#out of hospital care

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #25

A/N: This lil scene is set sometime in the early days, like, pre-John reunion season 1.

xxx stitches

"Get your jacket off," Sam commands as soon as they're back in their crappy motel room, and Dean scowls at him.

"Bossy. It's fine, Sam, I'm good."

"I heard the sound you made when that thing attacked you, Dean. You didn't sound fine."

Dean opens his mouth to argue, then lets out a sigh instead as he remembers the scream that had ripped from him. And the fear that had been on Sam's face.

"Fine."

He moves carefully as he peels off his jacket, trying to move his right shoulder as little as possible. It still hurts, though, and he clenches his jaw tight enough that it aches.

"Oh, man," Sam murmurs behind him, and Dean cranes his neck to look at him.

"Is it bad?"

"Uuuh...I can't see it super well, but there's a lot of blood. I'm gonna go get the first-aid kit out of the Impala, you take your shirt off."

Dean knows there's no point in arguing. Even if he tries it, Sam'll just wear him down eventually and then he will have wasted all that energy for nothing. So he shucks off his shirt, going even more slowly than he had when he took his jacket off. Some of the blood has started to dry, sticking his shirt to his back near the huge gash that goes across his right shoulder blade. He lets out a sharp hiss as he pulls the fabric away from the wound.

"Damn it," he says under his breath as fresh blood rolls down his back.

He pulls a chair out from the table, turning it around so that he can sit in it backwards, his arms resting on the back. Sam comes back in a minute later with the small black backpack they use as a first-aid kit in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

"Here," Sam says, handing the bottle to Dean. "You're gonna want a drink of that. I'm guessing you'll need stitches."

Dean takes a swig of the amber liquid and hands the bottle back to Sam.

"You remember how to do those?"

Sam raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Seriously? Dad had us learning this stuff before I was even in school."

"Yeah, but it's been a while," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, setting the backpack on the table. "Not that long," he murmurs. He pulls out the small suture kit and sets it down on the table, then glances at Dean. "You need something to bite down on?"

Dean scoffs. "No. Just get on with it."

Sam nods, moving out of Dean's line of sight.

"Okay, this is gonna sting."

Dean tenses, flinching when the whiskey comes into contact with the open wound, burning its way down through the cut. He's had worse, but it's definitely no picnic. Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth, prodding at Dean's shoulder.

"Ow!" Dean hisses. "Careful."

"Yeah, it definitely needs stitches..." Sam does something behind Dean's back for a second, then says, "Try not to move."

Dean nods, clamping his jaw tight. He still lets out a small grunt as the needle enters his skin, though. Sam, thankfully, doesn't mention it.

"I didn't think I'd be doing this again," he says suddenly, and Dean frowns.

"What?"

"When I left," Sam says. "When I went to Stanford. I thought...I thought I was leaving all of this stuff behind."

It hurts, and Dean is irritated with himself that it does. It comes out as anger.

"So that's what I am to you?" he says. "'Stuff?'"

Sam's hands freeze, and he lets out a long sigh before he continues stitching. "Dean, that's not what I meant."

The hot flare of anger dies down and Dean chews on his bottom lip for a second. Sam doesn't talk much about his time at Stanford, or about Jess. Dean's been impressed at how easily he's fallen back into the routine of hunting.

"You ever miss it?" Dean asks before he can think not to.

"Uh...yeah. Sometimes. But you know something? When I was as Stanford, there were times—not often, but they happened—where I missed this. Not the stitching you up, but...I dunno. The feeling of you and me against the world. That's what I missed."

"You mean you, me, and Dad against the world?" Dean says, and Sam makes a sound.

"No, I mean you and me...I'm almost done with this. Just a few more, I think, then a bandage over 'em and you'll be good to go."

"How do they look?" Dean asks. "They nice and neat?"

Sam chuckles. "Not exactly. I guess I am a little out of practice."

"Oh, that's just great."

"Don't be a whiner," Sam says, giving the back of Dean's head a playful shove.

He won't be admitting it anytime soon, but Dean missed this, too. He'd spent so long being mad at Sam for leaving that he forgot why he liked having him around. He's determined not to take it for granted this time.

xxx

[morganbritton132]

Wayne is picking up some groceries from Melvald’s when he sees a kid slumped in the passenger seat of the chief’s truck. He’s got a black eye and a sour look on his face, and he’s parked right next to him.

