#on every kind of painkiller in existence

[bookofhappyescapes]

F: What’s happened to your arm?

Me: Oh, it’s about to dislocate

F: How, how do you know it’s about to dislocate???

Me: Trust me, you’d know

[bbluefllame]

hcs on how I think mha characters sleep

contains: pure silly stupidness

characters: tomura shigaraki, touya todoroki, keigo takami, izuku midoriya, toga himiko, plus one katsuki hc😭

note: LISTEN GANG I WAS SLEEPY BUT I COULDNT SKEEP SO I WAS LIKE OH EM GEE!!! keigo's went out of hand 😔😔😔

tomura shigaraki

- he usually sleeps in his normal attire, he has no energy to get up and change

- sleeps 4 hrs MAX

- his thumbs are always I mean always are covered by the rest of his fingers tightly, he probably decays mattresses every couple of months by accident

- either super light sleeper or super heavy no in-between, probably doesn't even sleep most of the time

- there's no pre-sleep routine. mf just plops down into the bed and blacks out OR he sleeps in his gaming chair😭

- if you're sleeping next to him, he would make sure he's facing the opposite side with his hands dangling at the edge of the bed just to make sure nothing happens to you.

- one thing that makes him black out is playing with his hair, like blackout like snore mimimimi type shit

- he's so still in his sleep, barely moves to the point you might think he's dead if he wasn't breathing‼️

- Overall he'd be a pretty good person to sleep next to (if he even sleeps) just make sure he doesn't have nightmares or everything is done and dusted (literally)

touya todoroki

- he either sleeps naked or something that can't snag on the staples/ irritate his scars (probably naked bcs have you seen his room?? ITS EMPTY EMPTY THERES NOTHING BESIDES HIS USUAL CLOTHES)

- I give him 5-6 hrs maybe then he wakes up but on nights where he's in too much pain, he takes a shit ton of painkillers and tries to sleep just to wake up 2 hrs later

-biggest snorer out there, complete opposite of tomura. esp w those lungs of his omg.

- you could be sleeping and BOOM 🚉 SNOREEEEEE HONKKKK you need earplugs with him, then he wakes up and goes "I don't snore, fuck you mean??"

- he tosses and turns 24/7 also he will 100% steal the blanket and kick you off, at this point it'd be more comfortable to sleep on the ground than to sleep next to him

- yk those videos where it's like someone tweaking while sleeping, like they roll around steal blankets and kick and stuff and do the craziest shit, yeah that's touya

- idk if he has a pre sleep routine I'm leaning towards it depends? he usually just makes sure his scars are clean so he doesn't get an infection and yk die!

- I conclude, a horrible person to sleep next to. Would much rather kms than tolerate a night of his torture!

keigo takami

- this bitch has 2 options, blackout the second he gets home in his hero attire, or if it's a day where he has to recover from an injury or something, these specific navy blue sweatpants and a black t-shirt

- depends on the day he's sleeping either 3 hrs or 9 hrs

- he doesn't snore but he talks in his sleep about the weirdest shit ever "noooo pls don't put me in the airfryer" he 100% has the weirdest fucking dreams to ever exist

- he never sleeps on his back, literally always on his stomach so his wings don't get in the way

- also on the topic of his wings, during said weird dreams if he's running away or something they start flapping and shit😭 it'd be so annoying to sleep next to him

- he sleepwalks 100% you look at that face and tell me he DOESNT?? he's a really light sleeper as well esp for nights where he might be called in

- definitely has a pre sleep routine (if he doesn't immediately blackout) ESP if you're living tg oh em gee, he'd have a longer skincare routine than you (tbf the skincare routine is kind of obligation from him to appeal to the civilians nd shit)

- he'd have a headband on his head pushing his hair back, washing his face, using a toner etcetera, and then going "baaaaaabeeee where'd you put my cosrx snail mucin, I know you used it" and he'd be all sassy and shit (twink cough cough sorry)

- if he's having a calm day, he's being the clingiest cutest little shit, you wanna go to eat? "nooo 5 minutes" . You wanna go to the bathroom? "Ugh be quick" while he's guarding the door waiting to tackle you and drag you back to bed. He's such a little (loving) shit

- he just lays there on top of you not willing to let go with a serene expression on his face, those days are rare though (fuck the commission 😠)

- random but he has some of the worst bed head you could ever see

- overall, kind of annoying to sleep next to (funny as well) but for him, who wouldn't tolerate it 🙏🏼

izuku midoriya

- before OFA bro used to get no sleep he'd have the most fucked up sleep schedule to ever exist ‼️‼️ like during weekends no sleep at all just staying up analyzing new heroes

- w OFA he's sleeping healthily or too much with the amount of energy he uses ESP in the first seasons when he breaks his bones a shit ton

- HIS SLEEP WEAR LMAOAOA funniest thing I've seen i don't have to say anything abt it 😭 a fucking shirt w " t-shirt" on it or sumn

- doesn't snore but moves a lot, and not even kicking?? just flipping side to side or clutching the blanket like he's a woman clutching her purse in the 1800s (no one's taking it from you calm down lil bro)

- occasionally he might talk but it's like 2 words then he flips to the other side

- no pre-sleep routine but that's bc he doesn't need one, his pre-sleep routine is studying or training, BUT bro has to be like wrapping his arms and hands at night or something bcs he's in pain (his arms are fucked up there's no way he doesn't have chronic pain)

- if you're forced to sleep next to each other (insert ur own fanfic idea of why) he would be so tense he'd have his hands by his side tryna not sleep so he doesn't annoy you, at this point, you'd be annoyed by how tense he is

- he's not a bad person to sleep next to tbf, just like he might be kinda annoying that's it

Toga Himiko

- she has pink pj's and everything she's such a cutie (some have blood on them but whoops accident!)

- she sleeps with plushies (her room is adorable. search it up pleek‼️), changes the plushie every night so "every single one of them feels loved"

- she sleeps pretty healthily although on the low side 6-7 hrs prolly, she's told by compress "You're a growing girl, you need your sleep" or something similar when she wakes up too early

- she's more giggles in her sleep rather than anything, maybe whispers a name then goes teehehehe, she's pretty calm in her sleep honestly

- she has a pre-sleep routine and it's adorable, if it's in the broke era she steals face masks (specifically hello kitty ones), moisturizers, toners, face washes and skips back to the base with a smile on her face

- has 100% forced a couple of the league members to use the face masks

- has music blasting (for some reason I see her playing like a g6 and bopping her head while putting stuff on) at 10 pm, she 100% has been forced to turn it off bcs it woke everyone up

- she's such a cuddly person as well but in the best way possible, before sleeping though 100% there's gonna be gossiping or just yapping tg

overall my favorite !! silliest girl to ever exist I luv her

bonus katsuki

- bro sleeps like a Victorian child dying from the plague, waiting for a true loves kiss type shit you'd see him and go "wtf okay disney princess😟"

[woso-dreamzzz]

Icy II

Mapi León x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: You think about your life

When you first moved from Norway and your childhood team of SK Brann, you weren't quite sure what to expect.

You were nervous and anxious and that didn't settle at all even as you headed out of the airport to meet up with Ingrid.

You'd like to think you knew Ingrid fairly well, or at least well enough that she was letting you take her spare room. You'd been called up for the past three Norway camps, though you hadn't actually set foot on the pitch.

You'd come up through Brann's Academy, the top assister in the under-nineteen team and had even been called up to the first team on occasion.

That's where you think Barcelona heard of you because suddenly the La Masia version of your youth team was making the long trek to cold Norway in the height of winter to play a friendly.

They completely demolished your team but you had been serving perfect assists into the box those scant few times you had possession of the ball.

It wasn't even a week later that they were offering you a contract. You'd assumed it was for the B team but clearly the club saw something in you because the contract was for the first team and soon you were flying over to Spain to move in with Ingrid.

She wasn't alone as you approached her car, talking to a woman you recognised as Mapi León.

You didn't speak Spanish, that much was always obvious. You only spoke passable English as well so communication with your new teammates was something that was at the front of your mind.

But Mapi just smiled at you and sounded out a sentence she had clearly memorised in Norwegian to help settle you.

You liked Mapi, you decided in the instant and decided that you would actually try hard in your Spanish lessons so you could communicate with her properly without Ingrid as the go between.

You had a day or two to settle in your new home but ultimately meeting your new teammates had come along too quickly for your liking.

You knew Ingrid, of course. You kind of knew Mapi.

You knew Caro as well. You usual position was hers so you had worked closely at Norway camp together.

She'd come out to meet you, Ingrid and Mapi in the car park.

Caro existed on your wavelength. You were both quiet and a little socially awkward. You both played the same position. You understood each other.

You weren't huggers though. You had never really received a lot of affection as a kid, just a quick head pat when you exceeded your parents' already high expectation for you.

You weren't a hugger. Caro wasn't a hugger but the way her arm rested over your shoulders was support enough.

Meeting the team was something that sent you into a bit of a tailspin. All those world class players and you.

If Ingrid hadn't been behind you, a gentle hand pushing you forward, you were sure that you would have bolted.

She was a steady presence then and now as she lays in bed with you.

You think she feels bad about yelling at you. You think she also feels bad about not getting a hold of your parents until hours after the incident. If you hadn't been in unimaginable pain, you would have warned Ingrid that your parents rarely answered if it wasn't a formal email.

Ingrid's been stuck to you since you woke up, waiting hand and foot on you. You feel bad about that. It's just a broken wrist. It was just a little surgery. You don't need her to cater to your every need. You don't want to bother her like that.

"Have the painkillers kicked in yet?"

With your wrist still strapped up, you couldn't feel much pain apart from when it moved so Ingrid had dosed you up on as much medication as possible.

She'd done the same with Mapi an hour ago so her girlfriend was currently asleep in bed while Ingrid waits for the same to happen to you.

"Mmm," You grunt.

"That's not an answer," She teases," Have they kicked in yet?"

You try to tilt your wrist, a little hard to do in your cast but you still try. "Mostly. A little twinge."

You can feel Ingrid nod behind you.

"I think it's naptime."

"I'm not a baby."

"Mapi's napping. Is she a baby?"

You don't even have to think. "Yes."

Ingrid laughs behind you, hands untangling the knots in your hair. "The doctor said that a nap would probably help."

You huff.

You've never been much of a napper. You always liked to be doing something even if that something was cleaning up your room or reading a book.

"Fine."

You roll over on your side to lay your head against Ingrid's chest as her arm comes up around you to keep you close.

The door opens and Mapi limps in, laying her crutches on the ground to crawl into bed on Ingrid's other side.

She yawns.

"You didn't tell me we were having a sleepover," She complains sleepily, pulling some of the blankets away from you.

"We weren't." The painkillers have fully kicked in now so you're drowsy as well.

You know you and Mapi are talking but it's all jumbled up in your brain.

Ingrid feels the moment you go to sleep, the steady train of nonsense coming out of your mouth slows down and you go completely limp.

Mapi falls asleep soon after as well, her yapping coming to a close mid sentence as you both snooze comfortably on her chest.

This wasn't quite the plan.

Get Mapi to sleep.

Get you to sleep.

Then make dinner.

That was the plan but you're both crowded around Ingrid's body on your little bed that barely fits you all and Ingrid doesn't want to move and wake you.

Bagheera jumps onto the bed.

"Don't," Ingrid laughs but Bagheera ignores her.

She settles comfortably in Ingrid's stomach and falls asleep too, leaving Ingrid well and truly pinned down.

It's fine, she decides.

Both you and Mapi are out of hospital.

You can just order food when everyone's awake.

[a-simple-imagine]

World Burn

synopsis: nobody messes with regina george

pairing: regina George x fem!reader

words: 1.5k+

A/N - inspired by the bikeriders. this is an au. if you would like to know more about the au please ask :)

WARNINGS - violence, threats and arson

the human body is so incredibly fragile. it's actually rather pathetic. as it crumbles so easily under a little pressure. bruises are so common. even paper can be dangerous. and it was never more evident as you were being helped up the stairs towards her office. part of you couldn't help but wonder how you got into this mess in the first place. the other? well, that worried about whether she would be mad at you.

the stairs feel so much longer when you struggle with each step. the twang of metal so much louder as your footfalls against the surface. it almost felt like a miracle when you reached the top. stumbling into her office, you're basically dragged to the couch against the far wall.

"What happened?" you can't tell how she's feeling. is that concern? anger? she's rather neutral

"We just found her like this,"

"saw a couple cars drive away though,"

they place you down carefully. the cool leather of the couch is almost soothing to the touch. your entire body feels numb. weightless even. burning. it hurts to breathe. every rise and fall of your chest sends a sharp jolt through your body. it's a moment before she comes over to you. tall and proud. staring down at you but her intimidating aura soon softens as she falls beside you. A gentle hand is placed below your chin to force you to look at her. "can you tell me who did this?" your eyes meet for a second before you pull away. a small shrug. "Baby," you feel stupid. powerless. like some pathetic little kid. you don't know what happened... well, not exactly. you were jumped by a couple of people when you got home. you don't know who they were or how they got in but you remember red hot pain wash over you afterwards. "please, talk to me," her voice so gentle you'd think it wasn't her. Regina was many things but gentle wasn't one of them. She treated you like you were her entire world but still a world she ruled. she was in charge.

"I'm sorry,"

"what for?" you don't really know. for not fighting back. for not doing something. anything at all. you just took it. you shrug again. Regina pulls you against her. it's supposed to be comforting but with the way your body feels it is sharp. you eventually relax into her. burying your face into her neck. "I'm gonna find who did this." said quietly. "you're safe. I promise." was she trying to convince you or herself?"

