#i got a torn tendon

[kazimakuwabara]

My neighbors rando friend wanted to fight me, but alas, i was too high to notice.

[corrodedcarpals]

lol quick derek sketch cause ive been learning how to draw f/urries and hes a hot f/urry

derek goffard belongs to gatobob

[reverend-meat]

I-

[ronanlynchbf]

Girl help i think i fucked up my pinky..... 😶

[trans-rights-coastalmangoes]

literally how it feels to have alters who do your tasks for you but you're the only one to experience the Status Effects

[neko-naruto]

karma's the judge

Summary: Clay learns that Viva is pink down to her very core- well, more of a magenta color right under her skin, the deeper into her flesh the more purple it gets.

Warnings: gore, near death, hospitals, agony, i cannot stress enough that this is not romantic, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: me and @ohposhers got talking, I'm legally not allowed to say anything else about the convo aside from the fact it inspired this fic. title from FØØL, specifically the INHUMAN remix. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a like or reblog, or checkin' the Ao3 port.

It's only a mildly horrific sight for Clay to see.

He's lying actually.

The sound of the predator running off into the underbrush is still heavy in the air with cracking branches and rustling leaves. It echoes in his ears; that and the sound of Viva's laboured breathing. Her breath stutters as she wheezes, paw hovering over the bright blue shards in her chest and stomach. She's shredded in every sense including literal.

"C-Clay," Viva barely manages to get out, fat tears rolling down her face as agony surges through her. Neon magenta oozes out of rended flesh and seeps into fabric and slides down from her nose. Ears downturned and claws detracted, she's still in fight mode even though she should've ran with the rest of them.

Words are failing to form for Clay as he takes hasty, yet tentative, steps closer to his companion. Then she coughs, she sounds like death incarnate. Wet and shaky; phlegmy blood spills past her teeth and the gouges in her torso bubble up with her blood, the glass sinks deeper into her flesh. She's curling in on herself as she shudders and shakes and loose flesh trails on the dirt in stringy tendons. She grips for the shards to pull them out but even with adrenaline she's still fading fast. Her eyes flutter shut as the sharp edges slice her hands open to match the rest of her torn up body.

Viva falls limp and Clay is just frozen as he stares at their leader. Her chest rises and falls impossibly slow, she should be dead but she isn't and that gives just enough kick to get Clay to move and save her. Try to at least.

Clay drops down beside her and runs a paw across her wounds, checking the depth and the intensity aside from looking so bad it makes him feel nauseated. She shudders in her passed out state, tensing and flexing her claws against the unknown. The blood on his paws contrasts his own fur so much it makes him gag, the slimy texture of coalescing and cooling Pop Troll blood; it's lukewarm and drips but it's thick with bits of flesh. He wants to hurl as he shuffles Viva around a bit, she curls and shifts and hisses in her restless and forced state of sleep as he tries to help her.

Her cape is slowly wrapped around her body and her blood clings to the tufts of fur on the bottom and collar of the cape. The capes exterior doesn't hold in the blood, at all. Instead the magenta substance just slides off it, seeping through the fabric interior and slowly dripping down pieces of faux grass. Her breath heaves and her body is near entirely limp as it's restricted, Clay has to keep her head from hanging awkwardly and further straining her body as he carries her.

-/-/-/-

Viva jolts awake, body tingling with anesthetic that hasn't fully worn off. And as fast as she's shocked herself upright she's buckling in half due to an agonizing pain shooting up from her abdomen to her sternum. She clutches desperately only to find a similar pain resting heavy in her arm. Only then does she let her vision register as a train of thought in her head instead of bouncing from reflex to reflex.

White bandages wrap her arm and she isn't wearing a shirt, her entire torso is wound up in gauze that's a blend of magenta and almost purple with the darkness. She uses her other paw to touch it, and it's almost damp, that makes her stomach turn. She presses a bit more, higher up, and then she hits stitches left uncovered almost at her clavicles.

She glances down further and finds her leg covered in a thick layer of gauze, she can barely move her toes with how tight it is. And the magenta. She feels ill as the scent of drying and gelatinizing blood really sets in as hers instead of some other Troll in the medical ward.

Viva tries to move again, get off the bed and walk purely to spite the agony ripping through every wound on her (some unstitched but she can't tell with how much gauze she's wearing). Her paws rest shakily on the cot and so little effort leaves her winded, struggling to breath instead of cry out in pain. She's the leader. She has to be strong.

The second her toes hit the floor she swears she can hear something snap and she screams. Every torn tendon and string of muscle in her leg tries to fire all at once, preemptively activating to hold her weight, and the rush of blood darkens her gauze. It hurts enough to push her to tears as she falls back on the bed and clutches her leg. The agony in her arms and torso doesn't do much to deter her from holding the wound even as the sheets below her start to turn pink.

"Viva!"

Clay, it's Clay whose coming and closing the door behind him and rushing over. She bites back sniffles and pathetic little sounds as she lets go of her leg and relaxes just a bit. Her body lays prone on the cot, arms at her side and legs loose as Clay comes to her side.

"You were supposed to be out cold for fifteen more minutes," Clay said quietly. Then he laughs a little bit, awkward and forced, "I should've known you'd fight through the anesthetic though."

Viva laughs too even though there's nothing funny, "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Horror rests heavy on Clay's voice as he speaks.

Viva rephrases, "How am I still alive?"

"Look, all I can't find any logical reason as to why considering how wrecked you were. But let's just take it and run." Clay's eyes linger on the darkness of Viva's terribly done excuse of a cast. He should've added more layers of gauze, or made actual casting materials.

"Did anyone else get hurt?" Viva asked, trying to sit up but pushed back down by Clay. She reluctantly stays still.

"No one else got hurt, the tribes really, really worried though," Clay said quietly, "But I have everything under control, just stay in bed till you're healed up."

Viva's blood goes cold at the notions of being bedridden for music knows how long. Her eyes widen a little bit and she stares at Clay, "What are you planning, Clay?"

Clay laughs nervously, "Nothing much, ya know, just taking reign until you're better."

"What."

"For your own health! It'll be fine!"

Viva gives a long sigh as she closes her eyes, "Don't mess it up, Clay."

"I won't! Besides, I've been doing the legal stuff, it'll be fine."

"Have fun socializing and being the funboy again."

Clay swallows hard. Right. Funboy. He'll have to be the funboy again. It makes hims stomach knot but he nods along because he knows. Being the funboy, he's pretty sure the notions alone make his mind flood with dysphoria.

But for Viva's sake?

He'll manage.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between the Pages

Summary: grappling with his violent past, Ettore is unexpectedly challenged by the silence of his unassuming cellmate | Word Count: 3.4k~ | warnings: mentions of noncon as a crime, violence

A/N: I've been wanting to kind of do a character heavy fic for a while since I read the interview about Ettore coming of age aboard the ship, so enjoy my take on it 😘

The darkness nibbled at the edges of him. From his feet and fingers, to his ankles and wrists, up his arms and legs. 

It curled deep in his gut, sliding around like oil inside, slick with a morbid curiosity that had lingered there for years. It crept up, weaving through his arteries and veins like vines, choking what purity there used to be, an innocent ignorance, and tainting it, into a sort of murky, sunless void.

He thought that once, he was capable of feeling anything else. Perhaps once, he was capable of love. Of some kind of affection. Maybe even deserved it.

After all, the ones you loved unconditionally, were supposed to give that same love back.

Right?

The day that darkness reached his heart, sucking the soul out of it like the way tendons and fat stick to meat as it’s torn up into chunks, was the day that Ettore understood this truth. Nobody was entitled to love. Not even him. And those people who were supposed to care, supposed to protect him, had abandoned him. What use was there in hoping for it now? He thought so often to himself. 

His body felt so heavy, felt so fucking heavy. The hatred marinated inside. Festered. What was there to do, but simply let it stay and rot? To allow it to become you.

How foolish of him to think that those who participated in making him, who chose to bring him into existence, would be able to give him the nourishment and support he wanted. That he needed. It was a story so often heard. That caregivers cared not about the people they assisted in bringing into this world. Their own children. At first, he admitted, he brushed it off.

It’s just the way my family is. Every family has different dynamics.

Until he couldn’t remember the last time his father had ever spoken to him. And then he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him. And then finally, his face. How he spoke. How he rolled up his cigarettes. He only remembered the smell of him. Fusty and deep. Like how old pubs smell. And the stench of whisky on his breath and yellowed teeth. 

He remembered being on the end of his fist most often. 

And when he was gone, though it was softer, he remembered then the palm of his mother’s. She didn’t have the strength of his father’s, but all the bite.

Trying to stay out of her way proved difficult most days. More often than not, he’d be out, even in the midst of winter as the wind nipped at his bones and the chill sank into his skin, he didn’t want to see the hysterical, screaming mess of a woman that was once his mother to be the first thing he came across when he got home. God forbid she ever spotted him.

He thought she must have thought he looked too similar to his father or something like that. Perhaps it was the eyes, the temperament or the expression. He hoped, somewhere deep, that it was perhaps the crime. Then there may have been some explanation for the way he was.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him, so it was often easiest, to be out of her eyeline altogether. He wasn’t much better at staying out of trouble outside the confines of his home. Out there, in the big, wide world that he was so underprepared for, it was still difficult to be accepted. People had to want to be his friend, after all.

Eventually, he just didn’t even try. Though there was still a desire for acceptance, one he didn’t get by befriending men of a similar age and temperament to him. 

It felt only right, that he used the only things he felt he had, to his advantage. Looks. Talk. Confidence. Three things he was never short on.

And also the three things that fed easily into how he coped and how he eventually morphed into the person he was today. The looks got him into women’s beds, and in between their thighs too. The talk got them to stop fighting, to stay still and let him have his way. The confidence was the one thing in the end that worked to his disadvantage, thinking that the ones who he’d let get away wouldn’t say anything, and the ones he kept quiet by clamping his hands around her tiny, little necks, would inevitably fade away into non-existence. 

He still remembers the way their blood roared against his palms, how their breaths stuttered in his grip, and that addictive wide-eyed look, and the slow, blinking fade of life from their eyes. He thought there was nothing more powerful than holding someone’s very life-blood in his grip, and that was when he knew the rot had taken hold inside him. 

If he could, he would have wiped every judgemental glare off everyone in the courtroom that day. What use was there in pretending to be remorseful, as if he didn’t savour the memory of choking the hell out of those women with his dick so deep inside them still he could feel the way their bodies tried to reject him. Those are the memories he thinks of in those lonely nights in the Box. Those are the cold dark hands that drag him further and further. Until perhaps there is nowhere further to go.

Which is why she confuses him. His cellmate sleeps above him, a woman who he has strangely paid little attention to and can’t for the life of him figure out why. The narrow confines of their shared cell, with its cold, steel surfaces and harsh fluorescent lights, force a proximity that is usually unbearable for him. Yet, with her, there is an unspoken truce that puzzles him further.

There is a suffocating silence in the cell at night. Ettore’s usual trigger lay dormant for a while, an uneasy peace reigning in the small, padded space he shares with her. Unlike the other women aboard the ship, callous, loud and obnoxious, this woman keeps to herself, hovering just beyond the reach of his understanding.

Each day that goes by, he tries to solve the puzzle that she is. Why doesn’t she flinch at his gaze? Why doesn’t she cower? It’s as if she moves through a different realm, her demeanour calm, almost detached, unaffected by the chaos that typically surrounded him and the others alike, or the violence he is known for. 

She is a question without an answer, unsettling him more with each passing day. He sometimes imagines her figure from his bottom bunk, and how she would look while she sleeps, often with her eyes glued to the pages of a book. And he knows from the gentle thud of her tired hand and the half-opened novel on the mattress, that she has likely exhausted herself to sleep from reading and straining in the dark.

So he starts to look for signs, any clue that might explain her indifference, her silence. But she gives nothing away, her routine meticulous and quiet. When she reads, she never looks up. He supposes there is no reason for her to. Does anyone even know her name? Or do they do what he used to do, and just pretend she never existed in the first place? Perhaps that’s where she feels most comfortable.

It gnaws at him more than any confrontation could. His history with women was fraught with aggression, violence and brutality, but it provides no playbook for this experience. There is no anger in her silence, no fear. She merely exists in a state of complete neutrality, leaving him to wonder why she is even in prison in the first place. This indifference to life itself, it seems, is more disarming than any verbal or physical challenge. 

He hopes for a flicker of annoyance when he makes too much noise coming back to their shared cell some nights. But nothing. He hopes for the one day she glances up from her book, eyes clear and calm, as if nothing is wrong. 

She was like a candle unlit. A sheet of snow upon the ground without a fault or a footstep to taint it. Like a notebook you kept but didn't have the heart to write in for the first time, for the fear of ruining the very first page.

So it is that night, he lays with his hands behind his head, ever kept in a state of wide-eyed curiosity, when he hears the familiar thud of her tired hand dropping her novel. She never seems annoyed when she loses her place in her story, she simply gets up in the morning, and places something flat where she thinks she was, and is more than happy to start all over again. 