Wayne puts his groceries in his truck and then taps on the window, “What’ya in for?”

“Living my life.”

Wayne laughs to himself at that before asking, “Didn’t get that black eye putting someone in the hospital?”

The kid snorts, “Hardly. Dickhead sucker punched me when I told him to stop messing with a bunch of kids. Didn’t have the chance to even hit back before Hopper’s on my ass.”

Wayne takes that into consideration and looks back at the store where Hopper is leaned over the check out counter, talking to Joyce Byers. He tilts his head back and decides, “Wanna get out of here?”

“What?”

“Prison break?” Wayne suggests, tilts his head towards his truck. “I’ll be the getaway driver.”

“Seriously?”

He gets a real smile out of a kid and his eyes light up the way Eddie’s does when he thinks he’s getting away with something. Wayne ends up taking the kid back to his house to hide out since he has a friend in Forest Hills, meets Max Mayfield, and has the best breakfast for dinner he’s ever experienced.

When Eddie finally exits his bedroom into this apparent alternate universe, he asks, “…why is Steve Harrington in our kitchen?”

[lunacias]

(Silence. CARPENTER tries to rally HAYWARD's spirits. She's afraid she's going to lose him.)

"All three of us - we can all go on living, Hayward. Just like you said."

[chandralia]

trying to casually explain katsuki’s devotion to izuku is impossible because why does it go from helping him train to RISKING HIS LIFE FOR HIM in a split second

[leqclerc]

Charles Leclerc talks with Sebastian Vettel inside the Ferrari hospitality on Thursday in São Paulo (edited)

[caroandcats]

What I need at some point in the show is presumed dead Hen. First, because Hen doesn't get enough whump, and I need to see her hurt while trying with all she has to get back to her family.

But mostly, I love to get brutally murdered by Tracie Thoms's acting. So in this scenario, I need Chimney to be the one telling her about Hen being presumed gone. And I need Karen to tell him that if it's a prank again it's not funny. I need her to beg him to tell her that it's a joke, that Hen is fine, to tell him that it's okay, she won't even be mad when he tells her the truth, but just tell her the truth, please tell her it's not true.

And that's how we end up with the "Grant Gustin next to Oliver Queen's grave" meme, except it's Tracie laughing at the 911 fandom's grave.

[tuesday-is-a-good-day]

Mori and Abuse

I’m making this because the BSD fandom has 2 modes for interpreting Mori and it’s either evil evil child abuser or spineless bastard and I HATE both of them.

Mori is an abuser, yes, but the way he abuses characters is very atypical, and not at all what most people expect. His abuse is almost all psychological, the only character we can say for sure has been physically abused by him is Yosano, and we’re only shown one instance of that.

For simplicity, I’ll be referring to his abuse of Dazai, Chuuya, Koyo and Yosano, but I believe it could be said that Kyuusaku and potentially the Akutagawa’s have suffered because of him.

To understand why Mori has abused certain characters, we must understand a bit about him as a person. This is potentially why Mori’s actions are so wildly skewed by the fandom, because no one wants to observe him too closely (but that’s a whole other post). Simply put, Mori is a military man. He does anything and everything to achieve the “optimal solution”, he has a plan and if he has to get his hands dirty to reach his goal, he will. Emotions and attachments go out the window for him, most of the time at least, because he would sacrifice anything, and anyone, to achieve his goal. Most of the time at least. That’s why he used Yosano, because what’s the life of one girl to the safety of his nation? That’s why he manufactured Oda’s and his orphans deaths, because the prize outweighed the cost.

Mori is logical and reserved, so we must observe all his actions with the lens that he has a reason for what he does, because he (almost) always has a reason.

I’ll start by referring to Mori’s abuse of Dazai, because he’s a bit of a special case and also the one that the fandom overall gets the most wrong. Mori’s abuse of Dazai is usually twisted to be sexual or physical, when there is absolutely no evidence of that. People like to bring up Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa, or that one throwaway line from The Day I Picked Up Dazai as evidence, but neither of those hold up in my opinion.

