#oh and also Vertebrae is there..

[ballpit-bakery]

Introducing Atlas! A disgraced Alpha because he just could not stop being fucked up and selling his research to phantoms despite that being the opposite of his job.

[wasyago]

kakashi and bull 🥺🤲

[gravehags]

happy new years’ eve it’s day drinking time 🥂

[redstainedglasses]

Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light From now on, our troubles will be out of sight~

[inkykeiji]

me telling my boyfriend he has to be extra nice to me because i’m sick and him responding with ‘sorry baby, i don’t know how to be nice’ is peak dabi

[girls-and-honey]

wait the 'oh cool you collect bones' to 'oh cool you collect bones 😳' pipeline might be real...

[ab-horror]

ugh

[brella-boi]

forgot how difficult the skeletons are actually

the world is grim, so I drew dinosaurs

[h1ghtechl0wlife]

zoning out breaking down a chicken for our dog, running my thumbnails down the neck to get the meat off and all i can think is god i need someone 2 do this 2 me

[little-cereal-draws]

If Ghosts had a more mature rating and was able to do more creepy ghost powers/death side effects:

Pat, Humphrey, and Thomas are eternally bleeding. Their clothes are wet, their hand gets wet from touching it, they'll leave trails of blood down the hall, etc. The blood on their hand or the floor disappears pretty quickly as their ghost powers make them reset but their clothes are always soaked

Thomas's whole stomach and the top of his pants are bloodstained. Pat's is all located on his shoulders/necktie and has the most obvious stains due to the color difference of his clothes. There are a few drops here and there down his sleeves and chest. It's pretty heavy because of the major arteries the neck that would've been punctured. Humphrey's is by fair the heaviest and is all over the front of his torso. Like the whole thing. When he died he fell face down into the growing puddle of blood that would've been pooling from his stump

Fanny can turn her head frighteningly far. There's a sick crunching sound that happens when she does this and it always sends shivers down Alison's spine even after years of hearing it. The other ghosts have joked and compared Fanny to an owl because of this and she chews them out every time

Pat coughs a lot because he's got blood stuck in his throat. He'll randomly have a huge coughing fit, cough a bunch of blood into his hand and then go "Oh no. Anyways..." He also has trouble breathing and has to take breaks to sit down during physical activities like dancing or running. It annoying but not too much of a hindrance to his daily life; it's like having asthma or allergies. The blood can make his voice sound a little weird sometimes too, like he's gurgling smth while he talks. He just clears his throat and keeps going

The plague ghosts vomit up bile every once in a while. It's black, steaming, and putrid but disappears almost instantly

Kitty also throws up when she's excited... which is a lot. She also gets chills, lightheadedness, fevers, and uncontrollable shaking. There's not much the other ghosts or Alison can do to help her besides sitting with her/trying to distract her. She'll lay down and try to breathe through it while Alison reads her a story or the Captain infodumps abt smth or Robin holds her hand. Sometimes she falls asleep, sometimes she doesn't. She's always better after a few hours tho

Fanny gets really bad migraines. Alison's theory is that they're caused by her broken vertebra. Fanny doesn't particularly care why they happen. When they happen, she's in an even worse mood than usual so it's best to steer clear of her. She doesn't have the energy to yell at ppl but will remember the slightest fault and wait until she's better to go on a lecture. Again, there's not much Alison or the other ghosts can do to help besides let her lay down and try to be quiet

Mary and Robin's skin peels off. It's white and flaky and leaves raw red spots underneath. The dead skin disappears once it leaves them but the skin underneath is never healthy and flakes off too

Both Robin and Mary smell like burning flesh but only Mary is detectable by living people. Robin only smells when he uses his powers. It really puts a lot of the ghosts off, especially newer ones

Robin's body also gets affected by his powers in other ways. If it's something small like flickering a light, his hair will stand on end. Something bigger like turning a light on/off or flickering a more powerful light will cause him to spasm. It's usually just his arms and wears off after a minute. Smth really big like redirecting that lightning bolt for Mike will be the equivalent of him actually getting hit w the lightning. His body seizes up, falls over unresponsive and twitching for several minutes, but he's always ok in the end. Alison and the other ghosts get very worried but he walks it off