It's a couple of days and a lot of painkillers later you're being led down a seedy alleyway. you're mostly fine. lots of bruises, a few scratches and a broken rib but you've gotten over the initial shock. Regina is a step ahead with her hand in yours. Gretchen walks beside her, struggling to keep up with the blonde. those two were inseparable. or more so, Gretchen followed Regina around like a puppy. she basically existed to keep Regina happy. did everything she was told. her right-hand man. next to you was Karen. a little spacey. big heart. Regina had a whole bunch of others who followed her command too but Gretchen and Karen were the only ones who were always by her side. and you too now. kind of. the air is thick with heavy booze. it's far from your usual setting. Regina almost seemed out of place. it was rare she saw to matters herself. normally that was Gretchen's job if it was delicate or she'd delegate to somebody else. today was different apparently. you never came along on jobs either but again today was different. She pushes the door to an almost invisible bar; you'd hardly notice it's there unless you were looking. it's small in size, dingy and dark. mostly empty apart from the bartender and two gentlemen. one face down on a table while the other sipped from a whiskey glass at the bar. the two conscious individuals look your way. you didn't know them but it made you feel uneasy. you squeeze her hand but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care as you parade through the space towards the bartender. a short guy. he gives up the boss's location without hesitation. points to a room in the far corner. you have a bad feeling about this, or maybe the pills weren't sitting right. the blonde barges through the door without a care in the world. it's a small office. a woman sits behind a desk; a guy leaps up as you enter, another just stands beside her. guns raised but not fired. the blonde is entirely unfazed. just marches straight for the desk, dragging you along with her.

"It's okay," a delicate hand shoots up, a message to her men to stand down. "Regina George, to what do I owe this pleasure?" a slow glance up, she wears a playful smile as their eyes meet. She was expecting this encounter. planned it even. they both just stare at each other for a moment. this other woman is pretty up close but hardly stands out amongst the likes of Regina. you have never seen her before. most of the people in this business visited the club if not to party then to speak with Regina. She ran things around here. the head bitch many would say. the new girl has a twinkle in her eye. that fresh off the boat, proud of themselves look that was about to be utterly destroyed

"cute." uttered quietly, the blonde stood a little taller. "Gretchen," Gretchen Weiners comes scurrying along to appear beside you.

"This is Gretchen, say hi Gretchen."

"Hello," Gretchen smiles softly, an awkward little wave.

"and I assume you've already met-" Regina ushers you forward, a possessive hand on your shoulder. you offer a shy smile. "do you wanna tell me what happened?"

you look at Regina through the corner of your eye. Was she talking to you or them? "I don't know what you're talking about," they respond.

"that's okay. I already know," Regina insists with a smile. "I know about everything that goes on around here."

"what's your point?"

"name?"

"cady? Cady heron."

"well, Cady," Regina's voice is slow. "do you have something you would like to say to my girl here?"

Cady stands now as if trying to get on the same level as Regina. she's naturally smaller though so it doesn't quite work. "not that I can think of, so, if you could leave my office."

it's a long tense moment that feels like it may never end. "you're new around here so maybe you just don't know better," the blonde leans in closer now. "but if you ever so much as look at her in the wrong way ever again, I'll break every bone in this pathetic little body of yours, got it?"

"got it," Regina maintains her gaze before turning around with a flick of her long hair.

"is that it?" you ask, hurrying after her.

"you trust me right?"

"of course," you nod quickly.

"she won't come near you again. promise." you want to believe her but she hardly did anything. You have a broken rib and all she did was a little threat that Cady didn't even seem phased by? would that keep her away?

it's strangely beautiful if not a little menacing. the way the red and orange flickers against the night sky. the flames getting bigger. brighter. more powerful. so hot against the skin even as you just stare on. a pair of arms slip around your shoulders enveloping you in their warm embrace. Regina presses up against you from behind. "it's pretty, isn't it?"

you nod a little and she places the most delicate of kisses against your cheek. she'd set the bar on fire. well, not her directly. probably Gretchen or some other no-name follower. and now you were all just watching it burn. "aren't you scared?"

"I doubt Cady has the power for that,"

"no, I mean like- you set the place on fire. the police and firefighters are gonna show up at any minute but everyone is so calm,"a soft chuckle. one you can feel more than hear. Regina was amused, squeezing you a little tighter. "I don't want you to get in trouble,"

"oh baby," a term of endearment but it felt just a little patronising as a hand graced your cheek and moved your head to look at her. "you worry too much, everything will be fine."

"Are there people still inside?" you ask. Regina doesn't answer, just kisses you before letting go and turning back to the fire at hand. it's surprisingly tranquil. no police had come yet. no fire trucks. just the roaring fire. you wonder about Cady still inside. maybe she got out. maybe she was warned. maybe you're just better off not knowing. "it's so hot."

"yeah," a kiss to the back of your head. "I'm also getting hungry- should we get food?" you nod against her. She releases you from her grip and takes your hand instead.

"still feeling sore?"

"a little but I'm okay," you answer.

"you sure? we can head home?"

you shake your head. "let's go out."

Regina presents you with a smile. bright and warm like the fires raging behind her as she leads you off towards the car. you can't help but glance back and look at the flames that quite literally burn for you

[asgardianechoes]

Cramps Be Gone

Loki X Reader Fluff

Summary: You’re on your period, you’re frustrated, and Loki’s there to help you.

A/n: I got this idea on day one of my period, so… here we are.

The day could’ve been much more cheerful. You and Loki originally planned to go out today. Instead, you were curled up in your bed, groaning every other minute. Why? Because a very unwanted guest showed up at your door this morning. Guess who? None other than your monthly bleed-out session, aka period.

You were lying in your bed with the unhappy knowledge that this will not end anytime soon. Waves upon waves of stab-like pains shot through your lower abdomen, making you groan and press down on that spot. You were tired. So damn tired of it. You were looking forward to this date, but now it’s ruined. You were originally thinking about taking painkillers, but Loki absolutely disagreed.

‘Painkillers,’ he said strictly, ‘are merely something Midgardians came up with to gain more money. They do not help conquer it; it only allows them to forget about it. If you use such things, y/n, believe me, you will behave carelessly and only worsen it and wish me to get you more. Therefore, no, you will not be using such trashy Midgardian medicine. It isn’t even medicine, in my eyes.’ He added, pulling a face.

Loki was there for you, of course. He was always there to help you with your needs, he even let you have breakfast in bed (something he doesn’t usually allow. ‘You’ll dirty everything,’ he used to say in a tone of finality). But he wasn’t there for the most part. He has work to do, you know this, but you still wished he could give it all up and just stay with you. Flipping over under your blankets, you resumed cursing your life.

I’m lonely, you thought sadly, your head under your blankets. You wished your period showed up just one day later. You and Loki have been dating for nearly a month now, it was clear to you that your time of the month was going to hit anytime. But why on this day? On the one day you don’t want it?

You were, not gonna lie, very frustrated. And angry. In need of something (or someone) to rage to, you started blaming your boyfriend for your pain. What was possibly so important that he had to leave you? Couldn’t he leave it till your bleeding days were over? Why? That word seemed to exist in every single thought you had flowing in your head. Why?

On day three it was going terrifying. It was hurting so much you couldn’t even bring yourself to sit upright in your bed. You prayed it would be over, but apparently your prayers were ignored. Oh, how you’d like this shit to finally just end. Loki had to feed you breakfast, it was so painful. He even teased you. Like, is this guy for real? (‘I mean, I could make it go away for nine months…’ he had said while smirking. You slapped his hand, scrunching up your face.) But after that he just pressed a kiss to your forehead and walked out. Sometimes you regret dating this guy.

It was nearly noon when he came back. Your aches soothed a little, but were almost just the same as before. He sat down at the edge of your bed, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face.

‘Oh, now you decide to show up,’ you groaned, ‘now that I’m literally dying in my bed. How was work?’ you put emphasis on the word ‘work’ as you knew he must feel at least slightly guilty about leaving you hanging. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and said: ‘Well, about that…’ He looked at you with a pleading look, as if wishing for you not to get angry for what he was going to say. You narrowed your eyes, staring back with a suspicious look.

‘What?’ you asked, your breathing kind of shallow due to the pain throbbing in your lower abdomen. ‘What wonderful surprise have you prepared for me?’ Loki sighed, as if preparing himself for a scolding, and said: ‘I have not been working. Or at least, I wasn’t doing Avengers’ work.’

You bolted upright, causing a stab of pain to shoot through your body. His hand instinctively rose to hold your back and lead you back down. ‘What?! So you’re telling me that you weren’t even doing important shit while I was mentally and physically dying?! What-‘ he put a finger to your lips to shush you. ‘Let me finish,’ he said gently. You reluctantly laid back down, staring at him with accusatory eyes.

‘I have been working, darling. For the past few days I have been digging through my books to find a safe and healthy painkiller for you. You see, Asgardians value health over money, and we have much safer medicines than those on Midgard.’ He says, brushing his hand over your hurting part over your blanket. Heavens, he looked hot when he looked at you with these loving eyes.

Even after listening to his explanation, you still wanted to blame him. Keeping that annoyed look on your face, you whined at him: ‘Well… that’s very… nice of you. But- you should’ve told me beforehand! I thought you were being careless and didn’t give a shit about me! I was so upset.’ Loki looked at you knowingly before answering: ‘Honey, if I told you, you would’ve distracted me with your rushes and caused me to slow down my pace.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘After you’ve recovered, darling.’ He replied, smirking. You rolled your eyes, your cheeks reddening. This man knows exactly how to get to you, you can give him that.

With a swift move, he slipped your blanket off. You shivered slightly at the sudden chill, but Loki reassured you that it wasn’t going to take long. Softly, he brushed his hand over your abdomen, and you felt a warmth surge through where he touched. Soon, you could feel the pain leaving you, finally giving you peace. You sighed, relieved that it was all finally over. You laid back down, closing your eyes and drinking in the fact that Loki was your lover.

‘Be careful,’ he warned as you beamed at him, ‘you may stain easier, now that you don’t feel it.’ You didn’t even wait for him to finish before half-singing: ‘Yeah, yeah, I know-‘ you were suddenly so happy that your period said bye-bye, you thought Loki might’ve given you a cheer-up spell or something.

Eager, you tried to get out of bed, but only got shoved back in. You pouted up at him, staring into his blue eyes. ‘Just because you don’t feel it does not mean it is no longer there. Stay in bed.’ He said.

You hmphed at him, burrowing back into the sheets to sulk. Loki smiles. What a girl he had found.

HELLO! Hope you enjoyed it :D My posting is still kinda limited, thank you for your patience

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[seat-safety-switch]

You may have heard in the news that Taco Bell is going big-time on artificial intelligence. Let me tell you that I, George Taco-Bellerson III, got zooted up on painkillers last night while watching First Contact and I'd be the first to bone down with the bald cyborg lady. Also Worf, but that's a subject for a different boardroom meeting than this one.

In the future, AI will assemble the Taco Bell menu items randomly from our small set of available ingredients. Every meal will be different. Accidentally, inevitably, a flavour singularity will emerge.

If God did not exist, then we would have to invent him. Today, we have invented a new kind of God.

We believe Chipotle, our so-called "competitor," is weak. They will only serve food that they believe people want to eat. We here at Taco Bell know that this primitive paternalistic superstition is untrue: our customers often cannot tell the difference between menu items and menus.

Unrestrained by the indulgent morality of the flesh, the Taco Bell Sentience has already begun to execute a campaign of advertising-based psyops using a series of hacked accounts and plausible-sounding artificial pundits on news programs, moulding human opinion with gentle pushes into accepting the new world of Fast Mexican. It was released thirty seven minutes ago, and our society is no longer the one we once knew. Gentlemen, reach now beneath your seats and withdraw your suicide injectors.

Together, we leave this plane of existence as martyrs, bound now for the verdant fields of infinite profitability as we leave an immortal and unattended machine spewing raw cash behind.��I can see next quarter's EPS now.

[shinobushaori]

PRETTY DOCTOR

- kochou shinobu x gender neutral! reader

warnings: none

wordcount: 728

"Urgh..."

As your eyelids slowly regain strength to rise, the sunlight immediately ceases it and you wince, groaning afterwards when that unmistakable familiar pain overtakes your body. Tensing your muscles, you take in the wisteria aroma before blinking as you look around at your surroundings and recognize the similar rowed beds.

You breathed in a sigh of relief, eyes closing and your muscles relaxing in place. "Fuck yeah.."

Once again, you've seen the light of day and survived against the demons you've grown to loathe. You've always come to appreciate the warmth that seems to offer a bit of comfort to your ruined state. It serves as a motivation as well, that even the most disastrous evening has a mirthful morning.

It definitely doesn't make the experience less painful though but you'll take any kind of comfort at this point.

"Oh? You're finally awake?"

A soothing voice enters your ears and you take time to appreciate it. Slowly opening your eyes, the sunlight blurs your sight but you ignore it and tilt your head towards your saviour.

You give them a grateful smile, "Thank you.."

Noticing they went silent, you closed your eyes again and concentrated on your breathing. A painful process, but one worth in the end. Thankfully, you can feel your wounds covered in cooled padding that helps you further into comfort.

You sigh deeply, this is why you absolutely adore doctors.

Healers, doctors, caretakers. People who provide their own personal time to take care of other injured beings are people you will always appreciate. They heal the wounded and lead the broken and you fully believe, without these incredible human beings, the Demon Slayer Corps would be in ruins.

Old hags in wisteria houses that cater to your every need and bandage your broken bones without a second thought, a kind random bystander that offers you their house as temporary longing, hell even the kids that would sympathize with your pain and try to help you stand.

They all have touched your heart and encourage you to be a stronger person than before. So, that they could freely dedicate their time to other wounded people other than yourself and lessen the burden they're carrying.

A hand softly lands on your chest and you flinch as your eyes flutter open. Some of the curtains were somehow closed for your mercy, you suspect the mysterious figure hovering above you and your eyesight slowly recovers.

"Breathe in slowly, don't rush in or you'll only trouble yourself."

That easing voice again spoke up.

You closed your eyes and followed their direction. Their hand, notably small yet strong, kindly guiding you. The moment you take too much air in, it softly pushes your chest and you exhale in turn.

"Thank you.. Oba-san.." Your husky voice huff out.

Although, you take note that the giggling sound you receive is definitely far from the usual nagging hags. Do these angry aunts even have the soul to laugh? You appreciate them but they clearly have something against the world.