Firstly, just because Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa was partly physical, doesn’t mean he himself underwent physical abuse. Just like Mori, Dazai always has reasons for what he does, and his reason for what he did to Akutagawa was tailored to Akutagawa and his ability, therefore not something that Mori would have done to Dazai. Not to excuse Dazai’s abuse of Akutagawa, of course, but the fact of the matter is that Dazai’s abuse was a test of Akutagawa, and a punishment because Akutagawa didn’t adhere to Dazai’s standards. This abuse is the result of Mori’s own abuse, yes, but it’s not as straightforward as “Mori hit Dazai, ergo Dazai hit Akutagawa”.

The line from TDIPUD is also poor evidence, as all it is is Oda telling Dazai that what he’s doing won’t hurt and Dazai responding that Mori says the same about the needles he gives him. The fact that this is taken as abuse is really weird to me, why is that the assumption here? Mori is a doctor, there are multiple reasons for him to be giving Dazai needles. And the fact that Mori says it’s not going to hurt just sounds like the typical “doctor giving a kid a shot” exchange.

Dazai hates pain, so obviously Mori would lie and say that it isn’t going to hurt. Mori cares for Dazai’s well-being, which is what makes Dazai a bit of an outlier, as Mori shows care for him before he’s found a reason to justify that care. This is evidenced by their exchange in the beginning of Dazai, Chuuya: Fifteen, which is very important as it gives us an insight into Mori’s perspective during that time, where he panics because he hasn’t achieved the “optimal solution” by keeping Dazai alive, but then justifies that action by deciding Dazai is too good an asset to throw away.

And here-in lies the actual abuse that Dazai went through, not being hit or shamed or any of that, but emotional coercion, a slow cultivation of the parts of Dazai that Mori saw as useful, and a creation of the mindset we see Dazai use. This is most prominent with how Mori plants ideas into Dazai’s head. This is referenced in Chapter one of Fifteen as well, establishing that Mori has taken somewhat of an instructor role to Dazai, but that’s something Dazai rebels against.

This exchange is a perfect example of that conditioning, instead of giving Dazai information directly, Mori gets Dazai to deduce his answers using information he already has, something we see Dazai does very often in the current plot. But the main example of this conditioning comes in the form of Dazai’s plan to use the Sheep against Chuuya, a plan that comes DIRECTLY from Mori.

Mori makes sure that Dazai is in the room as he baits Chuuya, uses the weakness of the Sheep against him, and then breaks down EXACTLY what has happened for Dazai. “Just some food for thought” my ass.

Then when discussing his plan with Rimbaud, Dazai brings up a theory taught to him by Mori. 15!Dazai is such a little parrot, it’s all “Mori says, Mori says, Mori says”, just word-vomiting all the thoughts Mori puts in his head, there is a CLEAR influence here.

Just like Mori, Dazai uses the Sheep against Chuuya. Mori shows Dazai how to control people, how to make them listen and how to make them obey. The reason Dazai treats people like pawns, the reason he KNOWS how to manipulate people is because Mori taught him.

Just like so many of the characters, the fandom forgets that when Mori met Dazai, he was a child. He was a broken child who needed a guiding hand and the hand he got was Mori’s. Morí crafted the Dazai that we see, shaped the way that he thinks, THAT was his abuse.

Chuuya as well is a special case. Like Mori, he is a leader, and that is a quality Mori admires in him. In turn, Chuuya looks up to Mori, sees him as an inspiration for what it means to be a leader. This is another example of Mori’s manipulative abuse. To Chuuya, Mori makes himself out to be a saviour, someone who will teach him how to be better, how to protect the people he thinks he has failed. Mori takes Chuuya at his weakest point and gives him a new chance.

And with that, Chuuya is loyal to the mafia and Mori has Soukoku. Never mind that Mori was the brains behind Dazai’s plan that got Chuuya into the mafia in the first place, by getting Dazai to do his dirty work, Mori gets to appear to Chuuya with a halo and wings (I could also talk about Mori’s involvement with Stormbringer and how that locked Chuuya into the mafia, but that’s another tangent).