Julian and the Captain both feel remnants of their heart attacks. Shortness of breath, tingling/numbness in the arms, dizziness, heart palpitations, etc. They both choose to keep it a secret from the others and cover it up but if they're particularly stressed abt smth, they'll start getting chest pains which is harder to cover up. The Captain has excused himself from many social situations to go sit on the floor and try to breathe through the pain and calm his heart. Robin's the only one who knows about Julian's because it happened once while they were hanging out. Logically, they both know they can't die again but it's still scary

Mary likes to sit in the lake because even tho she can't feel it like she would if she was alive, the cold water is soothing on her burns

All the ghosts have days where they just lay abt bc the pain is too much to move. From who does it the most to who does it the least it goes Mary, Humphrey, Pat, Fanny, Thomas, Kitty, Robin, the Captain, Julian

[thepenandthepistol]

Mundane Aching (Platonic!Grian x reader)

Due to some soreness, you're unable to help Gem like you said you would. Grian helps you out and soothes some of your worries.

A/N : Sickfic I wrote because my period was killing me T-T and also the first thing I've actually posted on this account! A win for the slayers of perfectionism. This was meant as a platonic fic but I'm sure you could read it as romantic if you want. Also, reader is an avian as well. (1018 words)

Art by @applestruda and divider by @saradika-graphics

There's still so much to be done, and here you are, still under the sheets. You spent the first half of the day trying to manage a creeping pain in your back right where skin meets the base of your coal-black wings. Ache spreads in waves from the limb and into your vertebra, as if something alive is puppeteering the sinews under your skin.

Despite the guilt, you've resigned yourself to your bed; due to an enormous nap, you missed your afternoon plans with Gem. Being an avian means you were much more used to flying than she was, and the new nether build she was planning required some tight maneuvering. Days like these are some you look forward to, holding onto the back of her chestplate, hovering over lava lakes and bastions. 

The trust she has in you, feeling safe even if dangling over potential death, is special in its own right. The friendship you've cultivated and the idle conversations had midair are among your most treasured memories. So, when the exhaustion from carrying materials to and from your shop finally made itself known, you groaned as you curled up on your bed, trying to push away the pain and at least pass by Gem's to apologize for your absence. Maybe sweeten the deal with a nice cake and evening tea.

A sudden flash of crimson outside your window makes you stop in your tracks, feet just inches from touching the cool floor. A single moment of silence is had before Grian pulls himself back up onto the windowsill with a mischievous smile. 

"Did I scare you?" He asks, shuffling inside and closing the window behind him with a soft click.

"Oh yeah," you start, closing your eyes and breathing deeply as a particularly sharp stab rolls from your back and claws at your ribs. "Only if being worried you were going to cut your wings on the bars outside counts as scared." 

"Excuse me, I'm very skilled! I could probably dodge like five of those in a row." He speaks with a smile, but, to your dismay, he's seen through your teasing and into the discomfort below. 

"Gem's been looking for you," he says, aligning some of the trinkets on your shelf and picking your work clothes off the floor. "Sent me here to check while she continued working." 

"Shit," you sigh and drape your arm over your eyes, blocking the light crawling in from outside. "I'm having a bad day, I guess. Must've overworked myself last week, and now my wings are killing me."

"Have you had something to eat?" You hear your closet door creek open and Grian looking for something between clothes and towels.

"Not exactly. I had a snack before midday, but I slept through lunch." You open your eyes to see him bring a nice blanket over your shoulders. It doesn't ease the pain, but the soft texture makes existing a little easier.

"Well, just about time for some tea then." You grimace, remembering your promise to Gem. Grian moves to close the room door behind him when you groan out a protest, wrapping the woolen quilt around yourself and finally standing up.

"I'll join you. If I lay here any longer, I'll sleep the entire day away," Grian snickers, but walks in sync with your lethargic steps down the stairs and into a quaint kitchen. 