Despite the silence, his mind races, thoughts swirling and colliding in the shadows. He’s grown accustomed to the rhythms of their cohabitation, the sound of her breathing, the slight shifts of her body in the bunk above him, the soft rustle of pages turning. These sounds punctuate his nights, a constant reminder of her presence.

And yet, tonight, there’s a different kind of awareness, a curiosity that edges toward something he can’t quite name. It’s not desire, not the kind he’s known before, which was always tangled with aggression and control. This is something else, something quieter, more invasive. He wants to see her as she sleeps, to witness her in a moment of unguarded vulnerability, not to disturb or dominate, but to understand.

This thought, this need to see her face relaxed in sleep, strikes him with a pang of guilt. Even in the dim light of self-awareness, he recognises that this impulse feels like a violation, an intrusion into her silent world. He’s used to taking space, not just physically but emotionally, imposing his will on others as a way to affirm his existence. But with her, the dynamics are different. She offers nothing to conquer, only a silence to be filled, and in that silence, his own reflections become too loud, too clear.

Lying there, Ettore wrestles with the pull of his curiosity and the weight of his past. He knows too well the darkness that lives within him, the ease with which he could turn a moment of curiosity into something far more sinister. The battle within him is a quiet one, but intense. The thought of crossing the boundary, even just to see her in her sleep, stirs a deep-seated fear that he might revert to the man he was, the man he still is, underneath the surface of this uneasy peace.

His limbs move as if detached from his will. He places one hand on the cold metal of the ladder, then another, his movements slow, deliberate. Every rung of the ladder creaks softly under his weight, a grim soundtrack to his betrayal of self-promises. His heart pounds in his ears, not with excitement, but with a dread that feels both foreign and familiar.

As he ascends, each step feels heavier, burdened not by physical weight but by the gravity of his intentions. He pauses halfway, his body tensed, his mind screaming for him to retreat. But the pull is too strong, the need to see her, to understand why she affects him so profoundly, why she can exist so close to him yet remain a world apart.

Reaching the top, Ettore pauses, barely breathing. He is close enough now to hear her gentle breaths, the soft exhale of sleep that seems so at odds with the storm raging in his soul. She is a portrait of peace, her eyelids fluttering slightly with dreams he cannot begin to fathom. He yearns to understand her not because she is an enigma, but because in her quiet resilience, he sees a reflection of what he might have been, what he still could be. It's a longing not only to understand but also to be understood, to be seen not as the sum of his past actions but as the person he struggles to become.

He approaches her bunk with a reverence that surprises him. As he lays down gently beside her, he is acutely aware of the sanctity of the moment, of her trust not to be breached and of his own resolve not to revert to the man he knows he really is deep down. 

But there is a vulnerability that is roused in him when he watches her like this, and he doesn't recognise or like it one bit. It'd be so easy to just wrap his hands around her neck, like he had done before so instinctively, and be rid of her. Maybe then he wouldn't question this side of himself that has bubbled to the surface.

The mere idea of putting his fingers around her throat has adrenaline soaring in his veins.

But Ettore pulls back from the precipice of this dark impulse almost as quickly as it arises. The primal, instinctual urge to eliminate what confuses him, to destroy rather than confront, surges within him, his hands tensing at his sides. Yet, as he watches her, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath, he finds himself caught in a storm of conflicting emotions.

It's horrifying, the ease with which violence still beckons to him. The quiet, once a cloak she wrapped around herself, now envelops him too. The battle is not with her, not even with the world outside, but inside. But this realisation does not bring peace. Far from it.

Feeling as if his heart in his throat, his palm hovers above her body, starting from her legs. He is trembling, leaving an inch of space that feels like a chasm. And yet he can feel the heat of her form, as if radiating from her skin and pulsing into his.

He passes over her hips, his eyes zeroed in on a slither of skin that has become visible beneath her sleeping shirt. It beckons to him like a test of his will. If she were anyone else, one hand would hold her down, while the other would rip her sweatpants off and-

He clenches his fist tight, his eyes mirroring the struggle. Every moment he chooses restraint, he is redefining himself.

And yet as he descends the steps down from her bunk, she hadn't moved an inch and the prospect of her being a deep sleeper makes the intrusive desire to do this again ever more prevalent. It doesn’t reassure him at this point, rather it feeds into the dangerous allure of doing it again, and again, and again.

And each time in the days following, what he does becomes more bold, skirting around the edges of darkness he knows full well lurks beneath. He waits every night for the thud of her book on the bed, for her quiet breathing to let him know that it is safe to venture into what feels like dangerous territory.

Hovered hands become soft brushes against her flesh. Initially, these contacts are mere brushes, fleeting and barely there, against her arms, perhaps unintentionally grazing her leg, or the slope of her shoulder. With each night, his touches grow slightly more deliberate, and when he has straddled that line too closely and she stirs or readjusts, he feels his heart quicken and chest tighten. Sometimes he almost wants her to wake up, just to see what he would instinctively do.

This dangerous game continues, each touch a test of his self-control. His fingers linger a moment too long on the soft skin of her cheek one night, the warmth of her breath against his hand, and the next day he struggles to even glance in her direction alongside the torrent of emotions within him. The fear that he is becoming the monster he dreads appears more real than ever. The very act of touching her in her sleep, though innocent, yet an invasion of her privacy and autonomy, is a stark reminder of the control he once wielded without thought.

He understands now that this cannot continue. The path he is on, though it started with a quest for understanding and connection, is veering dangerously close to old patterns that had once felt familiar. And yet with her of which he cannot even envision.

He knows the only way to break this cycle, to truly change, is to confront the situation directly and honestly. No more silent, uninvited intrusions in the dark; he needs to face her in the light, to speak to her and gauge her response, to decide his next steps based on a genuine interaction rather than his own conjectures and impulses.

All the scenarios run rampant in his mind, stealing every quiet moment in his day to day life seemingly without effort. 

He is desperate to hear her voice, just for him, a sound to anchor the whirlwind inside.

If he speaks and she glances up from between her precious pages, with a look of fear, judgement, anger…there just might still be violence screaming in his gut. He imagines, with a chilling clarity, how he might react. To watch those eyes that have never landed upon him, wide-eyed and panicked with fear, her hands that would usually hold those delicate covers as if they were sentient, thrashing and scratching at his skin for escape.

However, if her eyes meet his with calmness, a soft but unyielding clarity, it might signal a different path. Such a look could secure him, pull him back from the brink, offering a glimpse of a different kind of interaction, one rooted in mutual respect rather than fear.

Throughout the day, Ettore wrestles with the decision to approach her at an unusual time, a moment outside their routine interactions, which are typically defined by the unspoken boundaries and silent acknowledgements of shared space. The weight of this choice, loaded with the potential for a shift in their dynamic, presses on him.

Finally, as the day bleeds into evening, he steels himself and walks towards their cell, a path he has traversed countless times yet now feels distinctly different. His footsteps echo slightly in the empty corridor, a hollow sound that seems to beat in rhythm with his anxious heart. He pauses at the doorway, his hand resting against the cold metal frame for a moment. He had never been short on confidence, until right this moment.

She is there, as always, perched on her bed with a book cradled in her lap, her attention fully absorbed by the pages. The familiar sight of her, so engrossed in her literary world, momentarily steadies him. "Hey," he calls out softly, his voice slightly rough around the edges from the turmoil inside him.

At the sound of his voice, she looks up, her expression shifting from concentrated reading to mild surprise. Her eyes meet his, clear and calm, carrying none of the fear or judgement he had feared. "Hey," she responds simply, her voice a quiet echo to his own.

In that brief exchange, just a single word spoken by each, there's a palpable shift. It's not a definitive answer to all his internal questions, but it grants him a moment of reprieve from his fears of eliciting a negative reaction. So he stands there, momentarily rooted to the spot by the simplicity and normalcy of her response. And it is this moment where her eyes are piercing right into him that he is offered his first real glimpse into her as well. Features he had usually seen undisturbed by the quiet of sleep felt familiar and yet uncharted now, such as the flutter of her eyelashes and the decorating of freckles across her cheeks, and the small, curious pupils looking between his eyes as if for an answer.

Realising he's been standing silent for too long, Ettore scrambles mentally for something to say, to break the growing awkwardness that feels almost like a first encounter. His lips part, ready to forge some semblance of normal conversation.

No sooner are his lips parted that he is rendered into silence he once would have expected from her. She dog-eared the page, closed her book off her lap and brushed her hair from her face, and spoke with a soft tone laden with genuine concern. It feels like an invitation, a door opening to endless possibilities where she has seen past the facade of toughness to the raw, uncertain man beneath. She invites him into a space where he can be vulnerable, and yet he is still unsure if he even wants to be there. Can those raging, endless violent impulses ever be quieted by just a couple of words?

“You okay?”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy

@justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3

[dreamwatch]

Part 2 Part 3 AO3

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Black Friday pop-up event.

Prompts: Black, Friday, "I'm not standing in line for that", Leftovers, Trampled, One Day Only, "I am giving thanks."

Yeah... all of them, and you're right, it was a stupid idea.

Part 1

Word Count: Pt1 - 3080 | Rating: M | CW: Past suicidal ideation (very subtle, blink and you'll miss, I'm just being cautious) | POV: Mixed - Pt1 Eddie, Pt2 Steve, Pt3 Eddie | Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson | Tags: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Gareth CC, Jeff CC, Matt CC, Wayne Munson, disabled Eddie Munson, pining, protective Gareth, protective Steve, kissing, guitars, reference to canon typical injuries, references to blood and injury - - please let me know if you think I've missed any.

I'm posting in 3 parts, because this is nearly 12k in total, which is a lot. Mods - hope that's ok! I'll link them all together. :)

There’s a wispy smell of smoke wafting under his bedroom door.

Something’s on fire.

His eyes fly open. Holy shit, something’s on fire!

Eddie pulls himself out of bed as quick as he can; in a fraction of a second his mind has managed to flick through his options like a rolodex  - grab his crutches, yes or no? Should he put clothes on? It’s freezing outside, he should at least bring a sweater, right? Shoes though, those are definitely important. Maybe he doesn’t need to go out at all, maybe it’s small and he can deal with it himself—

He’s hears crashing and banging from his kitchen, followed by a loud “Mother fucker!” 

That is definitely not Wayne.

He’s on fire and he’s being burgled.

He grabs a crutch with the full intention of braining someone with it, and drags his sleep addled body through the house. He stumbles into his kitchen, crutch raised to find Steve Harrington waving a towel around, and something smouldering in the sink while being doused with water.

“Uh, what the fuck is going on?”

Steve spins around, the towel waving come to an abrupt end.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eddie limps to the kitchen table and gingerly lowers himself into a seat. It’s been eight months since… since. His mind is in a surprisingly good place, all things considered, but his body, not so much. After everything, after Chrissy, God rest her soul, and Patrick, and being hunted by an entire town, and then being ripped apart by creatures that shouldn’t exist outside of comic books and fantasy games, after all of that his body just said ‘enough.’ The bats got enough bone, muscle and tendon to leave him changed in ways he couldn’t imagine when he was sitting under Skull Rock trying to make sense of what his life was going to be like if he lived long enough to see it;  court cases, long prison sentences (or death row), and a complete and utter mental breakdown. He avoided the court proceedings and prison, but he got his mental breakdown eventually, once the relief of being alive and the undoing of handcuffs had sunk in. He was free. He was going to live. Time for his mind to try and process the tsunami of emotions that overwhelmed it during the summer.

He got through it.

There’s a number of reasons for that. Wayne, first and foremost. Wayne, who never doubted him, who had always done his best by Eddie, somehow managed to step it up another notch. He took extended leave from work, that Eddie knows he couldn’t afford unless he had managed to dip into what Eddie knew to be an extremely meagre savings account. Eddie doesn’t love easy, trusts people even less so. People leave. People can be bitterly mean, people can hit and lash out when you’re least expecting it. His father was a viper in their nest of a home, always coiled, ready to strike. Wayne was never like that. Eddie pushed that mans buttons so hard but there were no hands raised, no words that couldn’t be taken back. Just disappointment. Anger was rare, but Eddie had been beyond a fucker to him at times, when he was young and the world had torn away everything he knew, the good and the bad. They fought, then they made up. Nothing was held over his head, nothing got filed away and thrown at him at a later date. They fought, they said sorry, they moved on. 

Eddie doesn’t love easy, and he trusts people even less so, but the exception to that is, and always will be, Wayne Munson.

Of course, there is also the Nerd Brigade that he kind of thought he would just never really hear from again, if he’s honest. They went to school together, he ran campaigns for them, and okay, they saved him from something horrific but like, it’s just something he got caught up in right? He didn’t really mean anything to them, after all. 

Except, they visited him in the hospital. They came to visit him at home. They brought him books and tapes and magazines, and kept him company when he was stuck in bed most days. Brought him movies once he could make it to the sofa. He wasn’t in the mood for them in those early days, especially when he was stuck in his little tar pit, but they kept throwing him ropes until he hung on. Stubborn to the bitter end.

Gareth, and Jeff and Matt. Well, that was more complicated, because they couldn’t ever know what had happened, and explaining away injuries like his was tough when you can’t say the words ‘inter-dimensional bats.’ There was a wall there for a while. It’s a fence now. They can see over the top of it, can link hands and shoot the shit, but it’s still a divider. Maybe one day they’ll get to push the last of it down.

