’s okay if you don’t, love. I just… wonder, sometimes.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, seeming to come to a quiet conclusion. “…I do, though.” His words suddenly have a desperate edge to them. “I have, and I do. But… I feel like I shouldn’t.”

Your head tilts to the side. “Shouldn’t think about it?”

“N-” He falters. “…Yes… that’s… part of it. I do feel like I shouldn’t sometimes. I don’t ever want to push that sort of affection on you. I- I’d be okay if we never… went there. Honestly. Just… having you- the honor of calling you mine. That’s more than enough for me.”

Your eyes threaten to water from the effort of containing your emotions. “That means a lot to me, you know? That you don’t want to push me. But… I’d like to put that inner conflict of yours at ease. Because I think about it too.”

“You do?” There’s genuine disbelief in his voice.

You nod. “I sure do. Ha… honestly, I fear it’s a bit… obvious, sometimes.”

He shrugs, shaking his head slowly. “I mean… I never want to assume. I’m not always the best at reading people…”

“Well, what if I make it clear, hm?” You lock in on his gaze. “I want to kiss you too, Matthew.”

Flustered by the direct confession, he trips over his words. “I- ahaha- well, wow. Uhm- I mean, you see…”

Your voice is soft. “What is it, love?”

“I’m…” He closes his eyes. “Afraid.”

You first try the lighthearted method of easing his fears. “I promise I won’t bite…”

In spite of his apparent inner conflict, he laughs. “Not, uh, not of that… but thank you. It’s, eh…”

“You can be candid with me, honey.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to… get you sick.”

You blink. “Do you… feel a cold coming on, or…?”

You move your hand up to feel his forehead, but right now he’s flushed all over, so… oh. Oh, maybe you’ve been misinterpreting that.

Mirroring your earlier exchange, he pulls your hand down with a small smile. “No… not that kind of sick. I mean…” He toys with your fingers as he finds his words. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something inside me. Something dangerous. Something bad. I’m afraid of passing it to you.”

You glance at your wrist, and its slowly growing collection of black lines. “Honey… I think that whatever lives within you is already in me too.” You tap a few times on your chest, right over both of your hearts. “You know?”

“Yeah… I do.” His gaze lingers on your chest, but you can sense that it’s innocent. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s looking more through you than at you. From his next words, you can tell that his mind’s a little far away. “Still, though… I fear that there’s more. Something worse. Something that wouldn’t serve you. I… I don’t know what it is.”

You mull his words over, and come to a rational conclusion. Well. As rational as you’re capable of being in your current state.

You reach out to place a finger beneath his chin, your thumb dangerously close to his lower lip. It doesn’t take much more than that to bring him back into the here and now with you. “Even so. I’m not scared. I wouldn’t be here with you today if I was afraid of taking risks.”

His lips part slightly as you pause, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“If you really don’t want to, I will not pressure you. I won’t bring this up again unless you do. But regardless- I need you to know this, Matthew.”

For once, he’s the one holding his breath.

“I don’t care if you’re sick. I don’t care if it’s contagious. Hell, I’d kiss you even if you were dead.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips again. A subconscious thing, you figure.

Satisfied that you’ve made your stance clear, you move to release your gentle hold on his chin.

His hand flies up to stop you.

“Please.”

You freeze.

“Please… what?”

His tone is full of quiet desperation.

“Kiss me. Please. I want it too, I do, I do.”

Your breath grows shallow.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You allow your hand to slide until it’s cupping the back of his jaw, and you lean down slowly. He rises to meet you halfway, you both close your eyes, and together, you give in.

It’s desperate and clumsy, trembling breaths and shaky hands. Your uneven positioning doesn’t lend itself well to the action, and your shared inexperience makes itself quietly known.

But it’s passionate, it’s intimate, vulnerable, and honest.

It’s far from perfect. It’s real.

Neither of you would change a single thing.

Breaking apart, you both descend into fits of quiet giggles. Eyes still closed and foreheads pressed together, you lean into each other, catching your breath.