Plopping down on a stool, you watch Grian clack on the stove and place a ceramic kettle on top. It was a birthday gift from Ren. A painted flock of dark birds contrasts the white background alongside some fleuron details. 

"Grian, mate, it's you," you point to a particularly wonky bird.

"Absolutely not, look at him! He's your splitting image." He gestures to the dark wings behind you. 

"You know what else is splitting?"

"Your head?"

"My head."

You rest your temple on the wooden table and furrow your eyebrows. You could probably make the journey over to Gem's by now; despite the headache and muscle cramps, you're feeling well enough to stand, and you could chance flying the short way over. 

With a crack, you stretch your wings entirely; they spasm a bit before reaching their full length; you pay no mind. What was once a terrible tendon-deep flare has resided to a burning soreness; you've done more than travel a couple hundred blocks in worse conditions. 

Grian pours the water into two mugs, each with a homemade teabag flopping loosely off the side. You take the smaller mug, lifting it to say 'cheers,' and sip on the sweet berry. You begin putting on your boots when Grian finally lets concern wash over his face.

"You should rest a bit more. Gem's fine. Her garden's turning out really nice." You hesitate a tad bit before tying the laces together.

"I promised her I'd help you know. I'm sure she understands, but I want to make good on my word." You don't register Grian setting down his mug and tilt your head in confusion as he kneels and pulls your boots to his thigh, unlacing them.

"You sound like a knight going to war," he cracks a tiny fond smile. "I know it's your nature, but these things aren't that serious. Your 'word' is still good even if you don't put your own health on the line." Silence follows.

"You're sure she doesn't need me?"

"Positively." He stalks off to line your shoes up by the door and then returns, sitting next to you on the couch and letting his wing curl around you.

"You need to relax. No wonder you're having a bad time when your muscles are that tense." He teases, and you scoff, taking back the mug and continuing to drink.

"Can you tell Gem I won't be making it then, please." 

"Yeah, course," he says, knocking his shoulder with yours and hopping to his feet. 

"I should tie a letter to your leg and throw you out of the second-story window." You say into the mug as he turns the knob on the front door.

"Hey! I am not a pigeon!"

[symbiomancy]

MASSAGE —ryomen sukuna

summary: Step-brother Sukuna is good with his hands. Why not take advantage of it when no one's home? It's just an innocent massage, after all.

cw: stepbrother!sukuna, stepcest, grinding/thigh riding, pet names

wc: ~1,1k

also on ao3

“You’re good with your hands,” you say one afternoon when it’s just you and him. Your mother and his father are at work, Yūji is meeting up with friends to go to a movie, hell, even the neighbors might have left town—it’s just you and him.

Sukuna looks up from his phone, face impassive.

“My back hurts. You’re good with your hands. Simple math.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen how you sleep; how do you even bend like that? It’s unnatural.”

“I’m very flexible.” You hold out the bottle of massage oil to him and shake it impatiently. “Please?”

He considers it for a moment, then rolls his eyes and places his phone on the small table next to the couch armrest. You grin, bright and wide as he accepts the bottle.

“Sit,” he says, spreading his legs, half-expecting you to pull out the ottoman underneath the coffee table. Instead, you straddle his thigh, facing away from him. He jostles his leg for good measure and you almost tip over, latching onto the thigh you’re sitting on to not fall. A laugh bubbles from his chest, low and smooth and rich.

“Dickhead,” you mutter, sitting up straight again.

“I can refuse service if you’re not nice to me, you know.”

You sigh, long and drawn out. “I’m sorry. Please, can I get a massage?” Though you don’t wait for his reply and hike your flimsy shirt over your head, draping it over his other thigh.

Sukuna allows his fingers to skim the length of your spine, from your tailbone up to the base of your skull, feeling the grooves and dips of the vertebrae under his fingertips. He maps out the beauty marks littering the expanse of your skin, tries to commit it to memory.

“Where?” He tips a small amount of massage oil onto the palm of his hand and rubs it around his palms. It smells like vanilla.

You place your hands on your waist and press your thumbs on either side of your spine. Sukuna makes a sound of confirmation in the back of his throat and pushes your hands away, placing his thumbs where yours just were. He presses down, hard, and you make a sound, somewhere caught between a hiss and a moan, hands clamped around his thigh again for stability.