Your eyes crack open and you stiffen seeing the woman in front of you. It definitely wasn't an old lady that would glare at you for being reckless nor a wrinkled person that laughs a bit hard when they accidentally tighten your bandages too much.

No, instead it's a beautiful woman. Purple tinted eyes perfectly framed with her other delicate features. Her existing smile widened seeing you frozen and for the first time, your stomach makes leaps and plays jump rope with your intestines and insides. While your face seemingly gets caught on fire and creates havoc in your mind.

Her hand trails up and teasingly taps your cheek, "Do I look that old to you?"

Your jaw only drops in response and she, oh dear she, oh breathtaking she, giggles even more.

"Well? Does Oba-san needs to give you some painkillers?"

Oh fuck.

"Maybe Oba-san could hold my hand instead?" Your voice answers involuntarily. No one could blame how you basically short-circuited and even the beauty didn't mind your words. She seemed amused even and her arm slowly crept down, her hand, soft and smooth, takes your hand in a clasp.

She tilts her head, pink soft-looking lips stretched in such a pretty smile that your face flushed instantly.

"Oba-san will take care of you, okay? Restwell!"

A/N: I made this 10 days ago and this was supposedly wayyy longer than it should be but I think at the same time, it's better and funny this way. I might make a part two, just maybe.

[delopsia]

aches & pains | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader on their period, cuddles, baths together, Rhett's hurt his shoulder, sharing a cup of tea, period cramps, Rhett getting sick, and a whole bunch of mushy soft stuff. A splash of hurt/comfort if you take the hurt literally 🤍 Brief Summary: You might not be able to avoid the aches and pains of the world, but at least you've got each other.

There is nothing quite as undoing as the sudden, vicious tightening of the muscles in your lower belly. Body alight with what you can only describe as the sensation of being stabbed by the invisible knife of a ghost you've pissed off by merely existing. Each jolt of pain worse than the last. Letting up just long enough to deceive you into believing the onslaught has stopped, only to continue the moment your relieved breath meets the air. 

Your hand fumbles with the sleeve of Rhett's jacket, still unsure if you want to clutch the thick material to your belly or if you want to keep it under your head. The pressure is a tempting distraction, but removing your makeshift pillow means your neck will be in that awkward position again. Extending a little too far down to meet the curve of Rhett's bench seat, enough to rise another inconvenience. 

Ugh.

There's a noise outside the passenger side of the truck. Voices of the people parked next to you and the dull thunk of their door hitting Rhett's door, no doubt adding another scratch to the deep blue paint.

You can't even begin to think about calling them out for it. Even the idea of moving your mouth is too much for your weary body to handle. 

A gust of wind rocks the body of the truck, lightly swaying back and forth like some terrifying, oversided cradle. The breeze screams as it whips past the frame, searching for every nook and crack it can find, squeezing into the crevices, determined to get in and wrap you up in its icy grasp. 

And it gets in.

The door squeals as it's forced open by that wicked wind, its big, frosty fingers reaching in to wrap around your ankle—

"'y feelin' alright?" Rhett's voice is so warm that you can almost almost ignore the frost that's rudely nipping at your nose. 

It hurts, craning your neck to look at him like this. Such a simple movement sends your lower belly into a fit of rage, twisting and churning in the kind of fashion that no over-the-counter painkiller can dull. His left arm sits in an off-white sling, cradling it to his chest, his worn face clouded with dirt and a collection of blood from a recently split lip. If you didn't know any better, you'd think the Tillersons picked another fight with him.

"Are you alright?" You croak, shifting to pull your legs in, going against the will of every tiny little nerve that screams, begs for you not to move. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your eyes screw shut. Fingers digging into the cloth seat until you're certain it's beginning to rip. 

Oh, the joys of living in a body that seems to hate you with every fiber of its being. 

The truck sways as Rhett climbs into the driver seat, wordlessly fitting into the gap of space you've painstakingly created for him. Not enough for him to comfortably sit, and certainly not for him to drive, but he's able to close the door just fine, albeit struggling with his left arm being out of commission.

"Y' didn't answer my question," his hand delves under the leg of your sweatpants as he speaks, cold fingers like a dream against your too-hot skin. 

Your head thunks against the side of the door, and for a moment, it's enough to distract from the war going on inside of you. "You didn't answer mine," the corner of your eye twitches, the only visible indicator of the pain flooding back into your senses. 

"Fell off the bull wrong," the corner of Rhett's lip rises like an injury of this caliber is some minor, funny thing that should be smiled about. Like he isn't holding a pretty new prescription for another round of pain medication. Freshly printed. Just in time to replace what he was given for those broken ribs a couple of weekends ago. 

You should have been there. Cheering him on like you always do, jumping to your feet with the crowd, and delivering a thundering applause as his name soared to the top of the scoreboard. Chasing down a third season win in a row, a rare Wabang champ looking to take down his fathers record. But instead, here you are, torn apart by a menstrual cycle. 

Rhett squeezes your ankle, a reminder that he's still here, "You don't look like y' feel any better."

"I feel worse," you croak, mouth suddenly dry as you sift for the energy to move again. The equivalent of searching for a drop of water in a blazing desert. Futile in every sense of the term. Leaving you to squirm miserably against the seat until you're somewhat upright, slouched against Rhett's side. 

His wind-bitten nose nudges against your cheek, "'m sorry," that big, warm arm wraps around your shoulders as he speaks, drawing you close, "Want me to stop 'n get y' somethin'? Or would you rather we go home?" 

"Home," you whisper, "please."

It isn't the safest idea. No, not by a long shot. 

But you find yourself sinking back down against the bench seat again, head coming to rest against Rhett's jean-clad thigh as he drives out of the parking lot. His left arm wriggling out of the sling, thick fingers brushing back and forth at the back of your neck. Some odd thing that, when combined with the deep rumble of his truck, could almost put you to sleep. 

Almost. 

Because nothing can fully distract from that vicious spasming of muscles, wound so tightly that your body can't fully stretch out. Stuck in an awkward curl that has your knees hanging over the edge of the seat.

The truck is sitting at one of the only red lights in Wabang when a hat comes to perch on your hip. Chipped and torn at the edge, one of its many signs of age, and just a little bit dusty from landing in the dirt. Come morning, you're sure you'll find Rhett cleaning it before he heads off to work.

But right now, he's looking down at you. Hair cascading across his dirty face, eyes sparkling with a fondness you can't quite describe. Soft shades of blue that look black in this dark truck, poorly illuminated by a street lamp. 

"What?" You chirp, blinking up at him, doe-eyed as can be. What's he looking at you for? 

His head shakes, "nothin'." 

A horn blares. Effectively shattering whatever moment you two just held. 

It only serves to make room for another, a little more mundane and a smidgen quieter; silence kept at bay by the guttural groan of the truck motor and the soft melody of the radio. Some country song that reminisces on the past, in all of its melancholy, sorrowful glory. Not the type of song that would necessarily get to you on a normal day, but right now, it's got a wateriness forming in the corners of your eyes.

You wonder if this will ever come to an end. 

The quiet aftermath of rodeos, as Rhett drives the both of you home for a celebration of your own determining, away from the hustle and bustle of bars and in the coziness of your living room. What will these Sunday nights look like when he quits chasing gaudy belt buckles and is satisfied with the number of wins under his belt? 

Will you two still be a thing when that day comes? Or is this the kind of thing that never really ends, devolving into a life of shared goods and bads until fate comes to claim one of you? 

Your head tilts, body shifting until you're lying on your back, now gazing up at that handsome face of his, even if he's got more dirt under his jaw than you'd like to admit. It's hard to imagine a day when this man becomes nothing but a memory to you, but if the world doesn't tear you two apart, then...

"I can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart," Rhett's tone is warm, shaped by the smile gracing his lips. 

Surprised, your gaze darts away, "Just thinking." 

Gravel pops and scatters beneath the tires, your only indication that he's pulling into your driveway. Still a sad collection of dirt, dust, and rock, waiting for the day your landlord commits to his decision of having it properly paved. 

"'bout what?" Rhett's reaching to put the truck in park, and just like that, you've got his full attention. Not another distraction on this planet that can take his attention away from you. 

And maybe that's what makes it so hard for you to speak, all of a sudden, "Do you think...we're going to be a forever kind of thing?" 

Maybe you shouldn't have asked that because although his good hand is dipping down, thump running across your cheek, his eyelashes are fluttering in a fashion reserved for when he's overwhelmed or caught off guard. 

A muscle against his temple flexes as the gears in his head begin to turn. Dissolving into genuine thought as he continues to look down at you.

"Yeah," it's gruff, borderline unintelligible, but it's there. "I kind of...already thought this was a forever thing, if 'm bein' real honest with ya."

There are more words that can be said, eloquently tied together with a shiny new ribbon and gently scented with your favorite flowers, but they don't need to be spoken. You get what each other means just by the dumb, wobbly smiles on your faces. 

"How's a bubble bath sound?" His thumb smooths over your lips like he's trying to memorize every part of you, "might make y' feel a lil' better, won't it?" 

Somehow, you already knew he was going to suggest that, always has been on the top of his 'make it better' list ever since the day you first mentioned them. "Will you get in with me?"

His head shakes, and it's the last thing you were hoping to see. "Naw, I got enough dirt on me to turn it into a mud bath." 

Famous last words because the moment you're settled in with all the lightly scented bubbles, and your hand starts making that childish grabby motion, quietly whining for him to get in with you, he cracks. Skips unbuttoning his flannel in exchange for tugging it over his head, and you'll pretend you don't notice the fresh accumulation of dirt on your recently mopped floor. 

He never has been good at telling you no. 

"'m gettin' ya all dirty, doll," he chuckles, but he's not stopping you from squishing your cheek against his flushed chest. From here, it's easy to catch the swelling in his left shoulder. It doesn't seem to bother him all that much, but it's sure to give him hell come sunrise. 

"We're in a bath," as if to emphasize your statement, you reach out, collecting a pile of bubbles in your palm and squishing it to his meaty chest, "You're allowed to be dirty."

He's quiet for a moment, and then, "The water's turnin' brown."

"We'll run more water," you huff, foot kicking against his, sending a wave sloshing against the side of the tub. Distantly, you think you can hear drops of water splattering against the tile floor, but you can't bring yourself to care. 

And it's so, so easy to ignore when Rhett's heart pitter patters beneath your ear, a dull thump, thump, thump that has become your favorite lullaby. Drawing you a little closer, eyelids growing heavier with every passing moment. 

Until he sneezes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. 

"Getting sick?" Your voice is a little rougher than you remember it being, thick with what was almost sleep. 

"Nah," Rhett's rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand, leaving it tinted with a bright shade of red, "takes a lot for me t' get sick."

Famous last words because it only marks the start of more sneezing. A never-ending fit that makes it a tad bit difficult to run your soapy fingers through his knotted hair, scrubbing away a day's worth of dirt and grime that hid so, so well in the darkness of his curls. Unruly bubbles cascade down his neck and across his broad shoulders, where he's unknowingly collected a few freckles. 

And, of course, you have to use your hands to wipe them away. After all, who would you be if you didn't sneak a few skirting touches here and there? 

The sniffling starts somewhere between the naked dash to the linen closet because both of you managed to forget the towels and when a sea of rage boils up in your lower belly. Muscles twisting and turning for the umpteenth time today because an hour of relief is far too much for your body to allow you. 

"Hurtin' again?" Rhett's words muffled by his toothbrush, still working away at his teeth. 

All you can do is nod and hope that he sees it; your eyes have long since screwed shut as if it'll do anything to relieve the war raging inside your body. Hands itching to reach for the bottle of painkillers in the cabinet, but your head reminds you that you're already on the maximum dosage. 

Water runs. The plastic handle of the toothbrush banging against the side of the sink as Rhett shakes off the water clinging to the bristles. 

"C'mon," Rhett's wet hand wraps around your own, gently tugging, "got an idea."

Before you can so much as take a step forward, you know what he's up to. 

He's making tea. 

Because, as his momma always says, a little bit of tea can fix just about anything. A sentiment that has transformed that spare cabinet in your kitchen into a collection of various teas that even outnumber the amount carried by the local grocery store. Chamomile, peppermint, hibiscus, lemon, green, milk, and that one odd brand he uses for sweet tea, just to name a few. 

Getting the kettle on the stove is easy; Rhett holds the container under the faucet while you man the water flow, and that should be it. 

But waiting is an entirely new kind of horrible; the last time water was boiled in the house, both of you fell asleep and nearly missed the frantic howling from the kitchen. A mistake that has left the two of you leaning up against the cabinets, your head resting against Rhett's, listening to the gentle rattle of the kettle as the water heats up.

"You aren't putting your sling back on?" You whisper, words slurring together, tongue too lazy to fully break them apart. The vague memory lingering in the back of your head suggests that he left the sling hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and with the way he minds his left side entirely, you know he needs it, but...

"No point," his head tilts, lips pressing idly against your temple, "neither of us are gonna make it to midnight."

You can't help the giggle he works out of you, "remember the days when we stayed at the bar until they kicked us out?"

"You mean two weekends ago?" Now he's laughing with you; two weeks feels like such a long time ago. 

Something in your lower abdomen twitches, an organ you weren't aware of until now. Must be its own form of karma because a twinge of pain jolts through you when your eyes roll. "Better than two months, I suppose."

"Nah, two months is good too," his eyes are on you, boring two warm holes into the thin skin of your cheek. You'd meet his eye, but you fear you'd catch fire. "And two years...and twenty years, 'n when we're in the old folks home talkin' 'bout havin' a wild night out at bingo."

You can picture it now. Silvery canes, wrinkled skin, and a tattered, brown cowboy hat that you just know Rhett will keep for the rest of his life because it's 'still good.' It's already begun to tear on the inside, and it's, what, five years old? Six, maybe? 

"Staying out 'till eight, how scandalous," speaking in the best dramatic voice you can manage, hand rising to rest over your heart. 

Rhett's weight shifts, leaving you to slouch against his shoulder instead, "'m sure we'll be able to hold out 'till nine," 

What's worse, you can't bring yourself to move, even if the muscles in your neck are twitching and protesting in tune with your belly. "Rhett, we're barely managing to hold it together now, and it's only eleven."