The last reason he managed to climb out that nasty fucking pit of self loathing and pity was currently standing in his kitchen with an exasperated look on his face, dish towel over his shoulders and hands on his hips. 

Dustin and the other kids he could understand. They’re excitable chimps, nerds of the highest order. They have things in common, things to talk to him about that gave him a reason to wake up in the morning, and get out of bed. And his band, well they’re his band, you know? Brothers in arms, even if the arms are linked a little looser than before.

But Steve Harrington turning up to their new home? Nope, that was not on his recovery bingo card.

Steve was there in the hospital, dropping off and picking up kids. So sometimes he sat with him a while, when the chimps were visiting Max. And then one day Chief Powell walks in, mutters some half assed apology and uncuffs him. Just like that. As it turned out, those cuffs were the finger in the dam. And once you take the finger away, it all comes pouring out.

Eddie’s not entirely sure about what happened next. He knows he let out the most embarrassingly loud sob, and that spurred Steve into motion because then he’s being held; Steve was on his bed wrapping his arms around him, and fuck if Eddie didn’t hurt all over, his skin, his legs, his everything on fire, but it felt good to be held. To have someone to press their mouth so close to his ear and tell him it’s okay, you’re going to be okay, for someone to stroke his hair, lay a comforting hand on his back. For someone to reach the pain that morphine could never dull.

After that, Steve was just there, with or without the little assholes that tormented him. He was there the day the doctors told him they couldn’t do much more for him, he was there the day Eddie went home. He had been there even when Eddie wasn’t; the asshole had helped Wayne move into their new little house and decorate the place. 

He was there through the summer, there with the kids, there without. He was there when all Eddie could do was stare blankly at a wall, and he was there when all Eddie could do was cry. He was there when things started to get better.

And now he’s here, setting fire to Wayne’s new kitchen at eight P.M.  on Thanksgiving. 

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, obviously, but um… why are you setting fire to my home?”

“I wasn’t setting fire to your home, asshole. I was trying to—“ he gestures angrily at the sink, “make you dinner. Or heat, it up at least. But that’s ruined, so…”

“Dinner?”

Steve shrugs at him, flushes a little across his cheeks, and Eddie does his best not to think about that too much.

“I just— when you said Wayne was working tonight, I just thought, you know. Like, your first Thanksgiving after… and I just thought—” He’s beet red, looks firmly at the floor, at the wall, at literally anywhere other than Eddie. “I just didn’t want you to be on your own, thats all.”

It’s not a revelation, exactly. He had several offers for Thanksgiving dinner; Hop and The Byers, which would have been desperately awkward, the Wheelers, an absolutely firm but polite no, and even the Sinclair and Hendersons. And it was all lovely, honestly, that people were over the Satan workshopping thing, but they’d moved onto the pity thing. And more fundamentally than that, their Thanksgivings were never going to be like his and Wayne’s Thanksgiving, and that’s fine. Variety is the spice of life, and he’s sure they’ll have a great time. It’s just not for him.

But maybe it is. Because Steve didn’t want him to be alone, and there’s a little lump growing deep in his throat. 

“That’s… really nice, actually.”

Steve huffs, dramatically. “Yeah, well, it’s ruined. Mom gave me all this left over food and all I had to do was leave it in the oven,” he scrabbles around on the counter, in amongst the dishes and retrieves a piece of paper. “It’s all here, all the times, the temperatures. And I fucking nodded off and now it’s—“ he gestures to the sink again.

Eddie climbs out of his seat and makes his way to the sink. He winces at the sight of what he thinks might have been some turkey.

“It’s pretty black.”

Steve sighs. “Understatement.”

“If you were trying to make charcoal you did a pretty good job.”

“Ha ha.” 

Steve flops into the chair Eddie vacated. “I just wanted it to be perfect for you. You know, it’s been a shitty year, like for everyone, but you especially.” He tails off, his voice gets quieter, as if he’s embarrassed by it.

Something swells inside of Eddie, a knot of happiness. Not at how dejected Steve is, but at how much it had clearly meant to him that this was good for Eddie. 

Perfect. He wanted it to be perfect. 

He needs to not be reading into things so much. There be dragons, after all.

Steve looks miserable, and Eddie hates that, can’t bear it actually, so he makes his way back to the table and flops into the chair facing Steve’s.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging Steve’s hand with his. “Honestly I really appreciate the thought.” 

And who is this Eddie Munson that doesn’t mock people for being considerate, for putting effort into things he’s never considered important? A habit born out of bitterness at not having parents like everyone else’s, at not just being different, but having to lean into the different, to own otherness before someone else takes it and wraps it around him anyway. 

He does appreciate the thought. He’s revelling in it and trying desperately to keep a lid on just how much it means to him. Outside of Wayne, who has cared this much about whether he has nice things?

Steve leans back in his seat, that quick flash of red colouring his cheeks again. “Yeah, well, the thought isn’t much good if it’s sitting in the sink burnt to a fucking crisp, is it?”

“How was your Thanksgiving?”

Steve shrugs. “It was okay. Mom was hosting this year, so we had like, a million people in the house. My cousins are a fucking nightmare, honestly, probably ripping my room apart as we speak. Animals.”

“Was the food good?”

The confused little ripple on Steve’s face is cuter than it has any right to be, and Eddie doesn’t even make an effort to stop the little smile that he knows is pulling at his own lips. He rests his head in on hand, elbow planted on the table.

“Yeah, it was good. You’d know that if I didn’t fuck up reheating it. I should have just put it in the microwave, seriously, I don’t why my mom—“

“Was the company good?”

“Uh, sure. It’s nice to see the family, yeah.”

“Was it perfect?”

There’s a silence, a little wrinkle as Steve wonders on the question. There’s something about sitting here with Steve, just the two of them at the kitchen table, burnt food in the sink. Something warm. Something homey. Like Steve fits in ways Eddie had never imagined anyone fitting. It’s resolute and fast and comes from nowhere - I want this. Eddie buries it as fast as it came.

“I mean, it was nice, sure.”

“But was it perfect?”

Steve shrugs and it strikes Eddie that Steve might think he’s being made fun of, that Eddie is goading him somehow, and nothing could be further from the truth.

“You know how I usually spend Thanksgiving? Wayne usually works it, money’s too good to pass up, you know? So he works, and I get up early and then we have a couple of Turkey dinners and a couple of beers, and maybe pie if we could get one. And then we sit in front of the TV until Wayne falls asleep in his chair. And I cover the old man up in a blanket, and I leave him to sleep for the day. I go to my room and I listen to music and I read and then when it’s time to wake him up we have waffles and ice cream and maybe some more pie if we’re feeling extra decadent. Then he goes to work. 

“And I’m here by myself and yeah, it’s lonely, sometimes. But I have Wayne, and so I get a day to be thankful for that. It’s not perfect by most people’s standards, but it’s perfect for me.”

Steve looks at him, awed.

“Holy shit.”

It feels reverent, oddly, like Steve has seen this gentle part of him, like he’s unpicked locks for Steve, like he’s—

“You’re such a sap.”

Asshole!

“I am not!”

Steve leans back in the dining chair, wood creaking dangerously, grinning widely. 

“You are! You’re a fucking sap, Eddie Munson. How did anyone think you were cool enough to be a Satan worshipper?”

Eddie damn near splutters at it. “Oh fuck you Harrington! Look at me, I’m practically the Prince of Darkness.”

“Okay, so that’s Ozzy—.”

“You remember—“

“—and also you’re a fucking pussycat.”

He has to bite his tongue, can’t say anything else or it might be something he can’t take back. And he doesn’t want to lose this. He’s never been short of friends, he has the band, and okay, they’re like eleven years old or something, but Dustin and the dweeb crew are friends now, too. There’s Robin, and Nancy - Nancy fucking Wheeler for Christ’s sake - and then there’s Steve.

There’s something to be said for people seeing you at your worst and sticking with you regardless. All of those people - okay, not the band - have seen him at his worst. Dead is probably him at his worst. Bloodied and torn open is not a good look for anyone. He feels sick thinking about it. But they saw it. 

Steve saw it, then he tried to fix it.

Or well, Steve gave him CPR; no one wants to know they’ve had CPR performed on them, it’s a window into an event that he really doesn’t want to think about. But it was Steve, and somehow that feels big in a way he can’t put his finger on.

And then Steve got him out, and Steve kept him alive in the car all the way to the hospital, and Steve screamed at a nurse until they brought a gurney, and Steve, Steve, Steve. It always comes back to Steve.

Crushes are childish things, things for hair twirling girls and handsome boys, and Eddie has never had crushes. He watches someone from afar and then stuffs it away, squashes it before it gets that far. He watched Steve, once, before folding that feeling neatly and stuffing it in a box marked ‘I Can’t Have It.’ 

But there’s something to be said for a man saving your life, for risking his own to save yours, and then for sticking with you for months after. For not just being there physically, but mentally, emotionally. There’s a bond that has been growing, a root deep within Eddie, a seed that’s been there for years but has finally been watered, has had the sun of a long hot summer to grow it; Steve is his best friend. But the flutter of more, of want, sings within him.

Sitting here with him, hands almost touching over the worn top of the kitchen table, burnt turkey in the sink, over cooked potatoes and solid gravy on the counter, it’s as close to looking at that neatly folded thing as he dares, and this time when he stuffs it back inside it hurts.

“So,” Steve says, with a soft knock-knock on the table. “Have you got plans for tomorrow? Hitting up the stores?”

Eddie can’t help the snort of laughter. “Uh, no. Just chilling here, I think. The guys asked me to go with them to Indie, but… not really in the mood for walking around the mall all day, you know?”

Steve flashes a look, like concern maybe? 

“Oh. Everything okay?”

“No, yeah, everything’s fine. Just tired is all. And you know,” he taps his leg, the only shorthand he needs for the shit show that has become his body. He smiles, big and as genuine as he can make it and it does the trick as Steve’s shoulders relax.

“What about you? Big plans?” Eddie crosses his arms and leans across the table with a wide grin on his face. “A date, maybe?” It stings his lips to say it.

“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffs. “Robin wants to get away from her family for the day, I think she has about a hundred Buckley’s camped out in her place. You’re welcome to join us?”

That flutter again. He’s so close to saying yes before he reins it in.

“Nah, I think I’m just going to laze around in my pyjamas for the day. But thanks for the offer.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind…”

They spend the rest of the evening throwing out what’s left of Mrs Harrington’s prize, and very, very black, turkey, and ordering a pizza. And Eddie doesn’t think anymore about that thing folded up inside of him.

[st-el-la-luna]

Syrupy Sweet: Nasty Baker! Soap x Reader

tumblr deleted the orgininal for whatever reason. Luckily I tracked down a reblog. Edited and added some new stuff (love tumblr for deleting my most popular post, rip my 600+ notes 😔)

NSFW 18+

Soap is forced into an early retirement. He gets a job at a small bakery. And that's where he meets you

➔ gn!afab!reader (described as having boobs & wearing a bra), creepy soap, pervy soap, obsessive soap, lust at first sight, non/dub-con cum eating, dirty thoughts, fantasizing, humping inanimate objects, coming in panta

After so many years working in the military, serving his country. Protecting the people of the world from danger. The last thing Soap expected waas tyo be discharged so suddenly and with so little warning.

Too much time working with explosives has affected his hearing. A bad knife wound, or a torn Achilles tendon. A bad break that never healed right. A couple of head injuries too many. 

"An early retirement," they'd called it. Forced retirement more like it. They won't even tell him why, just that he's, "no longer fit for active duty," and that he should be grateful that they, "got him such a nice deal. That he gets to keep his pension."

He’s bitter about it, understandably, He likes his job. He’s good at it. They can’t be serious about this! His performance hasn’t been hindered. 

Regardless of the reason, in spite of his arguments, Soap is benched, permanently. Price is apologetic, Ghost is... Distant, though that's to be expected. Gaz promises to keep in touch. And he does keep in touch, they all do. 

But it’s ot the same. Soap still feels lonely. Bored. He doesn’t know what to do with himself or all the time he suddenly has on his hands. Doesn’t know how to operate without the adrenaline rush, without something to occupy his hands and minds. He figures that, maybe, he should get a job. A civilian job. Not one of those cushy desk jocky jobs Price had offered him out of pity, Soap wants a job far removed from the military. Really reintegrate himself into normal, civvie life. 

After a bit of searching along the drizzly cobbled Glasgowian streets, Soap finds a little coffee shop and bakery nearby. A tiny, quaint little thing, run by a sweet old woman who just doesn't have the energy to keep the doors open on her own. 

The place is situated on a street corner, tucked away from the busy traffic-filled streets. A soft bell jingles when the door opens. The sign is hsand painted. The place, though clearly aged, is well looked after, loved. The wood floors and counters shine; the tables and chairs, though antique, are comfortable, well made; plants hang from the ceiling; and a couple bookshelves line a wall, a leave a book take a book community library. 

Soap applies for the position and despite his lack of experience, he gets the job. Something about him reminding the old woman of her own son. 