When you’re calm enough to speak, you pull back, squeezing his hands in yours. “You’re so warm…”

He laces his fingers between yours. “You’re so soft…”

He shifts in his half-kneeling stance at the bed beside you, and it suddenly hits you. “Gods, how long have I kept you like this?”

The sudden question pulls him halfway out of his post-kiss daze. “Like what?”

You laugh, embarrassed. “On the floor in front of me! I’ve been so caught up in… in- in you, I didn’t even think about it, I…”

He shakes his head, tone completely unbothered. “It’s alright, doll! Really, it’s…” He stares up at you for a moment, and exhales. “It’s far from a bad position to be in.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Even so, you can’t be comfortable. C’mon, we’re getting you back in this bed with me properly.”

You move to encourage him to stand, and he puts his hands down on the edge of the bed to support himself. Only, instead of standing, he flinches with a quiet “Ow!” When he pulls his hand back, you’re mortified to see the pin he’d used on you earlier sticking out of his palm.

“Oh, fuck- Matt- here- let me see.” You reach for his wrist, and he lets you take it.

You sigh in relief once you hold it in the light. It’s not buried to the hilt, just about halfway. It hasn’t pierced through his hand completely, but the sight still makes you cringe. Guilt is quick to wash over you. “Matt, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “It’s okay, poppet. It hardly even hurt, just took me by surprise more than anything.”

You throw him a skeptical look, and he doubles down. “Honest! And anyways, it’s not your fault that I left it lying on the bed.”

You frown. “I distracted you…”

He shrugs. “I’d say it was well worth it, given the type of distraction.”

Shaking your head, you cradle his hand in yours. “I’m still sorry.” Looking at him with worried eyes, you make an offer. “I can take it out, if you want me to. Or- or you can! I mean- whatever you’re comfortable with…”

He nods, his smile soft. “You can do it, doll. You won’t hurt me.”

The confidence- (or is it trust?)- in his words surprises you. It shouldn’t, you suppose, given that this is nothing compared to the whole heart-transplant-thing. He wasn’t quite conscious for that, though…

Still, you don’t take the job lightly. Carefully steadying his hand, you reach to grasp the end of the pin. “Do you want me to count?”

He mirrors your words from earlier. “No, it’s okay. In your own time.”

You hold the pin steady, and pull. Not too fast, not too slow, you try to mirror how he did it for you, and it’s out in no time. He doesn't even flinch. You frown at the offending object as you place it on your bedside table with purpose. “Bad pin, bad.”

Chuckling, he flexes his hand in your hold. “It’s really alright, you know? I’m not upset.”

Your focus returns to his palm, watching blood bead up out of the tiny hole. Apparently deciding to continue acting out your prior exchange in reverse, he offers it up to you. “That’s yours, if you’d like.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “…I’ve hardly earned it.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not something to be earned. I’m giving it willingly. You’re welcome to any part of me… whenever you want it.” He catches your downcast gaze. “Always.”

Flustered by his sincerity, you try to let go of the guilt nagging at you. Focusing on the blood collecting in his palm, you recall the taste from last time.

You crave it.

Leaning down, you kitten-lick at the tiny puddle. Once you catch a taste, though, you’re quick to lave your tongue over it in earnest. He watches you closely.

Shutting your eyes, you savor his offering, but it’s quick work nonetheless, his injury healing as fast as yours had.

Once his hand is cleaned, you thank him, feeling fire on your cheeks.

“Hmm. I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” He remarks while moving to stand. Surely his knees are killing him, but he voices no complaint. He’s far more content than you’d seen him all day, actually.

He stretches with a yawn before falling into step and making his way around the bed to rejoin you. He combs his fingers through his half-damp hair, feathering it out. You watch in quiet admiration as it drapes across his shoulders.

The man has nicer hair than you do, you think to yourself for the millionth time since knowing him. Not in true jealousy, of course, but it has always surprised you. In your early meetings, you’d only ever seen a hint of it, peeking out from beneath the neck of his mask. He keeps it tied back and tucked away when he’s working, so it wasn’t until the two of you had some genuine alone-time together that you’d been graced with a proper view of it.