Mori has done the same with Koyo. She’s loyal to him, but clearly does not LIKE him, so where does that loyalty come from? It is because he has freed her. Koyo suffered under the rule of the Old Boss, she had no freedom, the man who cared for her was executed, she was restrained within the mafia. And then Mori takes over and she ends up an executive. Suddenly she’s got POWER, she can change things, under Mori she’s given the ability to change things and take charge. He sees a girl in chains and loosens them, not enough for her to escape, but enough that she can move. And having been chained up for so long, that feels like freedom. Koyo is loyal to Mori because he’s better than the alternative, because if she can’t be free, at least she can move.

I left Yosano for last, because again, she’s a wild card. Unlike all the other people Mori has coerced, Yosano’s abuse took place during a time where every second was precious. There was no time to do it delicately, the way Mori handled everything else, it was war, win or lose. Mori’s tactics were a lot more brutal, Yosano wants the soldiers to live, so Mori shoots the one she cares about so either she WATCHES her friend die, or she can save him. Unlike with Dazai, with Chuuya, with Koyo, Mori isn’t Yosano’s saviour, he’s her captor, he gives her a choice, but its one where neither option is made to look kind. He makes it clear, she heals them, or they die, whether it’s at his hands, or the hands of the enemy, and he knows she would never let them die.

Mori works through coercion and manipulation, he shapes the way people think of him carefully, moulding his appearance in the eyes of others. To Dazai he’s just an old man that Dazai has under his thumb, who tries and fails to manipulate him. But that’s not the truth. To Chuuya he’s a benevolent leader, someone so gracious as to grant him a place in the mafia. But that’s not the truth. To Koyo he’s the safest option, not someone she wants to follow, but someone she will follow, because at least she’s free. But that’s not the truth. To Yosano he’s evil, cruel and harsh and he takes lives as easily as he breathes with no remorse, he’s the God to her Angel of Death. But thats not the truth. To the audience, he’s a monster, a filthy pervert who is nothing more than a pedophile. Is that the truth?

Mori is like a spider, ensnaring people in his web with carefully constructed lies and appearances, his abuse is not physical or sexual, it’s a psychological coercion, careful at times and brutal at others, his abuse is a targeted attack of an individual’s weaknesses, and a cultivation of the parts he sees as useful.

Every person is his tool, and he likes his blades sharp.

@1seaweedbrain1 for you <3

[ineed-to-sleep]

*me immediately after going through a terrifying and traumatic experience* haha yeah I guess it was rough but I'm fine now like I'm totally chill. It was kinda funny actually if you think about it

[em-prentiss]

Unpopular (?) opinion but I think Aaron fell first, Emily fell harder. Emily didn’t even know what love fully felt like—she recognized attraction and platonic love, but she didn’t realize what she felt was romantic until she was already in love with Aaron. Aaron, however, recognized the slow creep of it, and though he desperately tried to stop it, he couldn’t. He knew long before she did and even tried avoiding her to keep the feelings at bay, but it was useless because once he loved, he loved hard.

[stargloom]

im everything you hate

blood ver

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #2

xxx trust issues

The assassin is an amateur. Charles can tell by the knock-off Ray-Bans and the slightly too-short suit and the scuffed shoes. This guy is trying way too hard on way too small of a budget to be a big-hitter. Charles almost feels bad for the guy. Or, he did a minute ago, before the guy shot him. Now, he's pissed.

Charles's father would probably tell him to get answers before killing the gunman, but rage has taken over. It's a familiar feeling. All he can think about is ending this man. So he hits him, again and again. He doesn't even feel the bullet wound in his left bicep, doesn't notice the blood soaking his sleeve. The man stops crying out after the first few blows. Then he stops moving altogether.

Charles doesn't stop.

"Chairleg!"

The shout filters through the furious noise in Charles's head, and he pauses, just for a second, between blows.

"Charles!"

Someone grabs his right wrist from behind and Charles whirls, left fist flying at the person's face. The person catches his hand easily and twists. The sudden forced movement causes the bullet hole in his arm to finally make itself known, sending out bright zaps of pain that extend from his bicep up to his shoulder and all the way down to his fingertips. He staggers back a step, vision going black for a second even as he raises his fists. Then, his vision clears and he lowers them slightly, breathing hard.

"Drowsy?"