At first, Soap worked there with her. Learning the ins and outs of the trade. How to make meringue and bread and macrons and creme brûlé. It's not easy, not at first, but with practice and time, he gets the hang of it. 

He figures it's because of his experience with explosives and chemistry. Baking is... Kind of the same thing. 

Eventually, he's left to tend to the day-to-day affairs of the bakery. The woman still writes all the recipes and makes some of the breads. But he's the one managing the front of the house. 

It's where he meets you. 

Sweet. Kind. Polite. Breathtaking. Irresistible. Sexy. You. 

You come tumbling into the warm bakery on a day when the weather is particularly bad, even for Scotland. Strong winds, cold rains threatening to turn to hail, thunder rumbling in the distance. 

You're soaked to the bone. Hair dripping. Shoes leaving puddles in your wake as each of your steps is announced by a wet squish. Your full cheeks bitten by the cold, fingertips numb, you offer him a blinding smile. 

He's more focused on your tits though. And your bra. Visible through your thin, now see-through, shirt. Black lace. He can see how your chest rises and falls with each breath you take. He can even see a small mole, or maybe a birthmark, on the swell just above the cup of your bra. He wants to sink his teeth into you. Wants to suck that mark into his mouth, chew and lick at it, make it bigger. Make it his. Make you his.  

He's drooling a little, he realizes absently. 

"Hey," you say softly, wiping at your nose with your sleeve. Hands curled into adorable little sweater paws as you try to wipe your wet hands off on your equally wet pants. 

Soap just stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Shell shocked. He... He’s never... You’re so... He... Holy fuck. 

Eventually, he clears his throat and manages a smile, stepping a bit closer to the counter so he can hide the growing tent in his pants. He forces himself to meet your eyes, rather than stare at your chest. 

But they’re staring at me, his innermost thoughts whine, wanton and airy in his mind. So desperate for attention... for love... ready to be suckled and bit and groped and pinched... 

Johnny leans forward, elbows resting on the counter and chuckles, flashing you an easy, charming smile. "Hey... Looking for something to warm you up?" 

Please say you've already found what you're looking for. Please say you want him to warm you up. With his hands. His mouth. His cock. Please say– 

"Yeah... Do you guys do hot chocolates?" 

"It's not on the menu, but I've got my own stash in the back," he says as he looks you up and down. But how could you blame him? What with your... everything! This is your fault, honestly. Dirty, dirty, little thing, wearing a white shirt in the rain. You know what you’re doing. Something sinister and heated bubbles in his gut. A thick, molten, syrupy desire, a primal need. A sort of instinctive pull, a fish lured in by the soft glow of an angler fish. A moth to a flame. Helpless but to stare, slack jawed, and fighting back drool, as you stare up at him expectantly, He smiles, his lips spreading further as he notices your flustered state, how you shift under his stare, biting your lip as he looks you up and down. Logically, it’s a nervous reaction. But, in Soap’s quickly spiraling mind, it’s a clean indicator that you want him too. "I'll make one, special for you, darling." 

Your eyes sparkle, your smile tears the breath from his lungs. "Really? Oh my god, thank you." 

Soap grabs a mug from the shelf and twirls it around his finger. He pulls up his sleeves, bunching them around his mid biceps. He flexes, purposefully, showing off the hard-earned muscles in his arms, the scars, the prominent veins, his big, strong hands. Hands that would look so perfect around your neck. Or holding your wrists. Or deep between your shaking legs reaching deep and good, far past anything you could reach on his own. He wonders if you’re a crier. He hopes that you are. 

Soap notices the way your eyes fall to the newly exposed skin. The way your jaw drops a little. The way you close your mouth. The way you glance away before quickly looking back. The way your throat bobs when you swallow... 

Holy shit. 

He can give you something else to swallow if you'll let him. Please let him. 

He rolls his hips against the counter and lets out a stuttering breath through his nose. His lips part. His tongue feels thick and leaden in his mouth. 

A moan bubbles in his throat, he disguises it as a cough. "Can..." He swallows another noise as he shifts his stance, achingly cock pressed against the teeth of his zipper. He makes a show of dusting the counter off, acting like he's tossed something into the bin so he can adjust his pants. "Can I get you anything else?" 

Your eyes, gorgeous eyes, scan the menu and the display. "A cinnamon bun?" You ask, pointing to the delicacy through the glass case. "Please and thank you." 

"You're in luck," he says, rutting against the counter again, as quick and harsh as he can without drawing attention. A part of him thoough, a sick, twisted, part of him that quickly spreads his mind like a weed, corrupting and poisoning, wants you to notice. Wants you to catch him. To punish him. "Just made a fresh batch... I've just got to head back and ice them." 

"Oh, I'm fine with one of them from the display, you don't need to trouble yourself." 

Oh, and how sweet you are... 

You keep chewing on your bottom lip. Part of him wants to stop you, tell you that that’s his job. Wants to bite your lips until they’re raw and swollen. 

He's fucked. Well and truly fucked. 

He smiles. You’re blissfully ignorant of the darkness lurking in his eyes. "No trouble at all... It's my pleasure." 

And it is his pleasure. Very much so. 

He comes out a bit later, a little out of breath. A little red in the face. A couple buttons undone on his shirt. 

"Hot in there," he says with a smile, setting the mug and a cinnamon bun on the counter in front of you. He sets another little plate down, a doughnut. Chocolate frosting with a cream filling, the sticky white substance still pouring from the hole. 

"I uh, I didn't order that," you say with a little, awkward laugh. "The doughnut." 

"I know you didn't, sweet thing... It's a new recipe I've been trying out. Trying to get right... Mind telling me what you think? It's free of charge, promise." 

"Oh," you blink, staring up at him with those wide eyes. God, how he wants to see those eyes watering. How he wants to see those eyes tearing up as you choke on his cock. How he wants to see you cry as he fucks you. You smile. "Thank you!" 

You pay for your drink and dessert and blink up at him from under your lashes. Your smile turns shy as you chew your lip. Stop it. Stop it. You’re going to make him lose his mind. You have to know what you’re doing to him. You have to. "Keep the change." 

He smiles. "Thanks." 

You find a seat in the corner and settle in the corner with a book. Soap keeps an eye on you the whole time. Watches you as much as he can without attracting unwanted attention. 

His cock throbs in his pants when he sees you take your first bite of the cinnamon roll. When you wipe at the icing with your thumb and lick it clean. He watches with delight as you eat and drink, rolling his hips against the counter in time with the bobbing of your throat as you swallow. 

Soap watches you with rapt attention as you enjoy the desserts. His lips parted, jaw slack, drooling. He wonders if he could convince you to lick it away. He is so glad that he stopped by the office to record the security footage. He’s going to be watching this over and over and... Fuck! 

With a final grind of his aching cock against the counter, his boxers are flooded with a wet, sticky warmth. He mourns it going to waste like that. His cum belongs in you. Your tight pussy, round ass, past your full lips. 

"How was it?" He asks, breathless, when you return your dishes to the counter. He shifts his stance, hiding the wet spot in his pants. He's not embarrassed that he came in his pants just from watching how your throat moves as you swallow. At watching the way that you lave your tongue over your fingers, licking the thick glaze away with a spit-slicked tongue. 

He just doesn't want to weird you out. 

"It was amazing," you say. "I really liked the balance of the sweet with the salty... Sometimes the sugar is just... Too much." 

"I agree," Soap says, breathless. He swallows a lump in his throat. "I agree." 

You become a regular from then on. He always gets you freshly baked items, from the back. No matter how busy. 

He's not supposed to alter the recipes. But he doubts the lady will mind that he made a change. All he did was put a little love into the recipes. A little bit of himself in the sour cream glaze. 

Keep your eyes peeled for a part 1.5 involving what soap did in the back room!

Comments and reblogs help motivate!

Masterlist!

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 16 - Swamp, “No, I can’t feel anything.”

It’s another Hyrule-focused fic! Because despite my planning there ended up being a lot of him in a row (or at least close together). oopsie. Hopefully you all don't mind lol.

Warnings: blood, injury, loss of a limb, slightly graphic description of fixing an injury

Ao3 link

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Hyrule didn’t like swamps too much. Messy, boggy, damp and hard to traverse, he didn’t mind going through them on occasion, but they were hard to deal with. Especially if you were fighting a swarm of infected monsters in one.

Which they were, currently.

The ground was soupy and wet under Hyrule’s feet, his boots making disgusting noises as he dodged and fought the beasts. Time and Twilight were somewhere near him, and they all struggled through the slop, twisting away from blows and slicing at beasts.

The swamp wasn’t on their side though, and Hyrule suddenly heard a large squelch. He turned to see Time’s foot sinking into a pit of mud down to his knee and throwing him wildly off-balance. The strange doglike knight he was fighting bared its teeth, and lunged forward, sword held high.

And Hyrule watched as if in slow-motion as the blade went clean through Time’s wrist.

Time’s scream rang out across the swamp, muffled only slightly by the moss, and Hyrule bolted, Twilight in his peripheral running even faster. Miraculously neither of them tripped, and as Twilight threw himself at the monster, Hyrule slid to the ground next to where Time had gotten free of the mud and dropped to his knees, face white as he clutched at the bloody stump at his wrist.

“I can fix this,” Hyrule quickly reassured, snatching Time’s currently-remaining hand in his. “It’s okay, I can fix it. Hold on.”

Oh goddesses I hope I can fix it.

Time took him literally, squeezing Hyrule’s hand in a death-grip, and Hyrule quickly squeezed back.

“Hold him,” Hyrule directed at Twilight, who had already killed the monster and was now fluttering his hands over Time, his eyes wide and terrified. “I can fix it but he needs to hold still.”

“I won’t...” Time gasped, tears of pain slipping down his cheek, “I’ll do my best... w-won’t move, do... do what you need.”

“This will hurt,” Hyrule warned, and Time choked out a laugh.

“It can’t be... be worse than this.”

Hyrule nodded, and before he could think about it too hard, quickly plucked Time’s severed, muddy hand off of the ground. Warriors was at his side in an instant, and snatched some alcohol out of his bag, pouring it on the end of the hand before grabbing Time’s arm and doing the same to it.

Time couldn’t bite back his scream, and Twilight held tightly to his arms, his face white.

“What do you need from me?” Warriors asked, and Hyrule swallowed.

“Help me hold things still. His hand, his wrist, anything. It’ll take me a minute to connect everything and I won’t be able to focus on that and keeping him still.”

“Got it. Ready?” Warriors asked him shortly, and Hyrule nodded, giving Time’s good hand one last squeeze before releasing it and lighting up his hands.

“Ready.”

He held the severed hand, and while Twilight and Warriors held Time still, Hyrule lined up and pushed the two pieces together.

He began pouring magic into the wound, and Time cried out, jerking in Twilight’s hold.

“Hold him,” Hyrule said through gritted teeth, and Twilight and Warriors tightened their grips, Time’s head tossing with wild-eyed pain.

Hyrule focused on the wrist, connecting tendons that had been torn, healing muscle and the pathways of blood, slowly, agonizingly connecting every complicated piece. Time shook and thrashed through all of it, lost in his pain, and Hyrule just kept pushing magic in, healing every line and vessel and torn part he could find.

It was times like these he wished he had a picture of what he was looking at, a diagram of what he was trying to fix. He knew well enough what a wrist looked like, but on the inside? Connecting one to an arm? Not easy.

Especially since he’d never done this before.

Time cried out again as Hyrule set in on the bone, Hyrule briefly thankful that the cut had been so clean. It would make his job even harder if the lines had been at all jagged. Time thrashed even more wildly against the searing pain, and soon enough Sky and Wind both came over to help hold him down as well.

Hyrule distantly noticed Time’s elbow go out and nearly hit Sky in the nose, and the heroes all held him even tighter, faces pale and worried.

“Are you almost done?” Warriors asked, voice strained from keeping Time’s arm straight.

“I think,” Hyrule bit out, too focused to elaborate.

He was starting to feel dizzy, adrenaline and magic drain all sucking him dry, but he couldn’t stop now. He still had a few layers of skin to connect, still had a vein to properly heal, had to make sure the blood was flowing and the muscle—

Time’s leg caught him in the ribs, and Hyrule went flying backwards into the mud, cries of alarm ringing out. Hyrule reeled from the crack of pain in his side and the snap of his spell being interrupted, and someone grabbed his arm, stopping him from landing in the mud.

“Hyrule are you okay?!”

Hyrule shoved past whoever it was and lunged for Time’s bloody wrist, snatching it back as he lit his hands up again. He plunged back in with his magic, ignoring the sear of pain in his ribs and the scream from Time, and shoved in all the magic he had left.

Blue light flashed through the clearing, and Time’s thrashing finally stilled.

Hyrule leaned back, gulping in air as he released Time’s wrist, hands coated in blood. Someone caught his shoulder when he abruptly listed to the side, and he blinked rapidly as his vision swum, looking up at Sky. The older hero gave him a worried look.

“Did... his wrist...” Hyrule slurred, and Sky looked back at where Time lay.

“It’s attached,” he reported, a little nauseous-sounding. “There’s a lot of blood... I can’t see it very well but I think you fixed it, Rulie.”