He begins working the knots in your lower back and then you moan, actually, audibly moan—it slips from your lips so freely and he likes it, he wants to hear more of it, drawn out and loud. He needs to hear it again like he needs water. The sound sends a jolt straight to his cock. It twitches beneath the layers that separate it from your pretty pussy. Oh, it’s pretty, he just knows it.

His hands slowly glide up your sides until his fingertips ghost the curve of your breast. He hears the hitch in your breathing—like music to his ears, he wants to hear it over and over and over again until it's committed to his memory—but he doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he lets his hand explore further, cupping your breast from below, a finger swiping over the nipple. You buck against his thigh with a low whine.

“You like that, baby?”

“Y-yeah.” Your voice cracks and you hastily clear your throat.

His other hand finds your other breast and he swipes a thumb around and then over each nipple. A small, broken gasp escapes your lips. Your back arches, grinding your covered pussy against his thigh. Sukuna stills, flexes his thigh muscles, and eyes the not-so-subtle circling motions of your hips.

“Yeah?” He palms your tits, pinches the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You recoil, back arching even more, pussy dragging against his thigh, nails clamping into his flesh so hard Sukuna sees white for a fraction of a second. He can feel the damp patch on your panties and he breathes in slowly to keep his composure from slipping, from pouncing on you like an animal in heat.

He repeats the motion and he’s rewarded with another gasp, this one half a whine, and you fall back, resting against his shoulder.

Sukuna adjusts himself and leans his chin on your shoulder. His mouth rests at the shell of your ear now.

One hand dips from your chest, travels down towards your navel, dragging the massage oil along. He can feel the stutter in your breathing in the still and tacky summer air. He doesn’t stop, goes lower, lower, lower, stops where your skirt begins.

His hand finds purchase on the plush of your thigh, fingers sliding up, under the fabric, and stop just shy of your underwear. You buck your hips again, desperate for any friction.

“What?” He teases, his hot breath caressing the side of your cheek. “Need something?”

“Please.” You nod rapidly. “Please.” Your breaths are heavy, eyes bleary, mid fuzzy with desire.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

Your cheeks warm at his words—so warm and so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. His fingertips ghost over your clothed pussy, just barely applying any force, then over the hem of your skirt, up your body, dragging along the grooves, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His hand finds its place on your breast again, so soft and plush and he breathes in the sweet scent of your strawberry body wash, nose pressed into the junction between your neck and shoulder. Fuck, you’re intoxicating. His cock twitches in his pants, throbbing like he’s about to cum in his shorts—

Voices.

Strange voices draw him from his reprieve. They filter in through the open windows, a female voice arguing with Yuji’s.

Then there’s a key jiggling in the lock on the front door.

Sukuna snatches your top from his thigh, presses it to your chest, and gently pushes you upright. You stand on shaking legs for a moment before the click of the front door’s lock sends you dashing towards the stairs across the room. You reach them just as the door swings open, three voices filtering inside.

“Dickhead!” You shout before you disappear up the stairs and slam your bedroom door.

Yūji pauses as the door falls shut behind him, Nobara, and Megumi, and crosses the few steps from the hallway into the living room. He looks at Sukuna, lying on his stomach on the couch, scrolling through his phone. “What did you say this time?”

Sukuna scowls and grabs a decorative pillow to chuck at Yuji’s head. “Mind your own business, brat.”

banners from @/cafekitsune

[scaredyspooks]

Training.

Chapter 8 of Neighbours. (Stalker!König x reader)

AO3 (Chapter also below cut-off ♡)

CW: voyeurism, masturbation.

Tags: @backseatsoldier @lostintransist

The dishes from breakfast are still sitting, half empty, on the coffee table. The ring from his mug is bound to be permanently stained into the wood grain by now. A mostly full bag of rubbish waits by the door, meant to have been taken down hours ago. And the giant is nowhere to be seen. The worm of a man is tucked away, small, condensed, folded down and down to fit under the floor, like he’s practicing for when he crawls inside your ribs to become a part of you. To make you a part of him. He’s been watching for nine hours. Nine hours of frustration, of lust, of adoration, of need, of hatred. You did nothing today. You sat, and you scrolled, and you typed away on your phone. You wasted the day, and in doing so you made him waste his as well. He should punish you for that alone. You haven’t earned his forgiveness yet.