"The police will be here any minute, let's go." As if to prove his point, the distant wail of sirens splits the air. This isn't Jade Dragon territory, which means the police aren't on the payroll. It also means they might be on someone else's, and if that's the case then Charles definitely doesn't want to be here when they arrive.

"Charles, we need to go. I know a place nearby."

Charles's eyes narrow. "We?"

Drowsy rolls his eyes and lets out an annoyed huff. "Just come on," he says, grabbing Charles's good arm and dragging him away from what's left of the would-be assassin.

xxx

Charles takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly. "What were you even doing there?"

Drowsy ignores the question, walking back from the kitchen to the table. He sets down a bag and a bottle of Tunnel 88 liquor, then juts his chin toward Charles. "Take your shirt off."

"Can't you just rip off the sleeve or something?"

Drowsy turns to him, one eyebrow raised. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Charles says, glaring at him.

Drowsy snorts. "You were over here, what, three nights ago? Taking off way more than your shirt."

Charles clenches his jaw, his cheeks getting hot. He's glad that Drowsy is too busy pulling things from the bag (bandages, antiseptic, tweezers) to notice.

"That's not the same thing."

It's been almost a year since the first time Charles and Drowsy hooked up, sloppy and heated, in the metro station bathroom—a fight that had turned into something else halfway through. It's embarrassing and cliche, but also unsurprising in many ways. With their lives (their families), a normal, healthy relationship isn't exactly in the cards. It's almost business-like, this thing between them. Sex, without strings and, more importantly, without questions. If one of them shows up with a black eye and split lip, or a gun, or doesn't show up at all, they both know not to talk about it. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

This is different. This is vulnerable. He's hooked up with Drowsy, yes, but he doesn't trust him.

Drowsy is staring at him like he's waiting for Charles to change his mind. Charles doesn't. Drowsy finally lets out a sigh, shaking his head.

"Fine."

Charles watches as Drowsy reaches for the sheath that sits at his lower back, over his spine. Drowsy pulls the knife out slowly, making eye contact with Charles, his left hand raised in an exaggerated display of non-violence. It's obvious that he's picked up on Charles's distrust, and is mocking him for it. It takes conscious effort on Charles's part not to rise to the taunt. His arm has yet to stop bleeding, and the sleeve of his white shirt has grown saturated with blood. It tinges Drowsy's fingers with crimson as he cuts the fabric away to get a closer look at the bullet hole.

"Can you move your fingers?" Drowsy asks.

Charles responds by curling his fingers into a fist and then uncurling them.

"Any numbness?"

"Nope," Charles says. He kind of wishes there were numbness, even though he's fairly certain that would mean some kind of nerve damage.Now that things have quieted down, he's feeling the wound a lot more, a sharp pain that spreads much further than the surprisingly small hole would suggest. Not that he lets it show. He takes another lazy drag on his cigarette.

"I need to get that bullet out," Drowsy says. He grabs the bottle of liquor he'd brought to the table and holds it out to Charles. "Here."

"I don't need that," Charles says, and Drowsy smirks.

"Yes, you do. I've gone through this more than once myself. You're going to want a drink."

Charles narrows his eyes, then snatches the bottle from Drowsy. Kaoliang liquor isn't his favorite, but he takes a long drink anyway, making sure not to grimace. He sets the bottle back on the table, then nods once.

"Go ahead."

The cool facade Charles has put on is harder to keep up when Drowsy pours antiseptic over his arm, the stuff burning its way deep into the wound. His arm twitches, despite his best efforts, but Drowsy doesn't mention it. He pours disinfectant over the tweezers, then glances up at Charles.

"You ready for this?"

"Just do it."

Charles grits his teeth as Drowsy digs into the wound, letting out short breaths through flared nostrils. He's determined not to make a sound, curling his fingers into fists and squeezing his eyes shut against the agony shooting through his left arm. He has no idea how much time passes, but it feels like an eternity.

"Got it," Drowsy finally says.

"Took you long enough," Charles grinds out. His jaw is aching from clenching it. Drowsy shakes his head, opening a package of gauze and pressing it firmly (a little roughly) against the wound.

"You know, some gratitude wouldn't hurt, Chairleg. Do you know what my father would do if he found out about this?"

Charles lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Probably the same thing mine would do."

Drowsy is quiet as he wraps a bandage around Charles's bicep, holding the gauze in place. He doesn't look at Charles when he speaks.