Hyrule relaxed backwards, relief sweeping over him. He did it.

Sky eased him down, and he winced, ribs aching harshly. It felt like Time’s kick might have cracked a rib. Legend came over with two potions in hand, green and red, and Hyrule took the green one first, relieved at the way the pounding in his head eased and the fuzzy exhaustion in his limbs ebbed a bit as he drank.

He sat up as he finished the green, and chugged half the red all in one go as he stood up, only stumbling a little on the muddy ground. Legend started to say something about resting, but Hyrule ignored it, pressing the bottles into his hands and hurrying back over to where Twilight and Warriors were helping Time sit up.

Time’s face was pale as a ghost, his markings stark against his skin. Blood soaked most of his arm, bits of it splashed on his armor and tunic, and Warriors was wiping the blood away from his wrist as Hyrule approached. Time’s eye shot to Hyrule’s face, his expression guilty.

“Traveler I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Hyrule cut him off, tapping his chest where he’d been kicked. “No harm done. I should’ve expected you’d fight it more. How’s your hand?”

“I was about to ask the same. Let’s see you move it,” Warriors said, done with cleaning. Hyrule could see a pale line across Time’s wrist, barely noticeable, but there anyways. His hand hung limp, but Hyrule wouldn’t expect it to be perfect immediately.

Time closed his eye with a nod, and Hyrule watched his hand intently, waiting for any movement. A few long seconds went by without so much as a twitch, and Time reopened his good eye, looking pained.

“I can’t feel it,” Time said quietly, and Hyrule’s heart sank.

“You’re sure?” Twilight asked nearby, and Time nodded, his face creasing with effort.

His hand didn’t move.

Failure hit Hyrule like a solid weight, his eyes fixed sharply on Time’s limp hand. He couldn’t move it. Hyrule hadn’t been able to fix it. He’d promised he would, it was Time’s sword hand, he wouldn’t be able to fight, do anything two handed, combat would be impossible not to mention any number of other things—

“Traveler, stop,” Time said quietly, exhausted eyes meeting his. “You did all that you could, and I’m grateful for that.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Hyrule whispered, still staring. “I couldn’t—”

“I’m the one who interrupted your spell,” Time said, resting his good hand over Hyrule’s. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“I said I could fix it,” Hyrule choked out, and Time gave him a gentle look.

“Link, you did all you could. It may just take some time for everything to settle. I’m willing to wait,” he said gently, and Hyrule took his bad hand in his, calling up his magic again. “Hyrule...”

“Just let me try,” Hyrule begged, but Time shook his head.

“You’ve already exhausted yourself today, don’t keep pushing just for me,” he said firmly.

“We can give him a potion, or try for a fairy, see if that does it,” Twilight added, and Hyrule grit his teeth.

“I need to check and make sure I did everything properly and see if I can fix it if there’s a problem, it’ll only take a minute,” he snapped. Warriors and Twilight exchanged looks, pulling back a little at Hyrule’s sharp words, and Time looked at his hand, still reddish and muddy in places.

He sighed.

“Okay. But don’t push yourself,” he said, face still pale, and Hyrule nodded.

He was hiding it well, but Time looked scared, for what might happen if Hyrule couldn’t fix it, if he couldn’t ever properly move his hand again. Hyrule was determined to banish that fear, get rid of the defeated look on Warriors’ face, the tense one on Twilight’s.

He wasn’t giving up. He wouldn’t give up. No matter what.

Time was going to be able to use his hand again.

Hyrule breathed in, stirring his magic up again. Calling on his life spell again after using it so intensely only a few minutes ago made him feel weary all over again, but Hyrule drew it up anyway, making his hands light up as he held Time’s wrist.

He exhaled as he let it sink in, and focused on all of the intricate pieces inside, making sure the bone was healed, the tendons, flesh...

Something struck him as being wrong, and Hyrule frowned, pushing deeper. He didn’t know what it was, but something was off, he could feel it, something that didn’t get connected right, that got snapped when he was kicked away...

Hyrule gently pushed out with his magic, pulling at the disconnected pieces, and guided them together, distantly feeling his hands shake. He was pushing too hard, but he was so close now, he could feel it—

His vision narrowed and he abruptly tilted forward, but several hands grabbed him, yelling words that rattled wildly around in his head. Hyrule dizzily shook his head as his spell faded away, and his vision focused in on Warriors standing in front of him, his mouth moving as he doubtlessly lectured him.

But Hyrule was only focused on one thing.

He twisted around, and saw Time looking down at him, a smile that was a mix of relieved and exasperated on his face.

Hyrule gave him a hopeful look, and Time raised his bad hand, then slowly, stiffly, curled his fingers in.

Hyrule gave him an exhausted grin, and Time gave his shoulder a squeeze with his good hand. He didn’t say anything, but the look on Time’s face was better than any reassurance he could have given.

Hyrule smiled at him one last time, then let himself fall back into his exhaustion, to the sound of several of the others’ exasperated yelling.

[hp-hcs]

mattheo with sick! reader? idk something fluffy about mattheo taking care reader or angsty about reader trying to hide some sorta sickness or maybe mattheo's the sick one you ask for mattheo I shall deliver - yxdls

‼️WARNING: hella gross‼️ like, it goes into genuinely nauseating detail! i’m in a weird mood right now! i don’t know!

fine (chapter one of phoenix tears) — ex-death eater! injured! mattheo riddle x gn! reader

GRAPHIC GORE WARNING

seriously, don’t read if you’re easily grossed out. or eating. actually, just don’t read this at all. it’s pretty poorly written. i’m so sorry yxdls, for whatever this is 😭

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“…and for which scenario would each of the following listed Charms work bes-”

Mattheo was cut off by another of his loud coughing bouts, hacking into his elbow.

Your brow furrowed. “Baby, that’s like, the seventh time you’ve coughed in the last five minutes. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He waved a hand in your direction. “I’m fine. Just a little cough.”

You set down your flashcards, leaning across your bed to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up, baby.”

“So you think I’m hot?” He asks with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and lightly smack his arm with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Yes, you idiot. But you also have a helluva fever.”

He grimaced. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

~~~

It was, in fact, Not Fine™. It looked horrible. The skin was sunken in, to a worryingly deep degree, and the edges were blistered and raw, slowly leaking pus and refusing to scab over. Mattheo grimaced as he peeled off the old bandages, biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming when the gauze got caught on part of the torn edge. He was forced to look away as he hastily rewrapped his forearm, trying desperately not to vomit.

The minute he had deserted his father, his Dark Mark had begun to burn, to brand itself into his flesh. The tattoo sank deep into his skin, into his muscles, and into his tendons; Mattheo was convinced that at this point, it was entirely carved into the bone.

It would never go away.

The skin over the tattoo had first erupted with bright red blisters and a sickening rash, which sent Mattheo into a feverish daze for two days. Despite his friends’ protests, he refused to go to the hospital wing.

Nobody could see the Mark. They’d know. They’d know he had been a coward and a fool.

But then, his skin had begun to rot. It was unsettling. Not to mention that the Mark wriggled still, now more furiously than it ever had when he’d been a follower of his father. Combined with the state of his arm, the odd frantic movements of the tattoo felt like phantom maggots, crawling all over him, crawling under his skin, into his eyes, his mouth, Merlin-

~~~

“Riddle, man, you good?” Theodore nudged him and spoke quietly.

Mattheo startled, his eyes flying open from where he had begun to drift off standing up.

Sleep had become impossible. His arm was now constantly afflicted with burning, never-ending pain. Occasionally, random bursts of an even sharper agony would grate up his bones and make his teeth rattle. It felt like being Crucioed, but with no forewarning, no nothing.

“Mattheo!”

He startled again, not even aware that he’d started falling asleep again.

Theo put his hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, even just that small touch sending stomach-churning zaps of fresh pain down his arm. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so.

Theo glanced around the room, waiting for the Herbology professor to turn her back before talking to Mattheo again.

“Dude, you seriously look like you’re about to keel over any second. You should go to the infirmary.”

“‘m fine,” Mattheo rubbed his eyes, his words slurred with feverish delirium. “Don’ need’a go anywhere.”

“Matty, dude, you look like a dead man walking.”

He opened his mouth to protest, when the worst pain he’d ever felt in his entire life struck him out of nowhere. It felt like what Mattheo imagined being beat with a baseball bat, run over by a semi-truck, and being Crucioed at the same time would feel like.