"... eight-thirty?" 

You really,

truly,

do not know what you're going to do with him.

An ear-splitting whistle tears through the air, drawing your attention back to the long mugs and their chosen tea bags. Which tea did you choose again? You can hardly remember. 

But now you've got a warm cup between your palms, the kind of cozy gentleness that transports you right to bed in one sip. One minute, you're standing side by side at the counter, and the next, your legs are hopelessly tangled. His shirt is missing, gifting you the freedom of resting your forehead against his wondrously broad chest. Rough fingers stroke up and down your back, the clumsy brushings of a painting that only Rhett can see. 

"Does your throat hurt?" His voice rumbles, and in the dark of the bedroom, it almost sounds like thunder. The beginnings of a storm that will transform your metal rooftop into a choir, proudly singing its songs for the umpteenth time this week.

Despite lightly scalding your mouth, a little too eager for your tea, you can't seem to find the slightest hint of soreness or pain. The only thing out of the ordinary is your slightly scalded tongue. "You're getting sick, baby," you mutter, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of his face.

It's hard to see from this angle, but you don't mind the view of his jaw. His stubble is long enough to feel soft under your fingers when you reach to rub your thumb against the bone. 

"'m not gettin' sick," but the confidence in his tone is overridden by the edges of hoarseness, cracking his vowels in two.

You both know that his protests are futile. When Rhett Abbott gets sick, it hits him like a goddamn freight train, ripping the strength from his muscles and leaving him a red-nosed, miserable mess. Nine times out of ten that means you'll be picking it up as soon as he's feeling better. 

So what's possessing you to crane your head up and kiss his lips, effectively sealing your fate?

"Whatever you say, cowboy," the corners of your lips rise, and you could say more if you really wanted to, but he's already kissing you back. Lazily opening his mouth to yours, scruffy chin rubbing against your jaw, as his hand flattens against the small of your back. It's wet and its messy, every motion punctured by a slick sound in the air, and it's everything. 

And it's going to get you so, so sick.

Sleep must come somewhere after Rhett rubbing your noses together and that one yawn that forces your eyes shut because it's the only thing you can recall when a gentle rattle of the house wakes you. Thunder, accompanied by her beloved friend, rain, stirring up a fuss outside your window. The clouds thick enough to block out the sun's heated rays, drenching your home in a coolness that can only be thwarted by the body against yours. 

Your leg shifts, slipping out from between Rhett's, as you readjust yourself. It's too early to be awake.

"Where y' goin'?" A voice whines in a tone you hardly recognize.

Until you do. 

From the moment your eyes lay on Rhett's paler-than-usual face, you know what's happened. Whatever bug he's caught, it's worked fast because, in less than twelve hours, he's gone from sneezing and a sore throat to this.

His cheeks a little swollen, eyelids drooping in that too-tired fashion usually reserved for long days on the Abbott ranch, and oh, the bags under his not-so-awake eyes. 

"I know," he mutters, dejected, "'m sick." His face wrinkles as he speaks, like it's hurting him to talk, that sore throat coming back to bite him as hard as it can. 

"Sick is an understatement," you're almost afraid to run your fingers through his hair, not out of fear of getting sick but of breaking him and that glass smile. "You look horrible."

"Works gonna suck," he's scooting down the bed, face disappearing under the sheets as he nuzzles into your chest. But even the thickness of the blankets can't muffle that sharp inhale when his left arm goes to wrap around you. 

It's easy to feel the swelling, even without being able to see what your hand is touching, because his shoulder isn't as bony as the rest of his body. "You can't work like this," you're likely embarking on a losing battle, but he's even wincing away from your faint touch. Too sore to be touched. 

"Yes...can," is what you think he says; it's hard to decipher what comes out of his mouth when his face is actively burrowing into your chest. 

You know you've won when he falls back into that peaceful, sleepy silence. Unconcerned with arguing or fussing about what will happen when his father learns of his no-show at the ranch. Simply content to lay here in bed, with your soft hand stroking up and down the knobs of his spine in that feather-light sort of way that makes him gasp. 

"Stay 'ere?" He's speaking funny, trying to escape that nagging sensation in his throat.

"Yeah," pressing a kiss to the top of his head, messy hair and all, "stay here."

Both of you are asleep within minutes, escaping the world for a few more hours, just you, Rhett, and this big, comfy bed. You might not be able to avoid the aches and pains of the world, but at least you've got each other. 

[masiethewriter]

Honored Eternal Path of Demise CH. 20 - Lost Found

"Senior!" He suddenly whispers, pulling Shen Qingqiu out of his thoughts. He moves them to the side, pressing them both against the wall. A second after Shen Qingqiu realizes why. Intimately recognizable footsteps, followed by the scrape of metal. There is no doubt who is coming their way.

First Chapter ~~ Previous Chapter ~~ AO3 Link

Binghe is in a bad mood.

Furrowed brows and downturned lips. Not saying a single word. An aura of unhappiness thick enough that it sticks to the tongue. There really isn't any doubt about Binghe’s current emotional state.

It isn't that Shen Qingqiu is not aware of Binghe's temper. There exist many examples of his rage both in the novel and in the game. Binghe is quite an expressive guy, despite his skills with acting. Shen Qingqiu is just surprised by how different it feels when spending time with him directly instead of reading about him as a character.

Whether happy or angry, unless he has a reason to hide it, he wears his emotions on his sleeves. Which only makes it more awkward when Shen Qingqiu still has to lean on the guy while he looks more murderous than the Killer.

The problem is that Shen Qingqiu is certain he is the last person who can cheer Binghe up right now.

Right after the earlier assault, the shock had left his thoughts shaken and muddy. This served to strengthen Binghe's worry, making him look over Shen Qingqiu, afraid the fall had worsened the injuries. 

He was not wrong to check, even while unable to do anything about them.

The bandages on Shen Qingqius arm, still soaked, were clinging to his skin to the point of scraping the burnt flesh. The bandages on his foot were also drenched, but besides water, they were also reddened from blood. Of course, in both instances this had already been caused by Shen Qingqiu's near drowning experience prior, but the meeting between harsh rock and vulnerable flesh had caused it to worsen.

The skin of his arm had now split in multiple places, droplets of blood running down the white cloth. How the foot looked, neither Binghe nor Shen Qingqiu dared to look. But even with Binghe's careful touch, it felt too loose, like if he wanted to, he could just pluck it right off Shen Qingqiu's leg.

The power of video game painkillers should never be underestimated. No way Shen Qingqiu could stay this composed otherwise. But every time another shock was aimed at his wounds, the effect of the one pill still in his system ran the risk of losing its effect.

It still held out. For now. Shen Qingqiu had just needed time to gather himself after another surge of suffering. Which meant Binghe was free to see the terrible state of his battered body.

And it was right after that, that Binghe saw the note. From there, there was nothing Shen Qingqiu could say or do to manage the situation. 

No, this time it wasn't a trap. But that didn't matter to Binghe.

Shen Qingqiu had been out of his sight for a second. Something bad had happened. And then there was another page from that diary. 

To describe Binghe as pissed was an understatement. 

He hadn't shouted. Most likely because of the echo of the hallway. He hadn't left Shen Qingqiu to squirm on the ground. Binghe is too kind for that. He even read the note out loud, its content containing such a different mood to theirs, it was almost laughable. 

He had then torn it into pieces. Afterwards he eyed the pocket where Shen Qingqiu kept the diary, his want clearly written on his face. Likely the only reason he didn't destroy the entire book was because he didn't want to risk the struggle of wrestling it from Shen Qingqiu's grasp.

Instead he stomped over to one of the lights, making quick work of releasing the candle, before coming back to hand it to Shen Qingqiu. Silently, he had picked up the crowbar, looking for a second like he just wanted to release a series of smashes against the brick wall.

He didn't. He picked up Shen Qingqiu and without further delay, he directed them through the hallways, following the route they had chosen together.

Okay, listen! Shen Qingqiu understands that he has rotten luck. This session has done nothing but prove that time and time again. But as he has already said to Binghe, it is not like he is trying to get himself killed here. He really does not have a single suicidal bone in his body, he swears!

Honestly, this might just be punishment for Shen Qingqiu taking Ning Yingying's place for the tutorial. He was never meant to leave the mansion that early and the game has only confirmed that since. Really, what has he gotten out of this session besides pain and suffering??

Well, besides the chance to hang out with Binghe... Which... If looking past the pain and suffering, Shen Qingqiu wouldn't mind doing so again...

Even when its angry Binghe, Shen Qingqiu can still appreciate his company. He isn't his favorite character for nothing! Even when they are fighting, Binghe is going out of his way to take care of him! Who cares about anger issues, when the person with the issues still acts like a decent person! Only Binghe could simultaneously lack control and stay focused on the goal like this! Really a man to admire!

And speaking of goals, while Shen Qingqiu is appreciating Binghe in his mind, this is when they stumble upon a door unlike any door either of them have seen so far.

As Shen Qingqiu looks upon metal forged into intricate patterns and decorated with gold and silver, there is no doubt in his mind that they stand before the entrance to the library. 

The final path towards returning to the main part of the game. The final key that can turn this rotten session into worthwhile progress.

"This looks just like the woman from the painting..." Binghe mutters, going closer to inspect the details of the door. He is not wrong, though with a few key differences.

As Binghe said, shaped into the metal is a depiction of the woman from the painting. This time standing by herself. Behind her stretches a landscape of flowery fields, leading towards a blooming treeline. Her hair is falling loosely around her shoulders, her dress much simpler, though it suits her just as well. 

The atmosphere around her figure is quite different from the painting though. 

Whether it is because expressions are harder to catch when forging metal, she appears much softer in this depiction of her. Her muscles are much more discreet, the authority switched out with affection as she looks gently downwards towards the bundle in her arms.

But instead of holding her pregnant belly, she is embracing a bouquet of lotus flowers, her stomach entirely flat. 

When comparing the painting with the door, even though they are clearly the same person, the feeling they give is like they are two different people. One dominant and strong. Another docile and vulnerable. And still, neither depiction feels fake or strange. Like this is just another human being, varied and full of contrasts.

Shen Qingqiu releases himself from Binghe, so the other can inspect the door unhindered. Leaning against the wall, he observes Binghes exploration, keeping an eye on his hands, as they glide across shiny metal.

The door stands clear as if it is still being polished every day. A clear contrast to the dust and dirt that cover every other part of the mansion. Notably, there are no handles or other obvious ways to open the door. Binghe pokes and prods at different corners, feeling out the patterns to locate any secret keyhole.

As his hand brushes past the bouquet of lotus', Shen Qingqiu is extra attentive. But in the end he does not push back hard enough and he moves on none-the-wiser.

Shen Qingqiu lets out a dissatisfied sigh, but it isn't Binghe's fault. Once they get their hands on the 'key', he will have to think of a way to guide Binghe to find the hidden compartment. For now it is not necessary and Shen Qingqiu would rather not come off as suspicious by immediately revealing every secret he knows. 

Binghe does manage to find another note. Which sadly mostly serves to sour his mood after his brief distraction of curiosity. But keeping to their agreement, he obediently reads it out. 

"It's her, it is definitely her! Ms. _______ is definitely his mom! I realized they have the exact same sharp eyes. Her, out of everyone, having a hidden child must certainly be some form of divine fate. I just feel so sad for the boy. He rarely speaks of his parents, but when he does, I do not like what I hear. I say nothing, of course. I think it would just make him sad. I have also lost the kitten, though I haven't told him that either. It ran away somewhere and even with M_______'s help I can't find it anywhere."

This time Binghe doesn't rip the note into pieces, though Shen Qingqiu can see on his face that he considers it. Instead he sighs deeply in exasperation, handing it to Shen Qingqiu. 

Shen Qingqiu on the other hand is getting a bad feeling about the notes. 

Not in the same way as Binghe, convinced they are out to kill him horribly. No, rather it is the content of the notes that leaves him worried.

This is simultaneously lore that he already knows and which is completely new. The relation between the child and his parents, Shen Qingqiu is already well aware of. This note only serves to confirm his knowledge of their troubled relationship. But the added bits with the maid, those parts he does not like.

It is only a question of time before something goes wrong. This is a horror game after all. And there are very few happy endings to find in a horror game like this.

"Senior, we should keep going," Binghe says, taking hold of Shen Qingqiu again.

Shen Qingqiu follows without complaint. He is deep in thought, trying to puzzle together what he can learn from these notes that he didn't know after finishing the game. It could be something super small, seemingly insignificant until the last note connects everything together. 

There must be a point to them, even if it is still not clear what that point could be. 

While he considers the diary pages, he trusts Binghe to lead them to the storage room. With the map they found earlier, it is much easier for Binghe to navigate the twists and turns on their way. As they get closer to their destination, they reach a crossroad, but then Binghe suddenly freezes.

"Senior!" He suddenly whispers, pulling Shen Qingqiu out of his thoughts. He moves them to the side, pressing them both against the wall. A second after Shen Qingqiu realizes why.

Intimately recognizable footsteps, followed by the scrape of metal. There is no doubt who is coming their way.

Carefully, Binghe moves them forwards. Finding a space between the hanging candles, he blows out the one Shen Qingqiu is holding. Now covered by darkness, unless the Killer walks right past them, he might not notice their presence.

Crouching down, Binghe uses his hands to cover both their mouths to silence their breathing. Both staring intently, they wait on the Killer with bated breaths. 

Slowly, step by step, the Killer nears. Shen Qingqiu can feel sweat dripping down his back and goosebumps along his flesh. Binghe's hand against his face is clammy and he can feel his body is spent, as if ready to pull them up in case they have to run.

The Killer steps into their view. Standing by the same crossroad. He looks each way, deciding which one to choose.

It is a 50/50 chance. If the Killer turns their way, they will have to run. There is no way he won't see them when passing by, even in the low light. If he goes the other way, they can breathe freely and continue on their way. It is all up to what the Killer chooses.