The sun has gone down, he can tell from the darkness invading your sanctuary, as if his own gaze is slowly permeating the pores of your cheap, plasterboard walls. You get up, you walk to your bedroom, his favorite show has ended for the day. Reluctantly, and with an aching creak of his joints, König pulls himself out of his floor, having to lay out flat on top of it in an effort to realign his sore back. He stretches his arms high above his head, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Perhaps if you’d just look up, you’d see him. See the glint of his eye as it watches you. If you saw him, would you be afraid? Would you even guess it was him? The thought makes him shiver. He can’t tell if it’s nerves, or anticipation. The thrill of getting caught. An undercover mission failed as he finally gets to shed the façade and bare his teeth.

After each vertebrae in his spine cracks back into its proper place, he heaves himself up from the floor, joining you in your routine as he stumbles to his own bedroom, rubbing at his hip as it protests his activities of the day.

As he enters his room, the sweetest melody of all reaches his ears. Low, breathy, constant, accompanied by an electronic hum. His ungrateful Feldmaus is… Indulging. Well, that must mean he can indulge as well, after all you’re nothing now. Not until you prove him wrong. A challenge you don’t even know he’s set you.

He’s listening, and gods above it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. His cock is jumping at every needy little sound you breathe out of those gorgeous lips, he can’t help imagining what you must be doing. How you must be punishing yourself. Maybe there’s another hole in here. Maybe he can make one. Maybe it’s worth the risk of being caught, just to see what you’re doing, what’s making you spill such sweet noises for him.

Perhaps he can be greedy. Perhaps he will be lucky. Thick fingers dip and dig, hooking under the edge of the carpet and slowly ripping, the staples connecting the rough fabric to the wooden boards creaking their way out, teasing him with how their little burrows grip them, threatening to announce his presence. Ah, you wouldn’t hear it. You’re being far too loud down there.

Gradually, he pulls it up, finding yet more shoddily covered insulation space. Thank the gods for the landlord special. He squeezes down, quieter than he’s ever managed to before, and he could cry with joy as he finds a hole around one of your light fixtures, giving him a perfect view of-

Oh Gott…

His heart is racing, thumping and beating at the inside of his rib cage, trying to force its way out so it can throw itself down into your arms, where it truly belongs.

He has to bite back a strangled groan when he sees the state of you in the throes of self-administered pleasure. Your perfect, angelic form, kneeling in prayer atop your mattress, and in this position he is your god. Your head is thrown back, lips parted, eyebrows arched as if begging for his glorious mercy, your eyes thankfully closed. One hand palming at the soft mound over your heart, the other holding the tool of your worship, whirring and purring against the apex of your thighs.

But no, there’s another tool, he can barely make it out where you have it trapped between your thighs and the ever-growing damp patch on your bedding, but whatever it is it’s thick. Hellishly thick. And then he notices the curves. The circular embellishments. Suckers. Dear god, his perfect little field mouse is fucking herself with an over-sized tentacle dildo. He can’t take his eyes off you, can’t stop his gaze from darting and sweeping over the different details of everything you’re doing. It’s almost overstimulating. No, it is overstimulating. Your moans, your whimpers, the steadily changing pitch of the wand as you press it harder and harder against your aching clit, the sound of that knotted toy popping in and out of your sopping, stretched hole, the sight of the sweet tears streaming from the corners of your eyes; diamonds sparkling in the light, the trail of drool running down your chin, dripping down the valley of your breasts, god your breasts; the way they’re bouncing, taunting him. His own mouth is watering. The flutter of your eyelashes, the crescent moons printed into your soft flesh from where you just can’t stop squeezing and pulling at yourself. Are you imagining his hands? You could have his hands. He would touch you, he would give them to you, he would leave them with you if you only asked. If you only showed that you wanted them, wanted him. You would use them for far more important tasks.