He dropped like a rock, the unrelenting pain forcing the edges of his vision to darken and then fully go black.

~~~ Mattheo woke up to quiet.

His eyes slowly creaked open, and he was greeted with unfamiliar white walls. He blinked quickly to rid the sleep from his eyes, before surveying the room.

It didn’t look like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, but it was definitely a place of medicine, if the bleach-heavy air was anything to go by. Maybe St. Mungo’s?

The overhead lights were off, thank Merlin, leaving the room lit only by the overcast afternoon sky peeking through the window.

But he started to panic when he saw that his arm lay across his chest, freshly wrapped and sore as all hell.

Someone saw.

Somebody saw the Mark of his cowardice.

Of his yearning for his father’s approval.

Fat tears started to roll down Mattheo’s cheeks. His sobs became louder when he saw that you were there.

You probably knew. You probably saw.

Merlin damn it. Why wasn’t there a magical version of HIPAA?

You’d pulled up the visiting chair all the way to the side of Mattheo’s hospital bed, your crossed arms lying on top of the mattress, and your head resting on your arms as a sort of makeshift pillow.

At least you were asleep. Mattheo couldn’t even fathom what he’d have done if you’d been awake.

You surely must hate him now.

How couldn’t you?

He started to raise his right arm, his only currently working one, to wipe away his tears, but the movement was held back.

He had the fleeting but terrifying thought of those cliché leather restraints on hospital beds in horror movies. Honestly, it wasn’t even that far-fetched. He was a criminal. A traitor. A psycho.

Mattheo looked down, expecting the worst.

Instead, he saw your fingers interlaced with his, your thumb slowly skating over his knuckles in a soothing back and forth pattern.

You were holding his hand. Asleep still, yes, but you were actively holding his hand. You were choosing to be near him.

Mattheo burst into tears again, but this time in relief.

If you were still by his side, despite everything, then maybe things really were fine.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

chapter two

[blixabargelds]

for the prompt game “zipping or buttoning their jacket for them” for clegan!! if you want to! 🫶 love your stuff on ao3 and am pressing my face intensely against the glass of all the superstar stuff you post

@roycest too thank youuuu sm guys <33

i borrowed @swifty-fox’s little beasts boys for this one hehe thank u for letting me play with them :3 cw gore mention ~~

- zipping or buttoning their jacket for them

John holds the cigarette up to Gale’s mouth. He knew that he’d quit long before they met. John had offered one without mentioning that; Gale had taken it without a word. His fingertips brush Gale’s lips as he raises the smoke for him again, the usually plush skin turned chapped with anxiety, and sterile air.

He can’t hold the thing himself, because he’s got twin tears through his hands. On each hand: two fractured metacarpals, four torn tendons- palm, and back- one rough, bleeding hole. Disinfected, bandadged, and splinted still now. He’s slated for surgery on both of them in the next couple of days. John’s fingers shake as he helps Gale take another drag.

“Gale-”

“Don’t, John.”

John rubs at his eyes. They sting from being open so long, but each time he shuts them he can only picture Gale, face twisted in agony and two seven-inch iron nails through his palms. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Gale says again. He fixes John with a look. His eyes are red-rimmed, vaguely glassy from the shock, and the pain, and the good stuff they’ve given him, but it’s an effective look nonetheless. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

John laughs. A teasing, phantom itch passes through the crook of his elbow. “I’m the one who-”

“John, stop it, please.”

It’s only the fraying of Gale’s voice that shuts John up. He wants to touch him so bad but he can’t. Everyone knows him, everyone is doing double takes at the young priest, smoking Reds held up to his face by someone else, and sporting gauze-wrapped stigmata at 2am outside the ER.

John wonders if that’s the only reason they picked him. Like John’s got a pronounced connection to the church in some way less complex than the truth of that relationship. Maybe he’s just been going around wearing his twelve steps on his sleeve, giving off some vibe of reformed dedication to his higher power. He doubts that, though. Very fucking much.

The other explanation is that these people- these guys John owed money to, as they told him- knew about him and Gale. That they talk. John’s got no idea how they would. He’s got no idea who they were, because he can’t remember so many of his fuckups; so many people he’s pissed off or fucked over. Got your priest, said the anonymous text on the screen of his shattered phone. Yours. John wonders if they could tell, if they didn’t know already, that his connection to Gale went beyond Sunday Service in the way that he’d reacted; like a rabid dog as they twisted the nails in deeper. They’d thought it was hilarious. Live crucifixion, real original idea, grinding in the rusty iron fixing Gale to the tree behind until said priest had finally cried. John would’ve given over every cent if he hadn’t been scared for a second that they’d just kill Gale.

He’s not sure where his strength came from, in the end. He hadn’t even thought of his parole.

He wants to hold Gale’s fucking hand. But that’s not something they do anyways, and Gale doesn’t need him to. Couldn’t if he did.

John throws caution to the wind, hopes whoever walks past next might see nothing more than the expected level of comfort to be seen outside an emergency room. He wraps an arm around Gale’s shoulders and pulls him tight to his body. John can feel the way he’s shaking. Adrenaline and morphine slowly seeping out of him, and Gale gives in, too, pressing his face into John’s collar. His breaths come fast and uneven against his skin.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” John says.

He dips his face lower, shielded from view by the side of Gale’s head, and ghosts a kiss above his ear. It’s too tender for whatever they are. Which is currently undefined, a burning mess and hidden clashes of tongues, but John’s too tired to care. He can’t stop hearing the scream Gale clenched behind his teeth.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gale says. John can’t stop hearing Gale’s quiet, fervent praying. He’d been kind of unconvinced by his devotion before. Still is, mostly- John’s pretty sure he was counting his own Hail Marys, too. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet. It’s freaking me out.”

John laughs. It sounds embarrassingly wet. He peels himself back from Gale, dragging out another smoke. He passes this one back and forth between them; watches Gale wince as his fingers automatically flex, as if John’s gonna let him take it himself. He hasn’t really got anything to say, except that he’s sorry.

“You’ll look hardcore.”

Gale blinks. Then laughs, a shaking and breathless thing, kind of heavenly to John; after the night from hell. “Right.”

“You’ll be the most Godly priest around. The gay rumours have got to stop now.”

“John,” Gale hisses.

John holds his hands up in surrender. “I said rumours. Unfounded, I’ve heard. No fucking idea where anyone would get that from, truly, sick thing to make up about a priest.”

“Fuck, John, what if my fingers don’t work anymore.”

John stops talking again at that. He looks down at Gale’s bandaged hands. There hadn’t been as much blood as John expected, the two long nails plugging the wounds where they speared him back to front. It was only when Gale had ripped one out in the car that it really started to bleed. John told him not to. Gale knew not to, only John guesses he hated the look of the things in his palms, because he’d just tugged one straight out in a daze, and sent blood spurting all over the dashboard, pooling down in his lap. John has seen a lot of shit, but he’s never seen right through someone’s body before. Right through his hands. Gale won’t even be able to turn the pages of his precious Bible alone for weeks, at least. John gets a horrible image of Gale’s loose fist working his cock, the slide of it visible through a gory opening in his tender flesh.

These guys in their masks had asked where Gale’s God was now. He looks like he’s still trying to figure it out.

John could kill someone for a drink. A joint, maybe. A line, or worse. He shakes a little with it.

Gale is still shaking, too. Gentle tremors running up and down his lithe body, useless hands coming around to hug himself. It’s cold, and late, but they’ve been surrounded by doctors and nurses and cops, disinfectant and bleating machines for hours. Gale, who doesn’t smoke anymore, had asked for a cigarette, and John wasn’t going to say no. He shrugs off his old Patriots hoodie and helps Gale’s hands through the sleeves.

“’S’alright,” he’s saying, even as he’s blinking slowly, grimacing with the brush of fabric on his fingers.

“Don’t be a martyr,” John says. “For once.”

John zips the sweater up for him. He pulls the hood up over his ears for good measure, and leans back to admire his work. It would be funny if it weren’t so pitiful; Gale dwarfed somewhat by the thing, mussed hair sticking out from under the hood, and that vaguely smug, pious air gone completely from his tired face. John wonders if his voice will tremble at the altar. If he’ll even get back up there for a while. John doesn’t think it’ll take long. Gale is infuriatingly stubborn.

“John, I can’t feel my fingers,” he says, exhaustion pulling down that defensive veil and making his voice thin. John realises he never answered his question

“Hey, it’s the painkillers. The doctor said you’ll get movement back, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t say how much,” Gale croaks.

“Well,” John grits his teeth. Swallows, then says, “Jesus’s hands worked fine.”

It’s meant to be light, but it comes off sort of desperate.

Gale shuts his eyes. “Ain’t Jesus, John. I’m just a fuckin’- some idiot.”

“Cut it out, Gale,” John says. It’s sharp enough that Gale opens his eyes and looks at him, owlish and shocked. John tugs at his curls and sighs. “Fuck, sorry. Just, bad shit happens when there’s scum involved. Trust me. Y’not actually a saint, some guys fucked you up. It should’ve been- it shouldn’t have been you. Alright? This sort of shit shouldn’t happen to you.”

Gale stares at him. John’s arms still itch uncomfortably, a familiar pull in his stomach making him feel off kilter. He thinks of his one year chip. Thinks of swallowing it whole, seeing if it does any damage to his insides.

“Want to listen to some records later?” he says instead.

“I’m gonna be here overnight, John.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Me too.”

Gale blinks. He looks fucking dreadful; tired and hurt, lost in John’s clothes and all messed up where he’s usually so put together. Sheet white and in pain. John wants to kiss him so bad his veins ache with it. It’s sort of funny, how John thinks he’s friends with a priest now.

“Sure,” Gale says after a while. “I’ll listen to some records with you.”

[reulaux]

Xuan Su!Yue Qingyuan AU

Xiao Jiu, staggering out of the burnt manor, staring blankly, "Qi ge didn't come back to save me... Qi ge must be dead..."

Shen Qingqiu, scrutinising the blackened bloodstain in the Lingxi Cave, asking Yue Qingyuan behind him, "Then…does that mean someone died here?"

Shen Qingqiu, throwing the tea set at the person who gifted it to him, fed up with the apologies: "Don't you dare call me by that name! Qi ge is dead! You're not Qi ge! Real Qi ge would never abandon me. Get out! Get out!"

...

What if it's true?

What if the thing/person that walked out of the Lingxi Cave isn't Yue Qi, but Xuan Su possessing his body?

===

In response to the comment, I'm imagining Xuan Su!Yue Qingyuan saying sorry to Shen Jiu because he 'killed' Shen Jiu's Qi ge but doesn't know how to explain so he fumbles around like real Yue Qingyuan does, which, I think, in this case, is harder to explain than in original Yue Qingyuan's case because neither Yue Qingyuan nor Xuan Su has an idea how it happened, and whether Shen Jiu is going to believe them if he just tells, because it's unprecedented and simply outlandish.

The previous generation Sect Leader and Peak Lords believe Yue Qingyuan fused his life force to the sword because they detect Yue Qingyuan's life force in the sword and Xuan Su's energy in Yue Qingyuan's body. Well, that's because Yue Qingyuan is in the sword and Xuan Su is in Yue Qingyuan's body.

Xuan Su learning to control limbs is seen as Yue Qingyuan recovering from the torn tendons and broken bones. Xuan Su not knowing how to exactly deal with humans as a human himself is seen as Yue Qingyuan being withdrawn and quiet from the traumatic ordeal. But it is all good to Yue Qingyuan's shizun who says, "Good, you've learnt your lesson. You aren't reckless anymore."

...

Maybe, at one point, Yue Qingyuan and Xuan Su realise drawing the sword for long enough time may solve their problem, but the Sect Leader and Peak Lords keep thwarting and preventing their 'suicidal' future sect leader for 'his own safety.' Maybe that's why Yue Qingyuan/Xuan Su pleads Yue Qingyuan's shizun to take him to fight Tianlang jun as an excuse to unsheathe the sword... Unfortunately that's still not enough. As we see in canon, Yue Qingyuan is still alive, not visibly aged or dying. To completely pull Yue Qingyuan back into his own body should mean drawing the sword long enough to make canon Yue Qingyuan dies.

Maybe after the previous generation ascended, Yue Qingyuan/Xuan Su tries at every chance to draw the sword to fight, but too bad, they grow too strong. Most of the time, just unsheathing for 1 inch and the enemies are already all dead...

Maybe they try having Xuan Su cultivates the Way of Unity of Man and Sword again so they swap back. To no avail, their places are even firmer. Maybe because Yue Qingyuan has already formed a core so their cultivation and places are stuck with this core...

Yue Qingyuan communicates with Xuan Su like other cultivators communicate with their own spiritual weapons. Only certain cultivators who are very in tune with spiritual weapons or spiritual energy can hear others' spiritual weapons speaking, and thus the real Yue Qingyuan's voice.

Actually Wei Qingwei's shizun should also hear Yue Qingyuan's thoughts aloud, but brushed it off as Yue Qingyuan's being fused with the sword anyway, and Xuan Su's being grumpy because it's locked in the Cave with its owner for a year and forbidden to be used thereafter, so it's quiet.

Wei Qingwei and Shen Qingqiu once they have high enough skills and cultivation occasionally hear Yue Qingyuan's thoughts when they are nearby. They would think they hallucinate, or that either they or the Sect Leader got cursed. Imagine in meetings, the 2nd and 3rd ranked Peak Lords hear Yue Qingyuan thinking out loud, talking to... His sword? Before really physically speaking... Weird, but okay...? So they visit Mu Qingfang seperately. And Mu Qingfang notices 2 Peak Lords having the same symptoms. He calls Yue Qingyuan to get examined too. And some Peak Lords rule out it's not actually a curse but... They still don't know what to call it. Maybe eventually they set up very strong, multi layered arrays to have their Sect Leader goes into 'seclusion' and unsheathes the sword inside, and take turn repairing the arrays from overpowered qi and sword eneygy, for a ridiculously long time...

---

Or maybe we go down the route where Xuan Su is an arrogant ancient sword so it doesn't bother going to rescue some slave, and additionally hates Shen Jiu for being the reason his wielder gets in this mishap, so the dynamic between Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu would be different from in canon. It would be the opposite of favouritism. Shen Qingqiu is going to be hated by not only the Peak Lords but also the Sect Leader. Would he still stay in Cang Qiong if no one treats him well? Maybe. Because this position gives him a place to stay, protection, and resources. Maybe because of his loyalty. Maybe because he still has some lingering affection for Qi ge and wishes one day the Qi ge who loved him would come back...

And Qi ge did come back.

Every time the Sect Leader draws his sword, he becomes kinder and kinder towards Shen Qingqiu, because Yue Qingyuan seeps through and gains more and more control. Shen Qingqiu notices but doesn't dare to raise his hope.

Then one day, Yue Qingyuan calls Shen Qingqiu "Xiao Jiu" and Shen Qingqiu is stunned. He has thought Yue Qingyuan had forgotten all about the little slave number nine and doesn't care about him anymore. Then Yue Qingyuan, now mostly Yue Qi, tells Shen Qingqiu what he has always wanted to all these past years, that he's first stuck in the cave, then in the sword, but he finally eventually comes back to Xiao Jiu now albeit very late.