"I was able to help you tonight because it wasn't directly against my family's interests. But there's going to be a time when that won't be the case." He doesn't say, I won't choose you over them, but the meaning is clear.

"You think I don't know that?" The words come out harsh, more defensive than he would like. This isn't Romeo and Juliet. Charles has never had any illusions about that.

"Of course you fucking know!" Drowsy snaps, his voice rising to meet Charles's tone. He takes a deep breath. "Both of us have always known. I'm just saying, we need to be prepared."

Charles blinks. It sounds like a warning. He looks up at Drowsy, studies his expression for any hint of...what? What is he expecting to see hidden there? Guilt, or danger maybe? Some deadly gleam in his eye? But there's nothing. Drowsy's expression is carefully, infuriatingly blank.

"Anyway, I'm finished," Drowsy says. "You'll live, but you lost a lot of blood. You need rest. You can stay here tonight, if you want. On the couch."

Again, Charles finds suspicion growing in his chest. But Drowsy did just spend the last hour patching him up. If he were going to make a move tonight, he would have done it already. Charles doesn't want to stay, doesn't want to owe Drowsy any more than he already does, but he's pretty fucking tired and it's not like he can call Blood Boots or Xing to come pick him up. Their loyalty is to his father, not him. He heaves a sigh, then reaches for the bottle of Tunnel 88 and takes a drink.

"Fine." Maybe it's the blood loss, or the alcohol, or the combination of the two, but Charles finds himself saying something he's never said before. "Thanks."

"Sure, Chairleg."

Drowsy grabs him a pillow and blanket. The mood has shifted, both of them falling into a sullen quiet. Charles is sure Drowsy knows something, but that's for future Charles to deal with. For now, he gets settled on the couch, laying on his right side to avoid putting any weight on his throbbing left arm. For now, he sleeps.

xxx

[morganbritton132]

Still thinking about Steve and his uncle Phil Callahan (I think it was pretty universal that everybody thought he should be Steve’s uncle), but specifically post-season 2.

Like imagine, Callahan and Powell are finishing up their shift at the station when Hopper radios something like, ‘I’m at the hospital, bring me a change of clothes and something to eat. I’m going to be here for a while.’ So Callahan and Powell get some food and the clothes Hopper keeps in his office, and they go to the hospital. Hopper looks like shit, and he’s there with Nancy Wheeler and one of Will Byers’ little friends, which is weird. He’s also in the waiting room and doesn’t look like he’s able to keel over so, safe bet, someone else is.

Callahan asks who they got back there at the same time Hopper is telling them to take Wheeler and Henderson home. Hopper says, “Harrington. He got pretty banged up.”

Callahan kinda freezes, “Steve Harrington?”

Before Hopper can properly articular obviously, Steve Harrington, Callahan is already halfway down the corridor. Hopper asks what his problem is and Powell is just like, “Man, that’s his nephew.”

[immunetoneurotoxin]

EMERGENCY CAT SURGERY | Pickle needs HELP!

I never thought it would be my turn to make one of these posts.

TW; CAT INJURY

Sunday night, my 6 month old kitten, pickle, had a really bad fall down a hardwood staircase after getting startled, and upon impact with the first floor, his little femur took the entire force of the impact and it snapped clean in half. My heart dropped to my stomach when I heard him thump hard against the ground and he began to cry, we immediately dropped everything and rushed him to the emergency vet nearby.

Turns out, the injury was worst than we thought. He needs orthopedic surgery to fit his femur with a metal plate. This will help him recover faster with the best successful outcome for his quality of life, but this is going to cost a staggering $4,000 dollars. He hasn't even celebrated his 1st birthday yet, he's still just a baby and this terrible accident happened. Pickle is truly my best friend, he has been my little beacon of light through it all, he is the one who sits with me while I write long chapters for my novels, and I will do absolutely anything for him.

My heart is fucking shattered seeing my normally happy and high-energy baby have such a traumatic injury like this. I know this is hard on his mental health, too. Please, if you can, help us help pickle. If anyone is willing to donate to our GoFundMe to help us alleviate the burden of surgery costs while I'm literally still desperately job hunting, it would help me and my partner more than you can imagine. If you can't financially support it at the moment, don't worry, I completely understand. But please, share this post as far out into your friends list as you can. Sharing will still help us out so so much.