What does he need them for? Cooking, cleaning, bathing, building? He can learn to do those things without them, he would be honored to, if it meant watching you use them for this delicious purpose. He knows he’s being fucking insane. While one side of his mind fantasizes about you somehow using his severed hands to grope yours, the other side is spiraling, screaming, asking how Kilgore König became reduced to this. This disgusting, perverse, degenerate, self-destructive little earwig.

The pervert wins the battle.

In a second, his fist is buried in the tight fabric of his pants, his pre-cum slicked cock slipping through the too-tight hole he gives it, trying to emulate what he’s sure you must feel like. Why else would you be stretching yourself for him? What other reason could you possibly have for spearing yourself on something so large, so grotesque, unless you’re trying to train yourself to take him. Oh, that adds a dangerous inflation to his ego, even if deep down he knows he’s being delusional. He could make you feel even better than that thing, though. He knows it. You know it too.

His other hand is up at his jaw, his knuckles trapped between his teeth, as he tries desperately muffle his grunts, eyes wide and staring, scared to even blink in case he misses a single second of… you. Gods, you. You, you, you. He could cry, he thinks he might be, he can’t tell anymore. What’s sweat, what’s tears, when it’s all just salt in the wound of his overwhelming need for you?

You’re getting faster, no longer easing up and down with a pained, silent whine, but bouncing, mouth hanging open, the hand not holding your wand now braced in front of you on the mattress, like a bitch in heat sitting pretty for him. Moving so fast, god that means you’re taking it… You can take him… Fuck, the thought has his drool dampening the rafters of your ceiling. You, putting yourself through the hot ache of stretching yourself, opening the gates of your sweet, needy heaven for him, just for him. Just for him. Nur für ihn. Du gehörst ihm. Du gehörst ihm.

If this is your plan, if this is your gift, to rectify your cruel rejection of him, perhaps… Perhaps he can find it within his generous heart to forgive you. To give you another chance. Perhaps he can tolerate you being a whore, if you’re his whore.

Seine Hure.

As if on cue, your body slumps forward, shoulders crashing into the sheets, cheek pressed into the plush down of your pillows, giving him the perfect view of your ass bouncing desperately over your toy. He just knows your pillow’s already damp with the drool pouring from your lips, dry from the heavy breaths that have been rolling past them for the last hour. The way the plump rounds of your rear lead down into the tantalizing curve of your spine, it’s like a heart beating below him in rhythm with your thrusts, a locust beating its wings. Thinking of you as his end, it shockingly speeds him towards a different end, and he has more questions to puzzle over whenever his mind isn’t a fuzz of lust and need.

The crescendo of your symphony answers his earlier question. He feels it running down his cheek, tickling its way down into his beard. He’s crying. But who could blame him? Perfection embodied below him, sobbed moans, beautiful whines and whimpers filling his ears.

You collapse against the bed, body trembling, chest heaving, as you roll onto your back. He can’t bring himself to worry that you’ll see him, he doesn’t care anymore, he’s so fucking close, it almost hurts. He’s surprised he doesn’t taste copper from how hard he’s biting his knuckles.

The sight that breaks him is the bulge of your toy slowly disappearing as you pull it free from your tight heat with a flood of arousal and a soft, wet pop. It’s so lewd, so graphic, so juxtaposed to how he thought he saw you until now and the quietest whimper he can allow himself to make escapes him, his balls tightening as his cock finally pulses in his tight fist, red, angry, and bruised as he paints the inside of his boxers, panting and shaking, his eyes wide in horror at the realization that he’s never felt it like that before.

[dreamwatch]

STWG daily drabble

prompt: forehead kisses

(I’m trying some prompts out, and also - I wrote fluff! I actually did it! My cold, angsty heart is conflicted by this development.)

****

Wayne’s back feels like it’s splitting in two, muscles spasming, discs crunching. Years of hard labour and a car wreck after he came back from Korea (a little bit angry, a little bit reckless) and what else could he really expect? He was old, and all his chickens had come home to roost right in his lower vertebrae.