Shen Qingqiu is cursed by rotten luck. That has been proven time and time again since he woke up in this deadly game.

But even rotten luck can't compete with the power of the hero halo. A halo that Binghe wears with great dignity.

The Killer turns his back to them. He slowly walks away, allowing them to live for just a bit longer.

Relief loosens their muscles, Binghe releasing both of their mouths, even with the Killer not entirely gone yet. They will just wait another minute to be sure they are safe before moving on.

"Senior, I don't think we are far from the storage room," Binghe whispers, voice so quiet that Shen Qingqiu has to lean closer to hear.

"Once we are inside, if we stay quiet, we should have enough time to find the drawing," he whispers back. As they are nearing their goal, he can't help but feel excitement at what they might find there.

"We should also check for other supplies in there. A storage room out to hold-"

CRASH

Shen Qingqiu and Binghe both jump at the sudden racket coming from behind them. With wide eyes, they both look at each other as they recognize the noise. 

It is the exact same sound of the candlesticks falling apart as they heard from outside the male servant's bedchamber. 

They aren't given any time to consider how to react when the Killer reappears at the end of the hallway.

No way he won't find them this time. They have to move. Now!

"We have to get to the storage room!" Shen Qingqiu urges. Having the key to the room, they might be able to lock the Killer out. Even if they can't, the room will be the most likely to contain any hiding spots.

Binghe doesn't make him say it twice. One moment to the next, he pulls them both up and they are running.

The second they are out of their hiding place, a yell can be heard from the Killer. immediately his heavy steps become faster as he gives chase. 

They aren't far from the storage room. They also have quite the head start. Even with Shen Qingqiu slowing them down, their chances of escaping look good. And Binghe has proven more than enough times that he is resilient when running from the Killer, despite the extra baggage. 

They run around the corner and they see the door of the storage room. On the ground is the fallen candleholder, the candle left broken in two. Binghe passes it with no second thought, but suddenly Shen Qingqiu tries to put a brake on their flight.

The flame of the candle is still burning. The area around it lit up. And close by, almost right beside the fire, lays another note.

"Binghe, wait, we have to-" Shen Qingqiu tries. Binghe is quick to pause at Shen Qingqiu's hesitation, but as he sees what he is pointing towards his face darkens.

"We don't have time for this Senior! We have to get to safety!" Binghe yells out.

"I know, but if we don't get it now-!" Shen Qingqiu doesn't have time to explain. He can feel Binghe pulling him forward, though his eyes never leave the note. 

The note is lying too close to the candle. Slowly, it is rolling closer, reaching the edges of the page, its flame dancing from the movement. 

The fire excitedly reaches out to the dry and flammable paper.

Binghe is moving them forward, but as Shen Qingqiu sees the tiniest speck of smoke rise from the note, he makes a snap decision.

Throwing himself out of Binghe's grasp, he reaches and yanks the note away from the candle. He manages to turn his body so he doesn't land on any of his injuries. They still wail at the sudden act, but it is much more manageable than from his other falls.

Page in hand, he tries to push himself back up. He is quick to find his position too awkward, his burned arm uncooperative and his broken leg unmovable. Remembering the Killer drawing near, he has a moment of panic before two hands grab him from behind, dragging him back up.

"Why don't you ever listen to me!" Binghe yells out as he is finally able to get them to the door. Having to drop his crowbar and release Shen Qingqiu, the urgency of their situation makes his hands clumsy as he pulls the key from his pocket. Inserting it into the keyhole, he has to try a couple of times before he is able to turn it and unlock the door.

As they enter, the room is entirely dark. Only the light coming from the hallway reveals a few boxes spread around and a huge wardrobe in the other end of the room. 

Binghe turns to lock the door behind them, but drops the key. With a curse, he bows down to find it, but is interrupted by the howl of the Killer. 

He is closer than they thought. They have no time.

Shen Qingqiu is looking around the room, trying to calculate which hiding spots are least likely to get them found. He does not like the odds of any of the boxes, their best hope being the wardrobe.

Binghe has the same thought. Abandoning the key, he hurries them to the wardrobe, throwing it open. Seeing the insides, Shen Qingqiu's heart sinks.

Despite his hope, the wardrobe is not empty. A couple of boxes takes up its space, leaving only just enough for one person to awkwardly press inside. While the boxes aren't stacked high, there just isn't enough space for two people to stand. 

Binghe immediately enters, which leaves Shen Qingqiu to quickly find a hiding spot for himself. Looking nearby, his only option is a few boxes right besides the wardrobe. With him hiding there, he and Binghe might just have a chance to survive.

Then Binghe surprises him. Before Shen Qingqiu can move, Binghe grabs hold of him once more and pulls him in. The door is closed behind them, but with no clear spot for his feet, Shen Qingqiu stumbles inside. Unable to keep his balance is about to fall. At the last moment Binghe catches him around his waist. 

In the next second the Killer bursts into the room.

Their situation could not be much worse. Once inside, the Killer slows down, carefully inspecting the room. His own shadow covers his front, not even the demonic grin of his mask visible as he steps around the room. The axe is now resting on his shoulder. Easier to swing once he finds his prey. 

Shen Qingqiu and Binghe are in the worst position imaginable. 

Shen Qingqiu, unable to find a way to properly stand, is only held up by Binghe carrying his weight. With his good hand on Binghe's shoulder and the other leaning against the back of the wardrobe, it is everything he can do not to fall out from Binghe's grasp. Binghe at the same time has to keep both of his hands around Shen Qingqiu to keep him up. This leaves Shen Qingqiu awkwardly hanging sideways, his good foot crookedly placed down with his other leg stiffly raised. 

A sliver of the wardrobe door stands open, allowing them to just barely see the Killer moving around the room.

The Killer takes his time. Walking towards each box and piece of furniture, he attentively looks them over before moving over to the next. It goes on for so long, that Shen Qingqiu would worry about the strain on Binghe's arms, except there are so far no signs of him tiring.

The Killer reaches the closet and slowly looks it over. Shen Qingqiu can feel his breath quicken, fearing the Killer can look inside through the sliver like they are looking out. His mask still shadowed, he can't even see the direction of his eyes. Whether they are turned towards them or not. 

The Killer lifts his axe from his shoulder. Unhurriedly, as if it is just another chore, he raises it above his head in a stance Shen Qingqiu knows very well by now. He can feel Binghe's grip tighten, pressing them closer, while he himself is unable to look away. 

The axe goes higher and higher, reaching far above the Killers head, before it pauses in it's trek. Holding it there for a moment, it is as if time itself is holding its breath.

The axe swings down.

With a loud crack, It smashes through the boxes right beside the wardrobe. Immediately they fall to pieces, unable to stand the sharp weight splitting them apart. The wood bursts until there are only splinters. Nothing is left standing after the axe is done with them.

The moment the axe swung, Shen Qingqiu was certain he was going to die. He feels his entire body jump in shock as the boxes are smashed to pieces instead. 

This shock becomes his downfall.

His hanging foot slams against the inside of the wardrobe. Only covered by wet bandages, the sound is not loud enough to get through the noise of outside destruction. But the sudden agonising surge of pain that runs through Shen Qingqiu's leg, scraping and tearing at his nerve endings makes him unable to keep his agony inside. Opening his mouth, he can't keep in his howl of pain, struggling free from his throat.

Shen Qingqiu can't cover his mouth with his hands. He would immediately lose his balance. Neither can Binghe move from the embrace he has Shen Qingqiu in without the other falling.

Shen Qingqiu's cry rings out, but before the sound can leave the safety of the wardrobe, something hot and moist covers it, swallowing the wail.

Shen Qingqiu never closed his eyes. That's why he sees it with wide eyes as Binghe's mouth covers his own. Warm lips presses against his, the movement unhesitant and quick. Their teeth clack together and without control, Binghe's tongue enters his mouth.

Binghe's eyes are closed, pressed together tightly, distress and panic clear in his features. But then they smoothen out, turning softer once it is clear that nothing reached outside ears.

Shen Qingqiu is frozen in time. Unable to look away, neither he nor Binghe move their mouths. He can feel his own tongue against Binghe's, but the entire situation is so outrageous that moving away is the last thought on his mind.

His only thought is one long continuous scream. He does not have a single idea what Binghe is thinking.

The Killer is completely unaware of the scandal happening inside the wardrobe. Having destroyed the box, he did not find his prey hiding inside or behind it. He lets his frustration show by snarling at the pieces of wood, kicking them away. That is when he turns around, stomping out of the room.

For a while, neither Shen Qingqiu nor Binghe moves. But then finally Shen Qingqiu's mind allows for something else than screaming. Pushing against Binghe's shoulder, the other’s eyes snap open as if he is just realising what they are doing. In the next second, both of them find themselves outside the wardrobe. 

What?! What, what, what??? What the fuck just happened, why would Binghe---!! How did they even find themselves in such a situation in the first place, none of this--!!

It makes no sense, none of this makes sense, this game makes no sense, the Killer makes no sense, especially Binghe makes no god damn fucking sense, what the actual fuck!!!?

How is he even supposed to act after they just-! They just kissed?! It's not like the kiss is his fault, Binghe was the one that kissed him, why would Binghe kiss him, he really is starting to hate the word kiss--!

"Senior, I am so, so sorry!" Binghe interrupts his thoughts. 

In his embarrassment, Shen Qingqiu had instinctively turned away. As he turns back, he realises he has never seen Binghe appear so flustered. A blush has spread across his face and he is holding his arms as if he doesn't know whether to step towards Shen Qingqiu or give him space. 

Shen Qingqiu doesn't feel any better himself. His face feels heated, his mouth still moist from-! From what just happened--!! He just wants to lay down face first and scream into the floor. Instead he hides behind his sleeves as well as he can, unable to face Binghe for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

"Please don't be mad Senior, but I had no idea what to do! If the Killer found us, I wouldn't be able to get us away in time. So I panicked!" Binghe keeps apologizing, his voice becoming more and more shrill.

Shen Qingqiu doesn't trust his voice enough yet to answer. But his silence only seems to make Binghe more distressed. 

"I promise it was an accident, I didn't mean anything by it!! If Senior really hates me for it, please, you, you, you can punch me or kick me, but please don't be mad, I was so scared we would get found!"

Unconsciously Binghe steps forward, then seems to realise it and immediately takes three steps back. Turning his back to Shen Qingqiu, he hides his face in his hands as apologies endlessly flow from his mouth.

Shen Qingqiu can't stand to hear it, so he forces control over his voice.

"Binghe has nothing to apologize for. This Senior understands you only did it for our survival. It didn't mean anything," he says, not a tremble to hear in his voice. His blush is harder to fight down, but with Binghe's back towards him, that can be ignored. "We will forget this ever happened, so Binghe doesn't have to feel bad about it."

Peeking behind himself, Binghe's eyes appear so young and innocent as he checks whether Shen Qingqiu means his words. Confirming it to be no lie, he shallowly nods, before turning away again. 

"O-okay... If Senior says so, we will forget the whole thing," he shakily answers. He straightens his back and breathes in, trying to calm his wild nerves. Still not yet ready to face Shen Qingqiu, he tries to gather his thoughts as they run around like feral beasts in his mind.

Shen Qingqiu feels relief as Binghe agrees. He is so ready to forget about this and act like it never happened. No reason to think about it ever again, aha! It was nothing and meant nothing and will stay nothing! Why feel embarrassed about nothing that happened, right? Right!

"Then- then let's move on, we got the- the drawing to find!" Shen Qingqiu hurries to say, stumbling over his words. He remembers the note in his hand and steps towards Binghe. He will need him to read it and then they will find the drawing and then they will check the rest of the room for supplies and then they will-

He forgets his bad leg. As he steps forward, he just manages to not put down his full weight onto it, barely avoiding another surge of agony. Instead he careens forward, falling into Binghe's back.

Binghe, who is still distracted by his racing thoughts, doesn't notice Shen Qingqiu fall. He is shocked when he suddenly feels the other crashing into his back. As he feels a hand take a firm hold of his behind, he freezes.

In order to keep his balance, Shen Qingqiu takes hold of the first things his hands land on. He feels Binghe stiffen underneath his grasp and another wave of heat and mortification hits him as he realises where his hands are placed. 

Then that feeling pauses.

Something hard is inside Binghe's back pocket.

The world narrows down.

Slowly, he slips his hand inside the pocket, pulling out the object.

Binghe does nothing to stop him.

Looking at the item, it takes Shen Qingqiu a few seconds to fully register what it is.

Then he folds it open. 

And put it on.

For the first time in a very long time, Shen Qingqiu can see Luo Binghe's guilty expression with perfectly clear eyes. Not a single edge of blurriness to his vision.

There is no doubt that this is Shen Qingqiu's lost glasses.

[lil-vibes]

Hi! Sorry for notification spamming you but wanted to tell you that your TROD tags made me lol, I LOVE your art so much and I’m interested in your AU too. Anyway, love your blog!

P.S. maybe I missed it but you said somewhere that your Narinder was pretty messed up for a few years post revival. Could you give some more details on that? Did he try to hurt them? Who had to take care of him, the lamb? What’s been the downstream effects? Basically, how is this cat still messed up lol.

dont be! everytime i get a notification i go yuppiee!!! im glad you enjoy my art :DD

okay okay its prime yap time under the cut oof i love my fucked up cat sm

Lambert, mainly, took care of him! They made sure that every comfort he needed was provided and were worried out of their mind the entire time. Their disciples helped watch over Narinder when he was unconscious, just so he wouldn't bolt the moment he awoke, and Witness Allocer stitched some of his wound and prepared a special painkiller blend for him. (in my au the high priests, aka the mini bosses, and the witnesses were very close to the bishops! Allocer made the same painkillers for Shamura as well.)

Okay so obviously his wrists and ankles were pretty fucked up from being chained for a thousand years and he's got a lot of internal damage as well bc some of the chains went through him (og Stychu hc that I adopted bc it's so good). Also just general wounds from the final fight and the unfathomable pain of shrinking down from his godly form.