Milk-chocolate brown, silky-smooth, and pin-straight. He had the type of hair you’d once envied, seemingly effortless to care for. He never had to do much to make it look nice. But of course, he’d always brush it off when you said so. Seeming almost flustered, he was often unsure of what to do with your compliments, especially in the beginning. You did your best to lay them on easy.

The bed shifts once again beneath his weight, and this time you don’t flinch at all. Sitting back against the headboard, he shuffles up beside you. You lean into him as the mattress dips and he stretches out his left arm, wrapping it around you.

“Comfy?” He asks.

“Mmmhm.” You hum.

Reaching out for his hand, you pull it toward you. You love his hands, and he knows it. Luckily, he’s never seemed bothered by your penchant for hanging onto them. Quite the opposite, if you were to guess. You aren’t oblivious to his possessive nature, after all.

Idly manipulating his fingers, you quietly admire them for the thousandth time. You’ve made yourself quite familiar with every scar, callus, and crease on these strong hands. With one thought as to all that they’re capable of, it still baffles you how gently he handles you. He always has.

That doesn’t mean it’s never hurt. Sometimes pain is necessary. Or, at the very least, it’s unavoidable. But he was always gentle about it. Injuring you, bandaging you, feeding you, caring for you… hell, even that time he prepared to kill you, he was gentle about it.

You can hurt someone gently.

You can pleasure someone roughly.

…There may be a few wires crossed in your brain. You laugh to yourself softly.

“What’s funny, love?”

You shake your head before resting it on his shoulder. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just thinking.”

Even when he was scared, or angry, his gentle touch never faltered.

You sometimes wonder if it was fear, or rage, that caused his hands to tremble after your encounter with Mr. T. Was it fear of losing you? Was it anger at what the man had done? Honestly, it could’ve simply been the adrenaline rush of having just finally killed the man.

…Regardless. It wasn’t lost on you how hard he tried to keep himself composed, diligently removing pin, after pin, after pin.

That’s the only part of that awful memory that you don’t mind.

Well, that, and the confession of his feelings for you. That was certainly a highlight too.

Manually curling his fingers one by one into his palm, you run your thumb over the symbol of Venus, tattooed on his middle finger. Every time you see it, you hear his voice in your mind, answering your inquiry as to its meaning.

“Because I’m a feminist.” He’d stated matter-of-factly.

You pull his hand up further, and plant a kiss on the reminder inked into his skin.

He turns his head, planting one on the crown of your head in turn.

Using your thumb to push his fingers back out, you frown at the sight of the new scar on his palm. It’s a tiny thing, honestly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it.

You huff, and plant another kiss there anyways.

Matt breathes his laughter into your hair.

“Y’know, I’d been planning on piercing myself anyways, and offering you my blood in turn. That little accident with the pin really just cut out half the work for me.”

Your eyes widen and you lean away to turn and look at him directly. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean- you were so generous with me today… it only felt fair.”

“I wasn’t expecting… you… you didn’t have to do that.”

His hand comes to life, turning the tables and beginning to gently play with yours.

“Okay… okay, I’ll admit.” His thumb taps thoughtfully over the black dots adorning your fingertips. “Fairness wasn’t the only motivating factor.”

The undercurrent of suggestion in his tone sparks your interest. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He thoughtfully hums.

“Well, if you had further plans, I certainly never meant to interrupt.”

He considers it, softly pinching your fingers between his own. “Well. You did seem to imply earlier that you wanted more than one piercing. I’m still very willing to help.”

At the prospect, you grow a little bold. “Would you be willing to let me return the favor? You shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

He smiles, playful. “Haven’t had your fill of me yet, hm?”

You reach out to your nightstand, retrieving the pin once more. “I don’t think I could ever get enough, love.”

-

The two of you settle in, taking a few turns carefully piercing one another and nursing the blood. You keep the focus on your hands, for tonight, at least.

At one point, his palm brushes across the stub where your left pinky once was, and a shiver runs down your spine. His voice slips out, low and apologetic. “Sorry, poppet.”