He hears the van before he sees it, wheels spitting up grit on the shitty excuse for a road, and then the bassy rumbling of loud music. Iron Maiden, if he’s not mistaken, and Jesus H Christ, he should not know that.

Eddie throws himself out of the van, and practically skips up the stairs, and oh to be fucking young. 

“Hey old man, what are you doing out here?”

“Drowning my sorrows,” he says, waving the beer and Eddie frowns, tilts his head.

“Why, what’s going on?”

“Just my back.”

“Bad?”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

“Eddie, I’m fine, got a beer, I’m good.”

Eddie scoffs, “sure”, before he heads inside.

Trailers aren’t sound proofed. Every cough, every fart, your neighbour hears it and you hear them. So listening to Eddie on the phone just the other side of the door isn’t prying, it just can’t be helped.

“Hey man… yeah I’m good but Wayne’s not so I can’t make practice tonight… no, it’s his back so I want to be here incase he needs me…”

Wayne shakes his head. The shit people say about that kid, they have no idea who he is. He listens as Eddie hangs up then potters around the kitchen, drawers clattering, kettle screeching. His boy is so many things, but quiet sure isn’t one of them.

“Heads up, old man.”

Eddie takes a seat beside him on the porch, painkillers in one hand, glass of water in the other and a hot water bottle tucked under his arm. Wayne smiles, takes his pills while Eddie places the hot water bottle behind his back.

“That okay?”

And he can’t help it, but it strikes him how fucking proud he is of this kid, and alright, it’s a little thing, but still. He hears it all day long from the guys at work, complaining about their kids, how they’re selfish, how they don’t listen, and you know Eddie’s not an angel, and he’s not perfect, but he’s good, and he cares and he’s not afraid to show it if you let him.

Wayne gingerly raises his arm and pulls him in, hears him squeal “don’t kiss me!” He pulls him close, and lays an exaggerated kiss on Eddie’s forehead, and gets a “not in public, Jesus Christ,” for his efforts.

“You’re a good kid.”

“I know. You’re lucky to have me.”

He laughs, despite the pain in his back.

“That I am,” he says, squeezing his boy tight. “That I am.”

[disco-archetypes]

YOU - Say nothing, just nod.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant also nods. It is quite a scene -- the two of you standing next to the broken wall of an abandoned building... nodding. Nodding along.

YOU - Nod even more.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant is nodding so hard it looks like his head is about to snap off his neck.

YOU - Don't stop nodding.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant matches your nodding pace. He's a true professional at this.

ENDURANCE - The nodding's reaching critical mass! You can't take this much longer, captain!

YOU - Keep nodding, goddamn it! Stay the course!

KIM KITSURAGI - A small bead of sweat runs down the side of the lieutenant's face as he maintains his nodding...

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - It's too much! You can feel your vertebrae starting to crack, your muscles groaning...

YOU - Just one more nod.

KIM KITSURAGI - As the lieutenant takes out a handkerchief and softly taps the sweat off his temple... a faint crack echoes through the coast...

PAIN THRESHOLD - Almost snapped your neck... but I fucking got this. No pain... no pain...

ENDURANCE - Abort! Abort! No... shit, it's too late!

YOU - "OH SHIT FUCK HELL!"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Busted the neck, did you?" He cranes his neck left and right, stretching. "Glad I stopped when I did... my neck was really starting to hurt. Don't worry, it'll mend... now, we should get going."

[autistic-mandalorian]

I would love to hear this

Oh sure! Fair warning, this gets long, so it's under a cut:

So I have looked carefully at Maul post-bisection, specifically at where his abdomen ends and his prosthesis begins, and I believe that he was bisected between the L3 and L5 vertebrae, or just above his pelvic bone. Here is a diagram I drew on of where he was cut:

Image Description: The first image is a screenshot of Maul with his prosthetic legs from TCW. The screenshot is annotated to note where exactly Maul is divided between flesh and prosthesis. The second image is two diagrams side-by-side, one of the human body focusing on organs, and the other of the spine. Both have a line drawn around where the belly button is to note where Maul was bisected. End ID.