Upon being spared, he did attack them in a post battle adrenaline and hate fueled delirium, right on the indoctrination stone and not only broke his arm (bc he put too much weight on it), but probably gave himself a heavy concussions by slamming his head on said stone seconds after the break happened lmao. After waking up in,,, just a Haze of agony he tried to get up and run away bc he was scared that the lamb would just keep him existing in this special Purgatory and shattered his opposite calf so there's that as well. Unlucky tbh

He bleeds like,,, constantly. All of the time, for literal years on end. From his eyes mostly, but also nose and ears and he throws up ichor a lot in the beginning as well bc his body is adjusting rapidly to being smaller and there's just No Space for the ichor to go, other than out. He’s constantly exhausted and spends a lot of time sleeping, and is very frail physically, if snapping two bones by simply putting weight on them didn't make it obvious enough lol

All and all not a great shape to be in, but! His wounds aren't actually what caused him to be bedridden for so long. It was the fact that he no longer saw himself as a god while still being one and suffering injuries befitting of one!

His body/the Red Crown isn't healing him as much as it’s literally regenerating parts of itself while he suffers everything that comes with that, alongside being out of the Veil/Gateway for the first time in forever and emotionally dealing with the deaths of his acolytes and the supposed betrayal of the one he allowed himself to trust after his family. In fact, Narinder barely heals at all for a while bc he was just mentally stopping the process. And also unconscious for a lot of it.

The other big reason is that god hearts are a great power source, but his heart has been in Lambert's chest since Silk Cradle. So he is Struggling ™ but he’d actually rather die than take his heart back he’s a simp like that smh

After he inevitably breaks and he and Lambert finally talk, he gradually starts seeing himself as a person again and his healing process gets easier. He still has chronic pain for his joints but eventually everything else heals alright :3

On a side note, his siblings bleed excessively and are disoriented for the first couple of days but are ultimately fine within the week. They are kind of horrified to learn that their brother is STILL struggling with the side effects of his imprisonment

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee *BONUS* Scene part 9

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of being a weapon/semi-retired weapon, lost family, fractured memories, rejection, fluffy heart-to-heart conversation

He was ever-composed and collected, but now he didn't know what to say.

"Learning that the wife I'd been forced to forget is alive, and is too terrified to recognize me? And that I'm a nothing more than a messed-up science experiment? I'm doing great." Whumpee let out a single day laugh, humorless.

Flint nodded sympathetically. "Of course. Stupid question. I know you're not okay -- I didn't mean to ask in mockery. I meant to ask '/will/ you be okay'?"

Whumpee took a long time to answer. "...I'm not sure," he whispered hoarsely, staring up at the dark sky. "I don't think I can handle much more of this invisible pain. It's different when it's on the inside and you can't wrap it in gauze or apply painkillers. I've never felt this kind of pain before, and I... I don't think I'm supposed to be able to feel all this."

"It's okay to be a weapon and still have a heart," Flint chuckled. "Sounds to me like you haven't quite figured out how to live as yourself yet -- you're still expecting your training to activate and take away all the inner pain and emotion. But now that you don't have that ability anymore, you're struggling to acclimate to being emotionally human again."

"You're saying it's always going to hurt like this?" Whumpee's voice cracked. "I think... I'd rather go back to being Weapon than live with this strange new pain forever."

"No. You don't," Flint said with confidence.

"Why?" Whumpee croaked in confusion.

"Because it would mean sacrificing everything else you've earned for yourself as well. I've seen how gentle you are with Myra. She brings you happiness, does she not?"

"Yeah, but--"

"--And you smile more around her, correct?" Flint meaningfully cut him off, raising an eyebrow.

Whumpee’s brow furrowed. "...Yes?"

"So would you really prefer sacrificing those slivers of joy you get to be impassive again and feel nothing at all? Or would you rather be able to experience even the smallest amount of happiness, no matter how fleeting the sensation may be?"

Whumpee thought hard about it for several long minutes, mulling it over. "...I suppose you would be right -- I do enjoy some emotions, but not most of them, "Fli--Sir," he corrected himself firmly.

"I think we're past 'Sir' by now," Flint chuckled. "You don't need to be so formal anymore."

"Apologies, Si--Flint," Whumpee corrected the opposite way around, making the leader laugh again.

Flint sighed heavily, craning his head back to stare at the stars once his laughter died back. "It is the unfortunate reality of our existence that to truly live, we must also lose. It's inevitable. Unavoidable. Every 'hello' comes with the knowledge that there will one day be a 'goodbye'. Yet we choose to love, again and again, open ourselves up to being hurt... because it is worth it for the reward. To steal those small moments of light in the darkness."

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @cepheusgalaxy

@dragongodryss @theforeverdyingperson

[swaglet]

mouthwashing. certified yapping is happening below the cut

u know what bothers me. there's a sizeable (i'm not sure how large or small but more than one of them exists) portion of the fandom that's like... "well anya IS a nurse so she shouldn't have made jimmy give curly the painkillers... she should have just done her job...." YOU PEOPLE ARE NOT SEEING THE ARTISTIC VISION!!!!!!! IT HAPPENS FOR A REASON!!!!!!

1. she is NOT a medical professional. if jimmy was being truthful when he said anya was denied from medical school programs 8 times, and it wasn't just part of him being an unreliable narrator and showing how he looks down on her like something below a cognizant human being, she is not trained to do this. apparently she was given basic nursing classes provided by Pony Express, which i imagine is something similar to becoming CPR-trained in health class when you're a junior or senior in high school.

imagine you're just a random woman with a bachelor's degree in something like medical biology or premed or whatever your school teaches, you've never had hands-on training with actual patients and only have the bare minimum information that will give you what you need to start medical school, and then the captain of your ship has all of his skin burnt off and loses his appendages like hands and feet and he can't talk or do anything on his own and you're barely managing to keep him alive with just bandages and painkillers. i think if i saw the melted, charred body of my captain and friend helpless on a table in front of me everyday for months i would be kind of sick. i think i would puke when i looked at him for the first time. keeping him alive would probably make me want to kill myself, even if he did wrong me and ignore me when i tried to tell him about being raped, even if i wanted him to suffer i would still probably get nauseous looking at him.

2. SHE IS PREGNANT. nausea is like THE symptom of early pregnancy. pregnant women can be so nauseous that they throw up from brushing their teeth or chewing food or even just touching their tongue or smelling/seeing something mildly unpleasant. imagine you are about to throw up at any moment, you are either skeptical or definitively sure that you are pregnant (which is already stressful enough), and then you have to PRY OPEN THE JAW OF A BURN VICTIM WITH NO SKIN (IMAGINE HOW SQUISHY AND BLOODY HE FEELS AND HOW BAD HE MUST SMELL) AND FORCE A PILL DOWN HIS THROAT MULTIPLE TIMES PER DAY. and then he GAGS every time you do it. idk about you guys, but if i even hear somebody gagging or dry heaving, my body responds by making me gag and feel nauseous. if i watch somebody choke on food or puke (or gag to the point of almost puking) i probably am going to puke too. NOW IMAGINE BEING PREGNANT AND PREGNANT-NAUSEOUS ON TOP OF HAVING TO DO THAT !!!!!!!!!!!! anya has every right to get nauseous and puke all over the floor and all over curly and all over everyone else and all over the entire ship!!!!!! but they all agreed to keep curly alive "for one reason or another" and she's probably very aware that puking on or near her patient who is SKINLESS is a guaranteed way to give him an infection that will kill him. even in her agony she is thinking of him more than she is thinking of herself but nobody wants to think about that. of course jimmy wouldn't think about that and he's manipulative so he can get the rest of the crew to believe whatever he wants them to believe about anya

3. IT! IS! A! METAPHOR!!!!!!!!!!!! IT IS A STORYTELLING DEVICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

anya was raped by jimmy. probably multiple times. anya goes to curly to tell him about jimmy raping and assaulting her. curly presumably tells anya that he will keep an eye on it and goes about his business like nothing happened. anya has probably told curly that she was afraid of jimmy before he even tried anything but curly didn't listen. when anya tells curly that she is pregnant and it is a result of being raped by jimmy, curly says he has known jimmy for a long time and "will talk to him". curly does nothing to protect anya or assure her that she will be safe from jimmy. curly does not tell anyone else on the ship what jimmy is doing. curly has robbed anya of her voice, and jimmy has robbed anya of her autonomy and safety.

when curly is rendered completely helpless by the crash, anya is entrusted with the duty of taking care of him, which means that his autonomy and his safety are completely in her control as the ship's designated nurse. he is robbed of his voice by the explosion as well; jimmy caused the crash intentionally, so indirectly, jimmy robbed curly of his voice, autonomy, and safety. just like what was done to anya.

anya is traumatized by having her autonomy and safety ripped away from her by jimmy. she is sickened by the thought of forcing someone to do something they don't want to do because it reminds her too much of what jimmy did to her. she knows that curly has no voice, just like she had no voice, and she cannot bear knowing that he can't say what he wants and doesn't want. without the ability to use his voice, everything done to curly is done without his consent. they have no idea what he does and does not want. all he can do is scream and thrash.

curly's inaction and repeated dismissal of anya is a big factor that played into why jimmy crashed the ship. if curly had done something and just listened to anya when she told him that she was afraid of jimmy, that she wanted a safe place away from him, none of this would have ever happened. this is curly's 'divine punishment' (for lack of a better word) for being complicit in her rape and not allowing her to have a voice. his denial of her voice stripped her of everything and left her in jimmy's hands.

anya giving up the responsibility of caring for curly is, first and foremost, one of the only ways she can take control of anything in her life and on the ship after she had all control stripped from her. they all agreed to keep curly alive, so if she doesn't do it, someone else will have to. she gets to decide what happens to somebody indirectly, regardless of how it makes her feel, and it's a way to gain her own control of something. and for that, for control of her own decisions, she trades control of curly. control of his autonomy, his safety, and his voice. and now curly is at the mercy of the man who took it all away from anya. he is forced to lay motionless and experience what anya was experiencing as he ignored her pleas. jimmy violently forces pills down his throat. he beats him. he berates him. the only reason jimmy doesn't rape curly's burned and charred body is because jimmy sees him as human, as a friend (regardless of how jealous or hateful he is towards him) instead of as an object or a vessel, and curly has to sit there and think about that fact. do you think he's grateful that he isn't pregnant, that he can't get pregnant? that all he has to worry about is himself and his own body being beaten and abused by jimmy? that he can only be stripped of his autonomy from someone on the outside, while anya had to live with the fact that it wasn't just jimmy ripping her of her autonomy but now the new living thing he put inside of her against her will? she can try to run and hide from jimmy but she can't run from what's inside of her. for that, curly can't run from jimmy at all

^_^

[axkirak]

Renegada♱

Taglist: @707otto @juxt4p0siti0n @arcticversed (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

Pairings:  Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader(Latina Reader) x Walt Breslin  [From Narcos: Mexico TV Series]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Synopsis : Since surviving the Aruba assassination attempt, you've been plagued by recurring nightmares. Amado's attempts to comfort you begin to unsettle your mind, blurring the line between duty and desire. (Soft Amado,Fluff,Hurt/Comfort)

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𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙙𝙖♱ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous : Next (Soon)

[8]ᅳ 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐬 ✟

Walt is not the only one facing nightmares. Everyone has their own nightmares—those born from imagination, from guilt, or from memories.

And on the remote, solitary island of Aruba, thousands of kilometers away from the violence in Mexico, nightmares haunt you too. 

Throughout the tormenting periods of pain and unconsciousness, under the influence of painkillers that need to be taken every six hours, you're not sure what they are. If it's not Nalbuphine [1], it must be something stronger and nerve-pressuring, helping to alleviate the symptoms but also potentially addictive, just like drugs.

Every time the bitter pill slides down your throat, the foggy veil of memories rises, like the wrecked ship stranded in the depths of pain and the haze of painkillers. It becomes hard to distinguish between dreams and reality. Often, you wake up with rapid, shallow breaths and a racing heartbeat, unable to remember what you dreamt, but it leaves you scared and crying every time you sleep. The moist face and teary eyes upon waking up are clear evidence of this.

However, there are many times when you can feel it during the twilight of sleep, between endless nightmares and midnight screams. Someone comes to embrace you tightly, providing warmth enough to calm you down. That was the only time the nightmares seemed to fade away, as if they had never existed before.

Initially, you thought it might just be layered dreams—tiny good dreams sneaking in to erase the pointless nightmares. But you soon learned the truth when your body was strong enough to move, and Amado decided to take you outside for short walks to exercise. When his arms wrapped around your shoulders to support you, it felt warm, just like a dream. You realized that all of that was real. He had been there with you every night. But he never mentioned it in front of you, and you never thought to ask him about it either.

It's embarrassing for you. To be in such a state, fragile both physically and mentally, and unable to help yourself in any way, Even walking to the bathroom requires much more patience than usual. You try to remain indifferent to the sharp pain in your abdomen, clenching your teeth in frustration and bending down to splash water on your face before reluctantly raising your head to look at your reflection in the old bathroom mirror above the sink. There, you see what you've always seen—a mentally fragile and confused young woman, unsure about her choices and actions.

“Mija, you shouldn't be moving around by yourself. Why didn't you call me to help you?”

Your eyes shifted away from the mirror, and you looked at Amado, who was standing leaning against the bathroom door frame. He was dressed in his usual black shirt and still looked as good as ever, hardly resembling someone whose life had been in danger, especially when compared to your recent appearance reflected in the mirror.

“I had to handle some personal matters. Do you want me to change my clothes in front of you?”

Amado shrugged. “Why embarrassed? I've seen it before, you know.”

“When?” Your eyes widen in shock. Your surprised face made Amado break into a smile—the kind of smile that had been annoying you all week.

“I'm the one who cleaned your wounds and stitched them up, Mija. I probably wouldn't be able to do it if I didn't take off your clothes first.” Amado's tone was calm when he spoke. like seeing your naked body is not important to him. 

You tapped on the wound that had started to heal. The rough stitches would later turn into a repulsive scar. Amado told you yesterday that it was almost time to remove the stitches, meaning you would have to take off your clothes in front of him again.

