#stomach wound

[writing-whump]

Silver knife wound

Dylan finds Rip with a stab wound to the stomach that won't heal. Warning for lots of bleeding, talks of death and giving up.

Dylan was worried.

He couldn't find Rip anywhere. He looked at all the usual spots - the old fabric, the parking lot, the garden between the abandoned apartment complexes where street strays did they improved rings every night. Nothing.

Rip wasn't one to hide or lay low. He often circled the building block that he called his territory. Let himself be known. His mere presence often prevented needless fights, wolves rather saving scuffles for the rings than ganging up or going berserk at random.

Dylan thought it was pretty amazing. Rip seemed so detached and tough and like he couldn't care less, but everything he did convinced him otherwise.

If there was any fairness or order to this weird lost world of the street strays, it was because of Rip.

Dylan did another round around the block. He looked with his shadow, his perception of wolf shadows and the scent.

Maybe Rip simply disappeared. He could have jumped on a train and left from one day to the next. There were wolves that preferred such nomadic life. Keeping yourself unpredictable also helped stay safe from Executioners.

A few drops of rain hit his cheek. Dylan looked up. It was warm, but it rained last night all the way to the morning. It was staring again.

He huffed and went back to the ground floor room with broken windows and locks. The couch had a nest of blankets and old jackets that smelled the most like Rip.

At least he could stay over until the rain stopped. The petrichor in the air was heavy. This would be a long and pouring rain. Dylan could tell from all the times he had watched his sister predict, steer or call for a storm like that.

He went more inside the apartment. Broken glass on the floor, a faucet that was dripping - at least that was something - slanted cupboards. No electricity.

It was hard to imagine this was a a place someone could live in. If Rip at least had a caravan or a tent for camping it would seem more dignified than this hole. It reminded Dylan of apocalyptic movies.

He explored further, snooping into the rooms. Bare beds with no sheets. Fungi and water sickering through the walls and climbing up to the ceiling.

The more he looked the more it gave him the creeps.

He opened the small room in the corner that was probably supposed to be a bathroom. It smelled the worst, like canalization not working, sticky and disgusting.

When he opened the room though, the smell of something much more intense and fresh hit his nostrils.

The metallic scent of blood.

Dylan froze in the doorstep, pushing the door completely open with a pounding heart.

Rip was there. Sprawled on the floor against the bathtub, head hanging limply. There was a pool of blood around where he was sitting.

Dylan's breath hitched as he followed the red trail up with his eyes...towards a knife stuck in Rip's side on the left.

Dark blue eyes, glazed over and pained slowly rolled up, meeting his gaze.

That broke the shocked spell.

"Holy shit. Rip!" Dylan was moving immediately, sliding to his knees by Rip's side. "What-what happened to you? What is this?"

"Oh...hey there." Rip blinked at him sleepily. He frowned as if he wasn't sure who Dylan was before the corners of his lips went up. "Dylan, was it?"

"Why isn't this healed?" Dylan hovered his hands over Rip's wound helplessly. "Rip!"

Rip gave him another scarily calm, self-deprecating grin. "Why you think? That's silver, dude. Never seen a silver knife before?"

"But Rip-" Dylan's eyes were wider and wider. This was not the reaction he expected. "How long have you been like this? When did this happen?"

"Hmmmm, not sure." Rip's lopsided grin revealed a row of bloody teeth.

"Have you been like this for hours, minutes? That makes a huge difference." Dylan looked around the broken, dirty and useless bathroom. No towels. He jumped to his feet to try the faucet but even that wasn't working.

"Rip, you need help."

Rip lifted his head sluggishly to focus on him. "There is nothing to do. I can't heal and I have no one to call." He leaned his head back against the tiles, the position looking entirely uncomfortable. "It's fine. It had to happen someday. I expected it sooner, to be honest.

"We need to get you out of here. I heard you shouldn't pull the knife out, so I guess we need to fix it in place so I can carry you-"

"Dylan." It was a quiet word, but rang through the bathroom like a command. "Stop it. It's...okay." Rip swallowed dryly.