So in terms of what he lost, it was a LOT. Not just his legs, but most of his intestines, his bladder, his pelvis, his gonads, half his bones, most of his blood volume, and a lot of his abdominal and back muscles (as well as their attachment points, making the remaining muscles limited in their usefulness).

Image description: A diagram of the human musculature, from the ventral and dorsal sides. The diagram has a line drawn across it to show where Maul was bisected.

Fortunately for him, most of the organs in humanoids are located in the chest cavity (because the intestines need a LOT of room to work), so he kept his kidneys, liver, stomach, lungs, hearts, pancreas, gallbladder, etc etc. However, his intestines are interesting in that by getting chopped in half, his small intestine was actually disconnected from his large intestine. The small intestine connects to the large through the ileocecal valve, which is located on the left inferior side of the abdominal cavity. He got chopped right through the middle of the abdominal cavity, so he lost his entire cecum, the majority (if not all) of his ileum, and the valve that connected them. This means that anything he digested would just ooze into his abdominal cavity even after the giant wound repaired itself, unless he got surgery to reconnect them. We will say for the sake of the story that he fixed it with The Force while living in his trash hole.

Now, it is possible for people to be bisected like he was and survive, just only in a medical environment. It's an extremely rare and radical surgery called a hemicorporectomy. It's the last of the last resorts, because it leaves you with a lot of problems. Here are some of them:

Maul would need both a colostomy and urostomy bag, since his rectum and bladder are both gone. These would need to be regularly cleaned and emptied.

His missing intestines would also result in his not digesting most of his food fully, so he would need supplemental nutrients to help combat malnutrition. He obviously does not get these for most of his life (if ever) so he is almost certainly malnourished.

Due to his newfound Nightmare Castration, he would need regular doses of hormones or would risk osteoporosis. Which hormones is up to the reader (I nominate estrogen)

His spinal cord is, thankfully, fine--- it doesn't actually extend past L1-L2. However, he did lose the filum terminale, meaning his spinal cord is kinda unanchored in his spine and floating around, which isn't great and could lead to nerve issues down the line. Some of the nerves that were cut in his lumbar spine (specifically, the L4 lumbar nerve supplying the quadratus lumborum muscle) could also cause partial paralysis in his back, as well as some wicked back pain.

Shoutout to @necropocene for inspiration as well as the following headcanons:

Maul's lungs and other organs are constricted by his intestines being forced upward into his chest cavity, reducing his lung capacity

Maul suffers from chronic nausea

Maul's prosthesis needs to be very well-cushioned because the waist is not a load-bearing structure (too squishy!)

Now onto my specific headcanons for his prosthetics and mobility devices:

The thing about pelvises is not only do they let you use legs, they also allow your organs and muscles to attach to something rigid. For this reason, I think Maul should have two pelvises: one internal, being more like a metal frame that his abdominal and back muscles attach to, and one external and connected to his legs.

The lumbar spine and sacrum are what allow the spine to connect to the pelvis, so in order to use his prosthetic legs, I think it would be prudent to give Maul a prosthetic spine, Borg Queen-style. Now, this would admittedly be a pretty big infection risk (piece of metal sticking through the skin and all) but I think it's cool so I am invoking The Rule of Cool on this one.

Maul's legs are not something I spent much time on, because his canon ones are fine.

I do have headcanons for a wheelchair, though!

His wheelchair wouldn't be designed like your average wheelchair, because those are generally designed to accommodate people who have pelvises. His would probably look more like a plant pot or a baby bjorn, imo? It would have to support him without putting too much pressure on his torso, so I think a sort of foam well with a backrest, attached to wheels would be a good design.

I also think that his prosthetic spine should be able to dock with the wheelchair so that he can control it as an extension of his body, like the prosthetic legs.

Image description: Three pencil drawings on notebook paper. One is of Maul post-bisection, with each of his organs labeled and colostomy, urostomy, and gastronomy ports. The next two are of his wheelchair, which follows the description previously given. End ID.

And yeah, those are my headcanons! Thanks for asking :) I love talking about fantasy biology!