--

Or in a darker AU, Xuan Su has always been a soul trapping sword.

It's not that Yue Qingyuan rushed and messed up connecting with his sword. It's that Xuan Su intentionally tricked and falsely guided Yue Qingyuan into putting his soul inside the sword. No matter if the user cultivates the Way of Unity of Man and Sword, is rushing, or does everything right, Xuan Su will always possess the user's body. And every time Xuan Su draws the sword, the sword is powered by the human soul he's trapped. That's why Xuan Su is a legendary sword, for its power, for only choosing the wielder with strong cultivation and talents, for the power of the sword emits isn't from its sword energy but the whole life force of the trapped soul. And if no one knows better and retrieves Yue Qingyuan's soul from the sword soon, Yue Qingyuan will forever perish, not even leaving soul to enter the reincarnation cycle. And when that life is gone, Xuan Su will just continue trapping another soul.

In case Xuan Su can trap many souls at the same time; those souls, maybe Shen Jiu, Shen Yuan, some OC!knowledgeable ancient sages, etc; might consult one another into tricking Xuan Su into releasing them.

[brbsoulnomming]

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies Part 14

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | AO3

-----

Everyone does end up having to go home. Except him, obviously, and Steve, whose house Eddie has learned he's apparently going to be squatting in until they can figure out a way to clear his name.

Is it squatting if he's invited? Eh, whatever.

Nancy and Robin swing by to drop off the prescriptions they'd picked up for Eddie. Both of them linger, long enough that Eddie thinks they might just stay - kind of wants them to stay, torn between wanting to be alone with Steve and not wanting to be alone with Steve.

Robin hugs Steve really tight, and he folds her up in his arms and holds her close, just staying like that for a long, long few minutes, talking so quietly they can't be heard. Nancy takes both their hands and squeezes when they're done, and surprises Eddie by giving his hand a squeeze as well. Robin looks like she kind of wants to launch herself at Eddie and hug him, too, but she settles for ruffling his hair, and then grimacing when her hand comes away grimy.

He laughs at her, and they promise to check in tonight, then they both leave.

Mrs. Sinclair comes to pick up Lucas and Erica and Max, and Eddie stays out of sight with his heart hammering in his throat, but they don't venture beyond the front hallway. Eddie can't quite make out what she says as she picks them up, but her tone is low and worried, and there's an underlying note of a familiarity, a gratitude, as she speaks briefly to Steve.

Eddie wonders, again, how long they've all been doing this. How many times their parents have worried about them, how many times Steve has apparently brought them home safely, looking beat to hell.

Mrs. Henderson is much louder when she comes to collect Dustin, though she doesn't go into the living room either. He can hear her fussing over the bandages around Steve's neck, asking how bad it is, sounding only mildly reassured when he tells her that it wasn't as bad as Starcourt. She asks him to come stay with her and Dustin, and Eddie thinks he can hear something like longing in Steve's voice when he declines, promising to come to dinner next week instead.

Then it's just him and Steve.

Steve collapses on the recliner, tipping his head back. Eddie's eyes are drawn to the long line of his throat, the stretch of tendons and muscle broken up by white gauze.

His mouth goes dry.

"I've got a guest room ready for you upstairs," Steve says.

His throat works as he speaks, and it takes Eddie a moment to process it.

"Fuck," Eddie mumbles. "Stairs, really?"

Steve laughs softly, tipping his head back up. "Yeah. It's got an ensuite and the bed's decent, we can set you up a lot better in there."

Eddie swallows. He wants to ask why Steve's doing this for him, but he's a little bit afraid of the answer, so he just makes an exaggerated whine of complaint.

It works to make Steve chuckle again, at least, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll be glad once you're in an actual bed. Look, I'll get you some food and your next dose of meds first, just hang tight for a bit."

Eddie grumbles unintelligibly, but honestly, Steve's probably right. He must doze off a little, because the next thing he knows, Steve is gently shaking him awake, helping him sit up, and giving him something.

"What's this?" he asks, blinking blearily down at the bowl Steve handed him. It kind of looks like chunky baby food, though it smells pretty good.

"Oh, uh, frozen shepherd's pie," Steve says. "Not a lot to work with right now, we'll have to see about a grocery run soon. But I figure it's probably at least better than snacks and hospital food."

Eddie shrugs. "Not exactly a picky eater over here," he says as he digs in.

It's warm, and tastes a hell of a lot better than it looks. Like meatloaf and mashed potatoes all mixed up together, all hearty and comforting.

"S'good," he mumbles around a full mouth, prompting Steve to make a face at him.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, gross," Steve bitches.

Eddie feels compelled to stick his tongue out at him, still with some mashed potato remnants stuck to it, and Steve rolls his eyes.

"You make this?" Eddie asks, once he's swallowed the rest of the potato.

"Yeah." Steve scratches the back of his neck, just above the bandage. "Sometimes I'll freeze up smaller portions if I make something big, so I have stuff to grab when I'm in a hurry. Or when I've got recuperating metal-heads in my living room."

Eddie huffs a little laugh. "That a common occurrence? And here I thought I was special," he teases.

"You're something," Steve returns, though the grin he gives him is wide and fond as he reaches for the prescription bag Robin'd dropped off, pulling out the pair of bottles within and reading them over. "You're not due for your antibiotics yet, but you can have the pain meds."

He opens the bottle up, then pauses, frowning down into it. "Did they give you the wrong prescription?"

Ah.

"No," Eddie says, feeling exhausted.

"But we have the same meds, and mine is like. Four times this amount, even though your injuries are way worse, infection aside," Steve says, looking back up at him with his brow furrowed.

"They said it's because I left against medical advice."

Steve snorts. "That's a load of crap."

Eddie sighs. "What do you want me to tell you, Steve? You know what my side job is. The whole town does. Every time I go to the ER for something, to them, I'm just drug seeking."

Steve looks stricken, and god, Eddie's not sure he can take any well meaning pity right now. He kind of wants the couch to just swallow him up.

There's just silence, though, and then Steve's jaw sets in determination. He gets up, leaving Eddie floundering a little and staring after him as he walks into the kitchen, returning with a bottle that looks almost identical to the one Eddie was given.

He sits back down, popping them both open, and promptly tips his bottle to start dumping his own pills into Eddie's.

"Whoa, hey, what the fuck!" Eddie struggles to get up without hurting himself or dropping his bowl, gives up, and tries his best to glare at Steve from his position on the couch under the blankets.

"You need them more," Steve says stubbornly. "It's not like I'm going to take them, anyway."

Fuck, that's worse than pity, and Eddie feels his blood boil.

"No, of course not." Eddie sneers. "Is His Majesty above such petty things like pain? Would he rather muscle through on sheer meathead determination than turn to drugs like the lower class?"

Steve goes very still. "Do you really think that?" he asks quietly.

Eddie opens his mouth to snap that he doesn't have to think it, that Steve just showed him it, but - he looks at the expression on Steve's face instead, how it's gone closed off but it isn't hard, isn't angry. It's just blank. Abruptly, Eddie feels wrong-footed, like he'd fallen back on old habits and responded as the guy everyone thinks he is, to the guy he used to think Steve was.

"No," he says, just as quietly. "I don't really think that."

Steve's frozen exterior melts a little, and he shakes a pair of pills out into his hand, holds them out for Eddie to take. Eddie does, swallows them dry, and shovels another spoon of shepherd's pie into his mouth to keep it occupied. Steve looks like he's thinking about something, and Eddie doesn't want to risk saying something to throw him off.

"It's not that I'm trying to muscle through," Steve says, apparently coming to a decision. "I was drugged last time we dealt with Upside Down shit, it was a whole thing." He waves his hand. "I was high as hell for some of what was going down, and it was. Not a great time."

Eddie tries to imagine fighting off the demobats while drugged out of his mind, and goes a little pale. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I can't really do anything stronger than alcohol or the occasional joint now."

"Fuck," Eddie says, softer and with more feeling. "Jesus Christ, I'm such an ass, why do you even like me?"

Steve opens his mouth, and Eddie flails, slapping his hand over Steve's mouth before he can say anything.

"Nope, nuh-uh, this is an apology, not a ploy to get you to say nice things about me," Eddie insists. "Okay?"

Steve's laughing at him, he can tell just by his eyes, but he waits until Steve nods before he pulls his hand away.

"That's not what I think of you," Eddie says again. "I got defensive and lashed out, and it wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

The laughter in Steve's eyes fades, and he looks - caught out, all surprised and vulnerable, and he's staring at Eddie with something like wonder.

It makes Eddie squirm, feeling both like he doesn't know what he did to get that look and like he never wants it to stop.

"Thank you. Apology accepted." Steve's quiet for a moment before adding, "I'm sorry, too. I could tell you were upset but you didn't want sympathy, so I just."

He shrugs, and Eddie's going to press him more about what he just, but first - "You could tell?"

"Yeah. Your face does this thing - you're usually so expressive, but you just kind of shut down, like you're resigned."

Oh. Fuck. He hadn't realized Steve noticed him like that, and he focuses really hard on the other thing he wanted to push about to avoid thinking about it too much. "So you just?"

Steve gives him a crooked little smile. "Jumped to fixing it. Robin says I have this thing, where if someone I care about is upset and I don't know what else to do, I try to fix it. But sometimes how I try to fix it and what they want are different things."

Eddie's mouth opens, and before he knows it he's said, "I'm okay with that."

Steve blinks at him. "Really?"

Eddie'd shrug, but he's not sure his shoulder - or his entire torso - is up for the motion right now, so he just tries to look as casual as possible while half huddled on the couch, in hospital scrubs. "Yeah. People don't try to fix things for me, not unless it's my uncle. Might be kind of nice."

"Oh." Steve's got this look on his face like he doesn't know what to do with that - maybe he hasn't gotten many people who let him try to fix things for them.

Which, fair enough. Under any other circumstances, Eddie'd probably be one of those, just - he doesn't think he's lying, even not touching the fact that Steve hadn't reacted to what he said. "I'm probably going to be a dick about it when I'm not recovering from being half dead, though," he adds, just to be safe.

Steve snorts. "You've met just about all of my friends, man, that's nothing new. Usually I do a decent job at figuring out when they're just being dicks and when I'm actually going too far, but they're good about telling me when I don't get it right. They do it when I'm being too much of a dick, too."

"I can do that," Eddie decides. "Tell you if you're going too far."

He probably shouldn't make decisions right after leaving the hospital against medical advice, but screw it, he's doing it anyway.

"Okay," Steve says after another moment of consideration, then narrows his eyes at him. "I'm still taking a rain check on telling you all the things I like about you. It's getting to be kind of a long list."

Eddie gapes at him. Fuck, he can feel his cheeks burning, and he really hopes he can blame it on the bite wounds or the pain meds.

Hopes Steve won't ask, because he knows that would be a lie.

"Go away," he says, curling over his bowl so he doesn't have to look at Steve. "Let me eat my luxury baby food in peace before I have to drag my ass up all those stairs."

Steve laughs at him again, but it isn't mean, and he does leave, heading upstairs to - Eddie doesn't really know what Steve Harrington does with his free time when he's not ripping apart demobats or complaining about babysitting, actually.

Huh.

He thinks he might like to find out.

He shovels the rest of his shepherd's pie down methodically, then sets the bowl down on the coffee table and eyes the stairs. Despite his earlier words, he's pretty sure there's no way he's going to make it up them on his own. He pulls in a breath and lets it out, then calls, "Hey, Steve?"

Steve emerges almost immediately, a couple of towels tossed over one shoulder and an armful of plastic bottles. "You done?" he asks, tromping down the stairs.

Eddie eyes him. "What's all that?"

"The hospital did a pretty good job at getting most of the Upside Down grime off of us, but I thought you might want to wash it out of your hair," Steve says.

And fuck, yeah, Eddie really, really wants to - it's not just Upside Down grime, honestly, what with the whole being on the run for a week thing, and it just feels gross. Still, Eddie grimaces.

"Not, uh. Not really sure I can stand up long enough," he admits. "Plus I'm not supposed to lift my arms that high yet."

Steve's ears turn just a little bit pink, and Eddie struggles to keep his expression neutral, not to let his eyebrows raise up or to lean in too hungrily.

"I can wash it for you," he offers. "The laundry room's got a pretty deep sink, and I can pull up a chair and have you lean back a little."

He looks so fucking earnest that it makes Eddie flounder a little, once again having to restrain himself from asking why. Why is Steve doing any of this? Is it just because this seems to be what he does, because he thinks of Eddie as part of their Upside Down fighting group now and is focused on taking care of a party member? Were the handful of stolen moments during all of the fuckery and in the hospital real, or is Eddie just fooling himself that this is something he could actually have?

"Yeah," he says before he even realizes he's agreeing, while his thoughts are still a tangled up mess. "Appreciate it, man."

Steve shoots a smile at him. "Gimme a sec, I'll be right back."

He disappears down the hall for a few minutes, then comes back to help Eddie up. It's slow going, with Steve taking most of Eddie's weight, but he knows it's not going to be near as rough as the stairs will be, so he tells himself it's a practice run.

There's a low backed chair pulled up in front of the sink when they get to the laundry room, a folded up towel already pillowed on the edge of it. Steve guides him to sit down and tilt his head back, neck cushioned by the towel and hair spilling into the sink.

And then -

Fuck, Steve is close.

He's been close before, obviously, he let Eddie get all up in his personal space when they were walking through the Upside Down and he leaned over Eddie's shoulder a few times to watch what he was doing, and Eddie's literally been leaning on him to walk since he got here, but - with all of that, there was something else going on, some kind of other purpose or at least a buttload of pain he was trying to ignore.

Sitting like this, Steve leaning over him as he fiddles with the knobs to get the water to a good temperature, he's just close. Eddie can feel the body heat coming off of him, and he can count every freckle and mole on Steve's forearms, where he'd pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He's not trying to look, but he can still see the scrawl of writing that disappears under the sleeve of his left arm, can just make out I don't think. He can hear the heavy beat of his own heart and the way his breath quickens, and he forces himself to breathe slow and even, trying not to draw attention to it.

Then Steve's fingers are in his hair, gently sweeping it all together as he starts rinsing it out.

"Shit, man, this might take awhile," he says apologetically. "The water's coming out as black as it did for mine, and I've got less hair."

Eddie hums noncommittally, afraid if he says anything he'll end up telling Steve that's fine by him, they can stay like this all night if he wants to. There's the sound of a shampoo bottle opening, and on his next breath in he's hit with the scent of something, he has no idea what, like a honeyed summer day, all sunshine and sweet and clean.