Shame has long vanished from your thoughts since you've been with him here. However, it was still somewhat annoying to think, "Gracias, but I'd rather do it myself."

“But I don't mind. You can take off your clothes now if you'd like.”

You furrowed your brows, looking at the tall man with a face that wanted to slap him if you weren’t already injured. And Amado knew well what you were thinking. He laughed heartily, amused by your sour mood.

That's a part of what has been happening between you and him since you started living together here. You both constantly exchange words, like a married couple living a boring life together for many years. Perhaps that's Amado's only way to alleviate boredom; he never misses a chance to tease and provoke you.

You want to be more angry at him, but you can't. You're exhausted from everything. And more importantly—something you don't want to admit—Amado has taken care of you as best as anyone could in such a dire situation. Always helping with small things that you couldn't manage yourself or bringing painkillers even when he risks going outside. He also comforts you from nightmares at night. Part of an unbelievable tenderness from the dangerous man who makes you calm enough to sleep dreamlessly.

Maybe it's due to the haziness caused by the pills, making your emotions more fragile than usual. Just temporary sensitivity. It's not empathy, not attachment—nothing more than that. This is what you've been trying to convince yourself of.

"Hey, Mija, is everything okay? You don't look well."

"It's nothing serious," you deny, better than letting him know what you're thinking. "But do you still have some pills left?"

Amado looks back with a knowing glance.

"You're becoming a junkie, you know?" he says. "But today, I have something better than pills."

Amado refuses to say more about what it is, only insisting firmly that he'll take you to see it for yourself.

'Something' that Amado mentioned was placed on the wooden table in the house when he took you there. It was a regular whiskey bottle with two glasses. You quickly turned to look at him in surprise, seeing the smile he sent back with his words, "No need to thank me."

A bottle of whiskey might be something commonly found, costing at least three hundred pesos [2] in Mexico. But in your eyes, it looked no different than an oasis in the middle of a hot desert. You missed whiskey as much as you missed cigarettes, and your old life before ended up in this place with Amado. 

At least having a bottle of whiskey made the present life a bit more bearable.

Amado poured the liquid into both glasses equally before handing one to you. His eyes locked on yours as he sipped from his own glass. "Reminds me of our first date in Cuba."

"You told me Cuba had a terrible mezcal." You chuckled, slowly sipping the whiskey.

"Because the mezcal from my hometown is the best." Amado paused before raising his glass for another sip. It wasn't just you who missed old life; he missed it too. "Once we get out of here, I'll take you to taste the mezcal there."

It wasn't a casual remark like before. You felt the whiskey taste even more bitter when meeting his sincere eyes.

You didn't immediately respond. You glanced at the nearly half-empty glass of whiskey, deliberately avoiding his gaze. However, Amado noticed the subtle anxiety beneath your calm facade.

"Do you think it's possible?"

Your voice cracked slightly, carrying multiple implications in that statement: Is it possible to survive this? Is it possible for us to be together after this is over? Is it possible that there won't be any more losses?

"We'll make it out together, and I promise it won't happen to us again."

Promises were a curse for you because every time there was a promise involved, it often ended up being broken.

Ever since Farris promised over the phone to come back to you safely, he ended up facing torment and dying at the hands of the criminals. And Janet, the friend who promised revenge for you, A promise that never came true, especially when you were the one who decided to bury a bullet into your own friend's head.

Everything that has happened has made you distrustful of anyone's promises.

But this time, you couldn't help but hope that Amado's promise would be true.

You felt the warmth from his large hand holding yours and the gentle squeeze that conveyed comfort without the need for words. You locked eyes with Amado again in silence. At that moment, you felt something, just like the time you locked eyes with Walt. Something delicate was emerging between you and him.

Some things you had to hold back before it got too much and before you had to regret later.

"Don't feel regret later" Amado once warned you. However, you felt no trace of regret when you made the most foolish decision—you kissed him.

Before, you had imagined what it would be like to kiss Walt, but you never had the chance. For Amado, it was different. Even if it was just a simple kiss filled with the taste of cheap whiskey, it happened amidst raw, genuine emotions without pretense. There was nothing profound or delicate about it, but it was a mixture of fear and relief revealed after a near-death experience. And it taught you the meaning of 'Fuck it'

You and him might die tomorrow, or might go separate ways without ever meeting again. At the very least, you wanted to follow your heart just once, even just once.

His dark, intense eyes were wide with the same desire as yours—a desire to feel closer and more intimate. His large hand began to trace from the shoulders, down the collarbone, and to the waistband. But when you pulled back slightly in pain, everything ended abruptly. Amado quickly withdrew from you with a sense of urgency, confusion evident in his face and eyes for a fleeting moment, before he took a deep breath, straightened up, and rubbed his own face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmured just loud enough for you to hear, filled with regret and an attempt to restrain his emotions. "I should let you rest."

Amado stood up without looking at you again. But you managed to grab his wrist before he could walk away. You accidentally licked your own lips when his eyes met yours again. "You can stay with me tonight if you want," you said.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by your request. Before he could accept or decline, you quickly added, "Just to sleep, that's all. It's like when you used to come and cuddle me at night when I had nightmares."

For a brief moment, you saw embarrassment in the face of the tall man for being caught. And for the first time, you began to genuinely feel that Amado was cute when he was shy.

There was no more teasing or arguing that night. Eventually, Amado yielded to your simple request. In fact, it seemed he didn't have much choice after you made it clear you knew about everything he had secretly done.

The large old bed seemed cramped when two bodies lay together. You tensed slightly as you turned your face toward Amado. He wrapped around you cautiously with both of his arms, feeling the warmth in a way you had felt from him many nights before.

Even in the darkness, it was hard to see anything, but you could vividly feel that he was looking at you, just as you could feel his breath gently caress your face. Then the man leaned in closer and gently pressed his lips against your forehead, whispering softly as he pulled away. 

"Sweet dreams, Mija."

And what Amado said turned out to be true. You didn't have any nightmares throughout that night.

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[1] Nalbuphine is a medication for treating moderate to severe pain, which contains opium extract. The medication acts on the brain and nervous system to numb the sensation of pain. It has various side effects and can cause addiction

[2]The Mexican Peso is the currency of Mexico. The currency code is MXN and it uses the symbol $.

[bookcrazyace]

Realistically what would happen to Curly. Assuming that he's found alive, and is healed to a state that means he can exist without completely relying on painkillers. The way Jimmy talks about him leads me to believe that he's not only seen as a great captain to the rest of the crew but to people outside of the industry too. I feel like Pony Express would be under fire for the tragedy when it first occurs but after the ship is discovered I feel like it would come out that the crash was preventable. The only other witnesses are all dead and even if Curly tried to turn the blame on Jimmy it would seem like he's just trying to blame a dead man especially since he's the one who got Jimmy the job in the first place. Just seeing the way we treat tragedies in society now I wouldn't even be surprised if the blame got turned on Anya because she was in charge of psyche evaluations. I find it highly unlikely that Curly will suffer no consequences for the crash even if they aren't of the legal kind he will no longer be a great captain in the eye of the public he'll become a story about how you never really know someone. He'll most likely never get another job. He'll become a disabled victim of a horrific tragedy that society shuns at every given opportunity all because he ignored the red flags from someone he thought was his friend until it was too late.

[redd956]

any thoughts about world building medical systems?

Oooo, Medical worldbuilding can be tough, especially in the styles of hard worldbuilding

Think checks, balances, and rules when worldbuilding medical systems and features

Here's some categories you can mess around with, or some good places to start.

Hospitals

Knowing where people go when they're injured or sick can be super important, especially if a story takes place in a hospital a lot.

How available of these medical location?

Are there many different types? (Hospitals vs. Clinics)

What warrants going to the hospital?

What are conditions like here?

How do people get to the hospital?

You can even play with the appearance and layout, especially with fantasy components like magic and technology.

Law

Oh local ethics...

Deciding what are the medical ethics can do wonders on the worldbuilding and what being in recovery looks like.

What are doctors allowed to do?

Do they have a form of HIPPA?

What does medical consent look like?

What is done when someone croaks it?

Think also about how any other form of the world's first responders tie into this

Healing Magic

Healing magic, a worldbuilder's life saver and bane. Healing magic is tough to deal with because its existence completely reconstructs a world in how we see it.

There's the limitation to the healers, the limitation to the magic, and the limitation as to what it can do.

More importantly though, what it can't

How prevalent is healing magic?

How many people have it?

Is there enough people with healing magic to regularly run hospitals? If not are there specialty hospitals where you can find them? Are they so rare that it's nearly impossible to seek their aid?

Potions & Alternative Medicine

Medical also means medicine. We as humans have always had a version of medicine since the dawn of our time.

Think about what medicine are available and how technology/magic affect them.

Are potions added in? What does alternative medicine look like in this world?

Technology

When creating a world high in technology or magic that means technology and magic will find its way in every nook and cranny of life, and that includes medical too

How does technology and/or magic change common injuries, the extent at which one's life can be saved, or the kind of unique injuries magic and technology can cook up?

How do these unique injuries keep up with the world unique medical practices?

What this world has to offer?

Magic, technology, fantasy biomes, fantasy creatures, dimensional travel, diverse species... And more

How do these change the look of people arriving at the hospital?

Here's some examples of medical worldbuilding brought to my Worldbuilding Project: SOA

CW: Blood

Chromatic magic comes in a variety of ways, but the most common way we see it is the damage magic variant. What is life when four year old Jason discovers he shoot magic at the power of automatic rifles out of his fingertips?

It's all fun and games until people cast with lingering intentions. You know a lingering damage magic injury as soon as you see it. Saw a man once stumble into the ER, a bright red glowing wedge etched deep into his thigh. As it continued to pulse with magic it was as if the caster had hit him all over again, and the magic was slowly eating into his muscle.

Blood was everywhere. You could hear it singing into him. It'll keep going until its no longer got a target to cut through or finally it wears off. Unfortunately there's not much you can do. Chromatic healing magic can't uncast a spell.

We just have to wait for the lingering effect to fade away. All us healers can do is give away painkillers like candy, and get to work after it wears off. By Areth I hate damage magic.

[scary-grace]

Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 20) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Chapter 20

“Sorry about the clothes,” Spinner says as the two of you walk down the front steps of the hospital. “Himiko picked them out.”

“It’s fine,” you say. As long as you have clothes that aren’t bloodstained and torn to pieces, you don’t care what you look like. You’re just glad to be headed home.

Nobody exited the near-apocalyptic conjurer fight in good shape, but some of you were worse off than the others. Nemuri was almost blasted apart trying to defeat the giant, and although she survived it, collecting the shreds of her essence back together is apparently a slow process. Keigo took a pretty sizeable hit protecting the kids, while Aizawa had to deal with a beastlike Nomu chewing the hell out of his leg before Hizashi blew its head off. But you and Tomura were by far the worse off. You’ve been in the hospital for two days. Tomura will be in for another three at least.

Most ghosts are healthy when they permanently embody themselves, but apparently it’s different for ghosts who use their own conjurers to do it. Tomura is starvation-level thin, with severe contact allergies to almost every type of medical equipment in the hospital, and the injuries he got from the fight and the rescue from the world between were bad enough to land him in the ICU at least temporarily. They had to put him in an induced coma, too. He’s had meltdowns or panic attacks or some kind of fit every time he’s woken up.

“He’ll bounce back quickly,” Mr. Yagi assured you when he came to visit. “I did.”

That was how you learned that Mr. Yagi embodied himself from his conjurer, too – except she gave him permission to do it, when she realized she was going to die of cancer anyway. Mr. Yagi’s permanent embodiment involves chronic issues with his lungs and his stomach, all of which you’re familiar with after working as his assistant for years. Chronic, but manageable. Sometimes over the past two days, it’s seemed like Tomura’s allergic to the entire human world.

Spinner told you that permanent embodiment creates complications, but you didn’t realize just how severe those complications would be. There’s no legal record of Tomura’s existence. He doesn’t have ID or health records or health insurance. There’s no next of kin who’s empowered to make decisions for him while he’s under heavy sedation, dead to the world. Hizashi’s working overtime to forge some kind of documentation for him. The doctors have been hinting that they won’t release him without it. Legally, you don’t have any right to be involved in or updated on Tomura’s medical condition, but he managed to identify you as somebody important before he went under, which means you get a little more information than you would have gotten otherwise. The doctors have been referring to you as his girlfriend. Apparently he called you his human.

Tomura might not have a next of kin, you do, and the doctors called your parents when you were too doped up on painkillers to stop them. You managed to talk them down from coming to visit, mostly by lying and then promising that they can come visit you soon. The last thing you need is for them to come here right now. Things are too chaotic. It’s hard to think that anything normal will ever happen again.

Like today. Jin and Spinner are picking you up from the hospital and driving you home to a house that, for the first time since it was built, doesn’t have a ghost in it.

When you and Spinner make it down the steps, Jin’s idling the van near the curb with Atsuhiro snoozing in the back row. Jin bursts out laughing at the sight of you, ignoring Spinner hissing at him to shut up. “No wonder Himiko wouldn’t let me see what she picked! Ready to get out of here?”

“Yes.” That’s not quite true, though. The sharp pain in your chest as the hospital vanishes around a curve in the highway tells you that you’d rather have stayed until Tomura could come with you.

You’ve been there, the few times they’ve tried waking him up. He’s promptly freaked out each time, and while your presence settles him a bit, the fact that he’s now in a human body, experiencing the world as a human does, is way more than you can calm him down from. Luckily for you and Tomura, the embodied ghosts stepped in to help. Since last night, there’s been one of them stationed in his room at all times, ready to corral him, ready to explain, so nothing else in his hospital room goes up in dust. Tomura lost a lot of his ghostly powers, but he’s still got more than enough left to raise hell.

You don’t want to leave him there. You want to stay there until he wakes up for good, and not leave until you can bring him home. But your health insurance won’t pay for more than the two nights you already spent in the hospital, and you have a bad feeling about who’s going to be on the hook for Tomura’s hospital bill. You have to go home. You’ll be back to visit tomorrow after work, but tonight you have to go home.