“It’s alright… ‘s just sensitive sometimes.” You’re willing to move past the moment, but he lingers on it.

“I really never wanted to do that.”

“I know. I… it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Pain and regret seeps into his voice.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all. But they… didn’t give me much choice.”

You recall the hammer he held that night, and how he set it aside instead of turning it on you.

“You bent the rules as far as you could without breaking them. I know that.”

“I told you how I went back and made them pay in the end, right?”

You nod, but still, you question him, wanting to hear it again.

“They suffered?”

His left arm tightens around you.

“Absolutely.”

You relax against him, nodding in approval.

“Very good.”

He holds his own left pinky out for you, and you pierce it slowly.

-

When you’re both comfortably high off of one another, you will yourself to move one final time to set the pin safely aside.

As you curl back into Matt’s side, you notice his latest wound, still smeared with a small amount of congealing, black blood. Bringing it to your lips without hesitation, you mumble to yourself. “Getting sloppy with my work… shame on me.”

After cleaning up the mess and kissing it better one final time, you let your head fall back against the pillows. Matt regards you with lidded eyes and a soft laugh, reaching down to cup your cheek. You question him with a soft sound, and his voice is low when he answers you.

“You’ve still got my blood on your lips.”

Having lost your brain-to-mouth filter several piercings ago, you pose a bold solution.

“How about you help me clean it off then?”

You hear his heart pick up its pace at the invitation.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Bringing his lips to meet yours for the second time tonight, you both melt into the kiss. It’s slow, and lazy, neither of you in a hurry to pull away. Even through your shared haze, when his hand finds the back of your neck and his fingertips press softly into the muscles there, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you that makes your head spin.

He pulls away to keep from laughing into the kiss. “Sorry, love. Didn’t know that would… affect you so strongly.”

Your tired eyes flutter open, and you speak between heavy breaths. “Don’t be.” You snake your hand around the back of his neck, and pull him down into you once again.

-

When you’ve both exhausted your air and energy, you roll over, wrapping yourself around him. As you lay there, head on his chest in the cozy, quiet room, a distant thought occurs to you.

“…Damn.”

“…Hmm?” His questioning hum reverberates in your ear.

“I never got the rest of the laundry out of the dryer.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling you in close.

“What’s so bad about that? The machine turns itself off.”

“Yeah, but… the laundry will get wrinkled…”

You trail off, and after a moment of thought, you both come to a decision together, voicing it aloud in sync.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Tiredly giggling at the jinx, the two of you give up the fight against sleep.

In the dark, beneath the sheets, your hands find each other, and you lace your sore fingers together, squeezing gently.

A/N: If you'd like to read my thoughts in regards to the process of writing this fic, as well as the musical inspiration behind it, you can find all of that over here, in the end-notes on Ao3! Header Image Sources: x - x - x (they're from Pinterest again, i know i know don't yell at me) My playlist and pin board for Matt. Lastly, of course, here's the link to The Malenkee Saga, and here's a link to Matt's videos if you're just looking for him.

[katkalis-the-fanartist]

I GOT MY FLU VACCINE IM SUCH A BIG STRONG GIRL

[ecstaticfailure]

MINORS DNI | NSFW | TW HARD & SOFT KINKS |

Welcome to my blog!

You can call me pup, mutt, or fox on here.🐾 My DM's are open, but please be 20+ if you wanna chat or sext.

I'm a vers switch and my kinks include:

FORCEMASC (cw needles)

CNC

knifeplay, other edgeplay

intox, somno, hypno

exhibitionism, voyeurism

petplay

omorashi/watersports

knotting, monster fucking, primal

and more.

I don't kink shame. I believe in Personal Responsibility, Informed Consensual Kink (PRICK). BDSM for me is one of the highest signs of trust and respect you can show to a person. It is sacred to me and so it should be to you. You are playing with someone's physical, mental, and spiritual well being.

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-> Hard limits: scat, vomit, gore, tickling, raceplay, misgendering/feminization by cis people

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