And then Steve's hands are on him again, fingertips rubbing small circles over his scalp, blunt nails scratching in just the right way to send shivering goosebumps down his spine.

He's not proud of the way it makes him fucking whimper, but mostly because the sound prompts Steve to freeze.

"That hurt?" Steve asks softly.

"No," Eddie manages to get out. "It, uh. Feels nice."

Nice is an understatement, but not a lie, so it's the best he's got right now. It makes Steve continue, at least, so Eddie's taking the fucking win.

His eyes slide shut, and he thinks he might drift off to sleep right there if it weren't for the fact that he really wants to cling to how fucking good this feels. God, he can't remember the last time he felt a physical sensation that wasn't pain or discomfort, and he tells himself that's the reason that this is making him react so strongly.

No one's ever done anything like this for him before. No one's ever wanted to, even before the murder accusations, and between the exhaustion settling over him and the pain meds kicking in and the euphoria of feeling good - Eddie's dangerously close to begging, here. To saying please, just, please can he keep having this, please can this mean something, can this be because Steve wants to and not because he feels obligated.

"You okay?" Steve asks quietly as he rinses Eddie's hair out, and starts lathering up for a second wash.

Eddie hopes it's just a general are you okay, in light of the whole everything, and not a specific hey you look like you're going through something right now. Doesn't actually matter, he guesses, because he still has to say something, and he doesn't know what to say that isn't a lie or isn't something that's too much.

"Haven't, uh. Haven't had anyone do this before," he admits, because that seems like the safest thing to acknowledge.

He thinks what he means by this was pretty obvious, but apparently not, because Steve gives a thoughtful little hum.

"Take care of you?" he asks, cradling Eddie's skull in his hands so delicately it makes him want to weep.

Or shove him off and run until he can't anymore, but that's not any better.

"Fuck, Steve, not holding back any punches here, huh?" he asks, his voice a little raspy.

"I mean. We almost got eaten by demobats together, and we're in kind of a bathroom. That's prime bonding time, for me."

Eddie'd shake his head, but he doesn't want to do anything to dislodge Steve's hands, so he settles for heaving a pointed sigh. "No, Steve, people haven't been lining up to take care of the freak. It's not like I need it, anyway."

Steve makes this little sound - Eddie's not sure he's even aware that he does it, really, but it's like the verbal equivalent to rolling his eyes. "Everyone needs it, sometimes. It's okay to want that, especially after all of this. This isn't the first time some of us have stayed together in the aftermath."

"Yeah? Who looks after you, then?" Eddie asks.

"Robin, usually, sometimes Dustin. Why, you volunteering?"

He can't see Steve's face, but he thinks that was probably meant to come out as teasing. It doesn't quite land there, though, a little too soft, a little too genuine, and it makes Eddie swallow.

"Maybe," he says, feeling his heart beat in his throat.

"Oh," Steve breathes out, his hands stilling for a moment.

Eddie fights not to open his eyes.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says, a little too carelessly, fingertips scratching back over his scalp again. "I look after you, you look after me."

That's not quite what Eddie meant, but he doesn't know how to say what he meant, so he just says, "You don't have to. Take care of me, I mean. Just because you think it's okay to want to be taken care of, you know, it doesn't have to be you."

He waits for Steve to point out that Eddie'd just said that no one else was lining up for the job, maybe make a joke about how it's him or nothing.

Instead, Steve says, "I know. I want to."

Fuck.

If this is the way Steve always is, Eddie can see why so many girls were into him in high school.

When he's reasonably sure his voice isn't going to shake, he says, "Thanks, man. For - all of this."

He's kind of worried Steve is going to tell him that he's doing it because he wants to again, but fortunately that seems to be enough talking about not quite emotions for both of them, because Steve just hums as he starts rinsing Eddie's hair again.

Eddie lets himself relax, sinking into the soft, floaty feeling that wants to pull him down, and just enjoying the feel of Steve's fingers in his hair, the edge of pain blurred and fuzzy from the meds, and finally, finally feeling like maybe he's safe.

It takes another round of lather and rinse for Steve to be satisfied with how clean his hair is, but Eddie sure as hell isn't protesting. Time kind of slips and wobbles, anyway, as he doesn't doze so much as just fucking melt into the chair and under Steve's hands, like all the tension from the last week plus is oozing out of him. He thinks Steve murmurs something about conditioner, but he honestly doesn't care, as long as he can keep sitting here like this.

Eventually, the water's shut off, and Steve's tilting his head up, draping his hair over a towel and gently scrunching it before wrapping it up.

"You awake?" Steve asks, voice a little sing-song like he's teasing.

"Depends on how you're measuring awake," Eddie mumbles back, not entirely sure he managed to get all those syllables out in the correct order.

Whatever he says, it makes Steve laugh softly. "Come on, Munson, up you go. Let's get you to bed."

Eddie's hindbrain immediately takes over, and the next thing he knows he's saying, "Fuck, yes please, finally."

Fortunately, Steve seems to take his eagerness as an eagerness to be in bed in general, and not in Steve's bed specifically, because he just says, "You gotta stand up for that."

Eddie whines, and Steve's hand on his elbow where he'd been tugging him to get up slips, and Eddie looks up at him, eyes wide.

Steve's staring back at him, and holy shit, Eddie might be high on pain meds and a boneless mess from what was basically a head massage, but he knows what desire looks like, knows Steve's eyes are probably a mirror of his own right now.

Then Steve's eyes are closing, and he visibly shakes himself like a fucking dog, before his hand finds its spot on Eddie's elbow again, nice and firm.

"Steve," Eddie murmurs, even though he knows he's missed his moment to speak, because Steve is already guiding him up and wrapping his arm around him to help him walk.

"Not too far, Eds, I promise," Steve says. "We'll be there before you know it."

"Steve," Eddie says again, and this time Steve pauses, swallowing once before he looks at him.

Steve's arm is still around him, and he's so close they're practically breathing the same air - so close he can see the flecks of hazel in Steve's eyes, see the way his lashes brush against his cheek, and Eddie -

He doesn't want to do it like this. Eddie knows he's pretty far gone right now, a little floaty and a little loopy, and he's honestly not sure what words he can even get out of his mouth, let alone if he's going to remember this tomorrow.

"This is gonna have to be mostly you," he says, not letting himself think about how it could mean more than one thing. "I'm barely standing after that, let alone navigating stairs."

Steve laughs softly, steering him out of the laundry room and towards the stairs. "Long as you keep your feet on one side of the steps, you'll at least have one up on Henderson last time I had to help him up the stairs."

"No promises," Eddie replies, but that does make him look down at his own feet, trying to be careful and deliberate about how he places them as they slowly make their way upstairs.

With the meds, it doesn't hurt as much as it probably should. It mostly just takes so much goddamn effort, feels like walking through jello, and Eddie's not ashamed to admit he's breathing heavily by the time they make it to what must be the Harringtons' guest room.

It's… well. It's boring, honestly, minimally decorated, but the bed looks huge and insanely welcoming at the moment, all the blankets turned down and the pillows carefully arranged to resemble the way he'd found was the most comfortable at the hospital. The lamp on the nightstand is glowing softly, and there's a glass of water and Eddie's bottles of pills next to it.

Clean clothes are laid out on the bed - a pair of black boxers, black track pants with a white stripe down the leg, and a dark blue Henley.

Another lump forms in his throat, and he swallows past it as Steve points out the door to the bathroom.

"I'm just down the hall," Steve tells him.

Eddie manages to mumble out a thanks, and only stares at him a little as he walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Honestly, Eddie's too fucking exhausted to sort out anything about anything right now, so he just shuffles his way over to the bed. He strips out of the hospital scrubs, leaves them in a pile right where they fall, and struggles into the clothes Steve's loaned him.

Like the stairs, it doesn't hurt, but he knows that doesn't mean he can risk overdoing it. He's careful, moving gingerly to pull the shirt on and sitting on the bed to step into the boxers and pants. Then he collapses back, tugging the covers over him. His head lolls to the side for a moment as he stares at the lamp.

If he's honest, his decision to leave it on is part that it feels like too much effort to turn it off, and part that he's not sure he wants to be alone in the dark right now.

Maybe in a bit, he thinks, but he's asleep before he can think anything else.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @vampireinthesun @koibug @estrellami-1 @mentalcyborg @allbimyself26 @questionablequeeries @the-s-is-silent @whimsicalwitchm @a-gae-af-racoon @tinyplanet95 @n0-1-important @velocitytimes2 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @newtstabber @jcmadgirl @roblingoblin285 @lexyvey @paperbackribs @goodolefashionedloverboi @evix-syne666 @raisedbylibrarians @stxrcrossed186 @nightmareglitter @greekgeek24 @starman-jpg @crazyhatlady86 @imfinereallyy @manda-panda-monium @deleataecount @prideandsensibility @chaoticvictorianspirit @maydillydally @disrespectedgoatman @scarlet-malfoy @i-less-than-three-you @hbyrde36 @hallucinatedjosten @dragonsandgayships @arepaconchocolate @g4ys0n @novelnovella @bisexualdisastersworld @ghostofyourvampiregf @scarletyeager @pettrichore @nerd-and-nervous @hiimlevi @queenie-ofthe-void @cinnamon-mushroomabomination

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Part 15

[fanaticsnail]

Glimpse into my life: Paging Doctor Chopper

Art link

Hey everyone, Snail here! I spoke a while ago about chef-husband having a small accident at work and then gave a little tag update about selecting a one-piece doctor.

Trigger Warning, injury discussion below the cut.

On the 29th of Jan, chef-husband had a fall at work. He took his apprentices/students to an inflatable water park, overshot his landing on one of the ramps, and dislocated his shoulder. Upon getting out of the water and setting it back in, he broke his shoulder completely.

He's been off work for 7 weeks so far, recovering as best he can while in a sling, and managing the pain while awaiting further x-rays. He got an MRI yesterday, and the damage is worse than we initially thought.

Chef-husband has debris in the joint, the socket has a large tear in the cartilage. One of the main tendons is 50% torn, the broken bone is a little displaced, other small tendon, a build up of fluid, and some muscle damage.

The likely scenario from here is for him to get an Arthur-scope to clean out the debris, whereas the worst case scenario is full on surgery where they open him up and assess the damage and go from there.

So far, all we do is wait and hope for the best!

Doctor Chopper would be my first choice for a quick fix for him, but it would be fun to ask Franky or Kid to make him some chef-style attachments: brulee torch, meat cleaver, bone saw just to name a few! Maybe some tongs for him to do a quick 'click, click' at the bbq.

Thanks for reading 🖤!!

[ombrathefurry]

general bad things sf HAS been through (many of these multiple times):

cut or stabbed with every sharp object imaginable (kitchen knives, combat knives, surgical knives, other types of blades like xacto knives or razors, pins and needles, scythes, swords, scissors, saws, claws, teeth, axes, even a sharp disc)

burned in many different ways (burned with fire, almost burned to death, essentially boiled, branded, acid burned, burned by lava/molten material being dripped onto him, electricity burns, burned with wire wrapped around him)

electrocuted

drowned (in blood as well as water)

eaten/mauled (including being cannibalised)

forcefed

forced self cannibalism

whipped

hung

trapped (mostly in snares though)

shot (with bullets and arrows)

strangled/deliberately asphyxiated

broken many bones both deliberately and unintentionally

dislocated bones

beaten/blunt force trauma to the point where he's bruised through scar tissue

beaten up in general (as opposed to being intentionally tortured)

caged

scarified (people have played tic tac toe on him, and also have made drawings with symbols and other etchings that would bring him further harm for more complicated reasons)

poisoned (as well as venom)

severed tendons (mostly in legs)

muted (via severing vocal chords or mutilating his tongue or both)

crushed

hunted down

bounty hunted

starved

concussed multiple times

declawed/ripped claws out (both intentionally and unintentionally)

forced isolation/solitary confinement

drugged

medical malpractice

mock slaughtered/butchered

tooth damage/removal

used as target practice

had his wrists and throat slit more times than one could count (his throat is now physically malformed because of this+the fact it was an entrance wound for electricity burns)

had his throat actually collapsed

pinched nerves

blinded

thrown from great heights

threatened as a means of leverage against loved ones

turned into a fullbody glass mosaic by having shards of broken glass pressed into his skin

tortured

tortured on tables

tortured restrained on tables

tortured while being hung

torture devices

waterboarded

crucified (at the same time he was waterboarded)

mock executed

skinned (it was put back on)

disembowelled

On top of this, he has also:

witnessed I believe 3 different people he cares about be decapitated

been tortured/beaten more because he was being too loud

been tortured/beaten more because he wasn't being loud enough

been tortured/beaten for crying while being tortured/beaten (and has even had measures placed to make crying temporarily painful)

had his life on the line for literal games against his will

been tortured for both losing and winning said games

been told "dare or die" more times than countable and has been forced to do dangerous things this way

been shot in the eye (his blind one) (on a scratch roleplay) (I dont know how they didnt get banned that wasn't the only thing they did to him)

had the skin on the inside of his ears torn out

pinned his own tendons back together with a safety pin so he could move to help his friend who was being tortured

been tortured by people he trusted to avoid being killed instead

been tortured by impersonations of people he trusts/loves

been forced to hurt people he cares about

witnessed many people he cares about being tortured and beaten

had death parties organized so significant multiples of the characters who want to hurt or kill him got together to torture him all at once (these have since been publicly discontinued I believe)

killed multiple people out of self defense

felt the sensation of being torn in half (it didn't actually happen, but he experienced what it would have felt like)

had his throat torn open with a literal cheese grater (?????????)

been trapped in a cave as a captive and periodically tortured by an organized rotating cast of tormentors

been restrained during a thunderstorm and forced to listen to the weather (thunderstorms upset him severely because one character who has tormented him extremely badly is associated with them)

been conditioned to interpret (extremely) gentle touches as hostility

been conditioned that he is a subject for torturing and not his own person with rights to feelings and life (though he has since recovered from this)

been conditioned not to fight back or resist (though he is often able to overcome this conditioning, but with the price of developing an irrational anxiety that it WILL backfire no matter what)

Okay I did my best here I'm missing a lot of details but this is a huge summary that I will update if I think of more

i dont know if ive ever revealed publicly the extent of which SF has been traumatized but hopefully this gives you an idea (and this is only the (mostly) physical stuff)