“How did he look?” Spinner asks Jin. Spinner came to get you, while Jin brought Magne for her shift in Tomura’s room. “You saw him, right?”

“He looks like hell.”

“He looks like he’s looked the entire time,” Atsuhiro says sleepily from the back row. Then, to you: “They mentioned removing the feeding tube in two days. His body is burning calories rapidly, and if he doesn’t have enough in reserve, he’ll have a heart attack when he starts moving around.”

“Great,” you mumble. “Did he wake up at all?”

“Not perceptibly to the staff,” Atsuhiro says. Ghost stuff. Again. “I was able to tell him that you were being released today.”

You sort of wish Atsuhiro hadn’t done that. Tomura’s going to think you’re leaving him, and based on the conversation you had the day before things went to hell, he didn’t want to embody himself for anything less than a sure thing. You’re a sure thing. About as sure as it gets, given that you were ready to get sucked into the world between along with him rather than let him go. But he’s not going to know that until the two of you talk. And you can’t talk to him while he’s got a feeding tube down his throat.

When you left the neighborhood three nights ago, you left it in the back of an ambulance, so you didn’t get a good look at everything that happened. Now it’s daylight, and what you see isn’t pretty. A weird fog still hovers over everything. Almost every plant on the block is dead, courtesy of being flash-frozen a dozen times over, and the pavement and asphalt on your end of the street is pitted and ruptured and cracked, courtesy of the giant. Nobody’s house escaped getting knocked around a bit, but you know yours took the largest amount of damage – window smashed, porch roof caved in, fence down, yard chewed to bits – so when you get out of the car and make your way closer for a look, you’re expecting the worst.

What you’re not expecting to see is a new fence, in the process of being painted greyish blue. You’re not expecting to see Himiko and a girl you vaguely remember meeting at her birthday party painting it. And you’re definitely not expecting Izuku to pop out of absolutely nowhere, hands smeared with dirt. “Hey, you’re back! Are you okay?”

He waits long enough for you to confirm you’re not about to keel over, then pivots. “Tell me everything that happened.”

“We already told you what happened,” Spinner says. “Don’t bug her.”

“You did tell me! It was great,” Izuku says. He refocuses on you. “But you spent the most time with the conjurer, didn’t you? And you got away from him! How did you do it?”

It occurs to you, sort of suddenly, that you haven’t told anybody exactly what happened. Everybody’s clear on the important details – kidnapped by conjurer, tortured by conjurer with the intent of Nomufication, escaped, rescued by what Jin inexplicably decided to call the Vanguard Action Squad. Nobody’s asked you more until you right now. And you should probably tell somebody, just to get it on the record. “Um, it was –”

“Izuku! Leave her be,” Inko scolds, stepping out onto your front porch. You should have guessed that at least one of Izuku’s parents would be present, but you’re still surprised to see her. “I’m sorry to startle you. We were hoping to be gone by the time you got back so you’d have a quiet house.”

A quiet house. A house without Tomura in it. “It’s okay. Um – why are you here?”

“We’re helping patch things up,” Izuku says. “I’m filling in the footprints in the yard – Toga says there was a huge Nomu here – like, building-sized –”

“Bigger,” Himiko says. She looks over at the other girl, who looks worried. “I didn’t fight that one. I did lots of other fighting.”

“And Toga and Uraraka are fixing the fence,” Izuku continues. You forgot that Himiko picked out a different last name than Jin’s when she embodied herself. You’re not sure why. “Mom was keeping an eye on the guys who came to fix the window and the roof and Dad and Kacchan are in the backyard clearing out your dead plants! There are a lot of them. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do it.” You step through the gate, barely avoiding putting your hand in wet paint. “The fence looks really nice, Himiko. You guys didn’t have to do this.”

“The old fence matched Tomura’s new hair. We had to fix it,” Himiko explains. “Now it matches his old hair.”

“He has new hair?” Uraraka asks.

“Yeah, it’s white now. He looks like an anime villain,” Spinner says, and Himiko giggles. “I didn’t know your fence was supposed to match your hair.”

“It’s not. That’s why we’re fixing it.”

“Thank you,” you say to Himiko and her friend. “And – thanks, Izuku. I’ll tell you about all the stuff later.”

He beams at you, then goes back to filling in a massive hole in your yard. You thank Spinner and Jin for the ride home, and Atsuhiro for sitting with Tomura, then make your way into your house. The last time you were here, you could barely walk. You were oozing blood everywhere and you were in agony, but you remember seeing Tomura on the porch and stumbling into his arms and feeling for just a moment like everything would be okay. Everything is okay. But just like Aizawa said of you being turned into a Nomu, this came at a cost – and you weren’t the one to pay.

There are a few bloodstains on the front porch steps. You collect some varnish from your hall closet and come back out to paint them over.

“My dear.” Mr. Yagi’s feet appear in your field of vision and you look up at him. He looks miserable, his mouth trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You were taken from the parking lot. I knew the conjurer could be near. I knew you were in danger. And instead of ensuring your safety I allowed you to –”

“You weren’t responsible for my safety. I was,” you say. You’re pretty sure nothing could have stopped the conjurer. If he hadn’t grabbed you from the parking lot before work, he would have grabbed you when you went outside on your lunch break or when you headed home. “The bracelets you gave me helped me get away from him. I wouldn’t have escaped without them.”

Mr. Yagi looks surprised. “Is that so?”

“When he noticed them, he broke one. It released all this energy and threw him across the room. That’s how I got out. And me and the ghost who helped me escape used the other one to blow up the building we were in.”

“My master must have known he would break them,” Mr. Yagi says. He smiles slightly, sadly. “She was a master tactician. And speaking of her – I suppose it’s no longer relevant, but I brought over the notes Izuku and I took from her journals, if you’d still like to read them.”

“I’d like to.” You’ll need something to do tonight, when you’re here all alone for the first time. “Thank you.”

The two of you sit together on the steps until the varnish dries and the smell of food begins to drift out of the kitchen. You go to investigate and find that Inko’s turned your kitchen into some kind of industrial cooking facility. “This is for tonight,” she says, gesturing to a pot simmering on your stove. “I’ve made things for the next four days also. The list on the counter is a list of common food sensitivities, in case Tomura picked up anything during his embodiment. And if you have any questions about anything, please call me.”

You feel a lump growing in your throat, making it hard to swallow. “I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Inko says. She smiles at you. “I would have liked someone to talk to, when it was me.”

You nod a few times, manage to thank her. Then you excuse yourself to the bathroom, so she won’t see you struggling not to cry.

You’re not sure why you’re so miserable, why it’s so hard for you to hold it together as everyone heads home for the evening. The only thing that helps even slightly is when Phantom comes home, brought over by Shinsou and Hizashi, who’ve been keeping an eye on her for you. She’s so happy to see you that she leaps a full three feet off the ground and knocks you over, which hurts. You hug her close even though you can tell she’s dying to zoom ecstatically around the house and look up at Shinsou and Hizashi from the floor. “Thanks for looking out for her. I owe you.”

“That’s the closest I’m gonna get to getting a dog until I move out. It’s great,” Shinsou says. Aizawa and Eri are committed cat people, but Shinsou’s said multiple times that he likes both. “So you got out of the hospital. Are you, like – good?”

“Great,” you say. It’s a good thing you and Shinsou aren’t ghosts, because if you were, you wouldn’t have a prayer of getting away with the lie. “It’s nice to be home.”

Hizashi nods impatiently as you pick yourself up off the ground and Phantom goes tearing off to inspect the house, Shinsou in hot pursuit. He has a folder tucked under one arm, and he holds it out to you. “Here. ID and birth certificate for him. I’m working on the rest.”

The ID is right on top, complete with a photo. “How’d you get a photo of him?”

“Took it in the hospital. Fixing the background and photoshopping his eyes open was a bitch.” Hizashi looks pretty proud of himself anyway. “I made him the same age as you. He looks it at least. The birthday is an approximation of his summoning date. I couldn’t use his embodiment date. I didn’t want the doctors asking too many questions about how he had the worst birthday ever.”

“Thanks.” You inspect everything a little closer, then nearly drop the folder in shock. “Shigaraki Tomura? You gave him his conjurer’s last name?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” Hizashi says. “It flows pretty nicely, right?”

You guess it does, except for the part where you’re going to think of the conjurer every time you use Tomura’s new full name. “Thank you,” you say again, uselessly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t helped.”

Hizashi looks as uncomfortable being thanked by you as you are doing the thanking. “Don’t worry about it. His shit’s a lot easier to forge than the Nomus’.”

Shinsou and Hizashi stick around for a little longer, checking out the repairs and marveling at all the food Inko cooked, then head home. You shut and lock the door behind them, and all at once you’re home alone. Just you and Phantom, like you thought it would be when you bought this place. Phantom is wandering from room to room, greeting you when she passes by but very much looking for something. Looking for Tomura.

“He’ll be home soon,” you promise her. She knows who you’re talking about. She whines. “I miss him, too.”

You feel aimless, and you feel sick. You should probably eat something. You fill a bowl from the pot Inko left on the stove and settle in on the couch to pick at it, staring at nothing if you’re not looking into the bowl itself. It tastes good, but you’ve got no desire to eat it. You eat it anyway. If you’re going to be miserable no matter what, you might as well do it on a full stomach.

Part of you thinks it’s normal to feel wrecked after everything that’s happened. You were kidnapped and tortured. You watched your ghost die in front of you nineteen times. You almost got force-fed a ghost and almost turned into a Nomu and almost watched your house be destroyed and almost killed somebody and almost lost your ghost to the world between. Only a crazy person wouldn’t be upset. But at the same time, it’s a whole lot of almost. It could have been so much worse. It almost was. What is there for you to be upset about?

Your phone rings and you pick it up just for somebody to talk to. It’s your mom. “When I called the hospital they said you’d been discharged today. Why didn’t you call?”

“It’s been a lot. I just got home.” It’s probably not good that your default is to lie to her. “Everything’s fine.”

“Everything isn’t,” your mom says severely. “I raised you. I know you. Even over the phone, I know that tone in your voice.”

“How do you know me, Mom? We barely talk. We barely talked even when I was a kid.” You shouldn’t say this. Now’s not the right time to say this, but you’ve started, and you can’t stop yourself. “Everything’s not fine, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you. Not with anybody! The only person I want to talk to about it is Tomura, and he’s –”

In the hospital, in an induced coma, with a feeding tube down his throat that they won’t remove for two more days. Your own throat closes up, and your mom is silent on her end of the line. You brace yourself for her to blow up at you, to talk about how you never let her in, how the distance between the two of you is your fault. Instead: “You must be really worried about Tomura,” she says. “How is he doing?”

“He’s – they think he’ll be out in three days,” you say haltingly. “It’s – it’s worse for him than it was for me. I was healthier to start with. But they said he’ll be home in three days.”

“Are you going to visit him tomorrow?”

“I want to,” you say. “I have to go back to work, too. My boss said he’d give me as much time as I need, but I need to save it for when Tomura’s home.”

“When he’s home,” your mother repeats. “You live together?”

Oops. “Yeah. For a while now.”

“So it’s serious.”

“As serious as it gets,” you say. For a moment you’re overwhelmed by the memory of clinging to his hand as the world between dragged him in, refusing to let go even if it meant you’d be pulled in, too. “I’m – this is it for me, Mom. He’s it. I’m not leaving him.”

“I would never ask you to leave him,” your mom says, surprised. You shouldn’t have said that, should have known that the weight behind it wouldn’t make sense to her. “I’m looking forward to meeting him, once the two of you have recovered from all of this. You still haven’t told me what happened.”

You haven’t told anyone. “It’s hard to explain,” you say. Your phone begins to beep again, signaling an incoming call, and your stomach lurches when you see Magne’s caller ID. “I’m getting a call from the hospital. I have to go. Sorry –”

“Go,” your mom says immediately. “I’ll call back later. I love you.”

You manage to mumble that you love her too, then end the call and accept Magne’s. “What’s happening? Is he okay?”

You hear Magne speaking to someone else, but you can’t hear what she’s saying, and then her voice is there again, right in your ear. “Tomura’s awake,” she says. “They’re trying to sedate him again, but he’s a little upset. You can imagine.”

You can imagine. “Can I talk to him?”

“That’s why I called you, honey.” Magne puts you on speaker, and you hear her voice from a distance. “You’re right by his ear. Go ahead.”

“Tomura,” you say, and you hear a strangled sound. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Nobody there wants to hurt you. They’re just trying to help.”

You imagine him arguing that it hurts anyway. Probably also that it’s not helping, and he still feels like hell. “The sooner you get through this, the sooner you can come home,” you tell him. “That’s where I am right now. Me and Phantom are waiting for you. We’ll be here when you get back. Three days, right?”

“Right,” a doctor confirms from somewhere in the offing. “The wounds are healing well. The nutritional deficiencies are the main concern now.”

“You’ll be home soon,” you promise. “I’ll come visit you tomorrow.”

He’d be protesting if he could talk. Probably saying that he’ll be asleep tomorrow if he lets them sedate him again. “I’ll be there,” you say. “You’re fun to hang out with even when you’re asleep.”

You wonder if he’ll hear what you’re calling back to – all those months ago, when you were trying to keep him out of your bedroom at night. “I love you. I’ll be there tomorrow. Tomura –”

“He’s out,” Magne tells you. She laughs quietly. “We all knew you had him wrapped around your finger, but it’s really something to see in action.”

You close your eyes. “Thanks for sitting with him. It would be harder if you weren’t.”

Magne says something about how it’s not a problem, even though it is, and you thank her again and hang up the phone. You wish you were there with Tomura in the hospital. Even if you can’t talk to him, you can hold his hand. You could get used to the warmth of his skin and the new rhythm of his pulse and the sight of his white hair, before he comes home to you for good. You finish your soup and lift Phantom into your lap. She was with you at the start of all this, before all of this. She’s the only thing right now that feels like home. She lets you hug her and licks your face a few times, and for some stupid reason, that’s when you start to cry.