Whether you donate or share, Pickle thanks you for helping his little leg get better. ❤️‍🩹

VISIT GOFUNDME

CA$HAPP: $EricEdrington

[mango-forest]

inspired by A Second Life by Die_Erlkonigin6083

“—lo?”

What?

“—an you hear us?”

Go away.

“The levels are stable. We should see if—”

He can’t move; he’s floating in place with wires attached to him. He can’t breathe; there’s some sort of liquid all around him. He can’t see; the liquid gel substance presses against his eyelids, forcing them shut.

“Process starting in three, two, one!”

What process? Just let him sleep.

“WARNING: SUBJECT F-4N70M DESTABILIZING. PLEASE CHECK ACTIVITY LOG.”

It’s getting warmer. He wants it to get cooler. Why is it getting warmer? He hates it. It only gets warmer when they’re doing tests. People are loudly talking to each other—or is it to him?

Is this another test?

-

He slowly opens his eyes. It is bright, in the way all of the Rooms are, sterilized white the only color on the walls. But there’s blue curtains surrounding the bed he’s in. They never let him have curtains.

Actually, there are a lot of differences between where he is and the Rooms. It’s hard to move, but when he turns his head to the side, it’s not only chairs and machinery that he sees, but there’s also a small table with flowers in a vase, and pillows stacked next to it. There is a tube connected to his nose, and another one leading to his arm. But the discomfort cannot compare to the awe he feels when he looks through the window and sees the darkness outside, speckled with lights.

He can see millions of lights past the window, glowing, tauntingly beyond his reach. It is overwhelming. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He has to get closer.

Getting his body to move is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He clumsily paws at the tubes until they fall off and in the process tumbles out of his bed, crashing onto the floor. The machinery has gotten louder now, a constant screeching that he ignores as he painstakingly makes his way to the window. He has to slowly drag himself most of the way, but it’s worth it when he props himself against the wall, closer to the lights.

He hasn’t been there for more than a few minutes when someone sits next to him. “Hello,” the person—who was not there when he woke up—says. “What are we looking at?”

Why does the person have to look with him? He was looking at the lights first! “The lights,” he says. It’s quieter than he meant it to be. His voice is hoarse, and it actually hurts him to talk.

Something cool is pressed to his hand. “It’s water,” the person says. He doesn’t look away from the lights as the person sighs. He can’t curl his fingers enough to grab it. A hand presses against his chest, leaning him back into an embrace. Another hovers a few inches in front of his face, blocking his view of the lights.

Angrily, he looks at the other. The person smiles indulgently and uses the blocking hand to then grab the cup of water and raise it to his mouth. While he’s forced to slowly drink, the person says, “We call those lights ‘stars.’ Do you like stars?”

Carefully, he nods his head, a bit of water dribbling down his chin. Stars.

“I do too. Did you know there are other planets out there? My name actually came from one of those planets: my name is Nightwing. Do you have a name?” Nightwing asks slowly, placing the empty cup on the floor and then wiping the wet off his chin.

He also seems disappointed when all he gets in response is a blank stare.

“Okay then, kiddo,” Nightwing says. “Let’s get you back to bed.” The man shifts so that he’s now held against his waist. Then he gets up and they move back towards the bed with the blue curtains. They’re leaving the stars. Why are they leaving the stars? Is it because he didn’t answer? He weakly struggles against Nightwing, a whine leaving his throat. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, it’s okay. You can still see the stars from the bed.”

But it isn’t the same! Frustrated, he tries to bite Nightwing’s shoulder to get him to stop, because even the biggest scientist stopped when he did it, but even that doesn’t work because Nightwing’s stupid black and blue suit is too tough!

“Aw, baby don’t do that. This is special material, you’re just going to hurt your teeth.” Don’t tell him what to do. He stubbornly bites down harder.

The sheets are cool against his skin and Nightwing uses his hand to press against his chin and cheeks in a certain way that loosens the bite enough that he can detach him.

Ignoring the glare directed at his whole being, Nightwing then tidies some previously unnoticed papers on the bedside table and hums a little tune. “You know, if you don’t have a name, then I can name you. What about. . . Babywing? Or . . . Pythagoras?”

“Name?” he asks, unable to have before. “What is. . .?”

He trails off at the end, but Nightwing seems to have understood, frowning for a moment before smiling again. “A name is what people call you. It’s who you are, in a way.”

He doesn’t know what a Pythagoras was, but he does know he doesn’t want to be called that. “‘M not a baby,” he rasps.

Nightwing pauses and looks at him with a smile, probably pleased he was talking. “Well, your charts say you’re seven. So you’re basically a baby. A baby with no name, which I shall now fix by naming you. . . Small Boy!”

“You’re not good at naming,” he informs the adult. He’s forced to drink more water before he continues, unimpressed. “I have a name.”

“Nuh-uh,” says Nightwing. “I would’ve known, Small Boy.”

“Yes, I do.” His throat has gone dry and Nightwing seems to notice as he produces another cup of water out of nowhere and helps him drink again. “They called me Phantom.”

Never to his face. Never when talking to him. But sometimes, they would shorten his label to Phantom when talking to each other, something easier for them to say. To him and to the lab recordings, he was referred to as Subject F-4N70M only. But the thought of Nightwing—the only person to treat him like a person—using his label, a string of letters and numbers. . . it gives him a weird feeling of shame.

Nightwing blinks. “Phantom? That’s. . . a very nice name.”

He shrugs. It’s not like he chose it. “It’s not a normal name,” he mumbles. None of the people in the lab have names like Phantom.

Nightwing sits on the edge of the bed, giving him a gentle look. “Well, I think it’s fine. Nightwing isn’t a very normal name, either. Phantom sounds cool. Like a hero’s name.”

“What is a hero?”

The frown is back again for a second before the gentleness replaces it. “Someone who helps and saves people. My hero name is Nightwing.”

“You’re a hero?” he says in slight wonder. “You saved me. You were the voice I heard.” It makes sense: if anyone fits the label of hero, it would be Nightwing, he thinks.

“You could hear us when you were in stasis? Well, I was the one there, and I am a hero! But hey,” Nightwing quickly adds, “If you want to have a different name then you can! You don’t have to keep the name they gave you.”

“Really?” It is barely above a whisper.

“Really,” Nightwing responds, firmly.

“Can I,” he starts, voice small, “have—there’s this name I—“ He swallows and looks around nervously. Waving Nightwing closer, the hero indulgently leans over. He says it so quietly it might have been a murmur: “Can my name be Danny?”

“Danny?”

He nods. He’s never said that name aloud before; it’s only ever been floating in his mind—in fact, he’s never really said it even in his mind. But he knows, as soon as the name leaves his mouth, that it’s his. “Yeah. Danny, not—not Daniel, Danny.”

Nightwing smiles widely, warmly. “Danny with the bluest eyes,” he coos.

Danny smiles back, shy but undeniably happy. A yawn escapes him, making him a bit surprised. When another one escapes him, Nightwing laughs and says, “Time for bed, I think.”

“I am in a bed already,” Danny says.

“No, like—I mean it’s time to sleep.”

Danny tries not to flinch, although he probably wilts judging by how Nightwing’s face goes a bit worried. “Oh. Where’s the capsule?” he asks, looking around as if he just missed it the first time and it was in a corner he hadn't thought to check.

Nightwing frowns. “Your capsule?”

“Yes. Where else would I sleep?” Danny asks. Nightwing’s face does something complicated. Danny hopes this isn’t when he finally gets upset and angry at him.

[tommygotwrittenoff]

i just think if roles were reversed and buck was the one saying those gay ass lines to eddie, eddie wouldve proposed like four seasons ago

[moldy-flowers]

Headcanon that when Sasuke and Sakura came back to Konoha Ino ran up to her and told Sasuke they would be going on a date and started fussing over Sarada and Sakura.

And Sai, with no idea what to do just takes Sasukes hand and is like: "We'll be going now." Cause he just assumes that they're just swapping partners for like girls night out and a guys night out.

And Sasuke, in shock with no idea what to do sort of just gets pulled away by Sai and looks back at Sakura with fear and confusion in his eyes.

(Of course Sakura finds this hilarious and just watches her husband get taken away.)