"No, it's not! I need to call the hospital-"

"It's useless. This is silver. No chance."

"It doesn't have to be the end! Humans get treatment for things like this and they survive!"

"No ambulance will come here. And they won't treat me. You know I can't be around humans without hurting them. And even if they did, if they found out who I'm....they would kill me on sight. Hunted wolf, you know?" The injured wolf chuckled, the sound bitter and scary with hopelessness. "I can't go to a hospital. No pack will help. It's over."

Dylan was trying to process the new information about being hunted for some mysterious crime and whether it was really true Rip wouldn't get treated.

Everyone got emergency treatement and care, even without an ID or health insurance card or any money. And Austria had better hospitals than Slovakia or Czechia...

Were there other rules for wolves? What did it mean, kill on sight? Why would Rip be on the hunted list?

There were many things he didn't know how to do, how to solve. If he risked it and went into the hospital and they send him away or did Rip in...and he needed to make a decision and fast, cause while the wound was more dripping than seeping, they were running out of time.

Dylan sprinted back to get his backpack he left back at the living room, coming back as quickly as he could. He took the sport tape, self-adhesive one and pulled Rip's shirt out of the way.

The wolf watched him with half-closed eyes, disbelieving and amused. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, his curly black hair plastered to his forehead and neck. "Give it up, city boy. There is no way out of this mess."

"Shut up," Dylan growled, grabbing him by the shoulders so he could lean him forward enough to wrap the tape around Rip's stomach and then carefully as he could around the knife, so it would stick in place.

Rip didn't move, still strangely limp in his hold. Not even hissing at the movement.

"I'm not letting you die," Dylan announced as he fixed the bandage around Rip one more time before tying it up.

"What's the big plan, superman? You don't have a pack either, if I remember."

"My sister got one. And her boyfriend is freaking wolf royalty or whatever. He knows everything. He can fix this." He leaned Rip back against the bathtub, looking him over. "I'm gonna carry you on my back. That way I can run faster. You think the knife will hold?"

"It really doesn't matter," Rip said softly. "I'm gonna die, Dylan. Save yourself the trouble-"

Dylan was done listening. They were wasting time.

He squated down in front of Rip and guided his hands carefully over his shoulders. He pressed Rip's uninjured right side against his back as tightly as possible. The left side with the wound had to stay free, so the knife wouldn't move further.

He adjusted his grip under Rip's thigh, jostling him up a little to get him secured. "I'm sorry. Just hold on to me."

"It's fine," Rip repeated, propping his chin on Dylan's shoulder. "It doesn't hurt."

That scared Dylan more than anything.

He bolted out from the bathroom and out the building, calculating the road in his head. There were no taxis or public transport in the lawless district. But the river wasn't far and beyond the river it was close to Seline's place - Isaiah's place.

If he used his shadow to strengthen his limbs as he ran, he could make it faster than a car.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Febuwhump Day 20: Immortality

CW: immortal whumpee, dying, blood, stomach wound, gore

The thick stage curtains were drawn, but they couldn’t keep out the noise of the crowd as Bram climbed onto the dim stage. His stomach had been knotted with dread all night. It was one thing to be stabbed or poisoned or even impaled, but an entirely different thing to have a stranger stab his claws right in your heart. It made Bram feel sick, even as he approached his human-but-definitely-not-human partner waiting at the other end of the stage.

Norrix Vangrey. Bram repeated the name in his head.

“Ready for me to kill you?” Norrix said, lazily flexing his clawed fingers.

Bram was used to dying. He was used to being killed. But the words made him shudder.

“I guess so,” he replied, keeping his voice even. Why was he so afraid this time?

The curtains slowly parted, the pulleys creaking audibly. Bram and Norrix took their places. Bram was a knight, fighting a ferocious beast. His costume armor felt uncomfortable and hot as he pretended to attack with his sword. The audience cheered and gasped. A bright light flashed close by—a camera, taking a picture just as Norrix, as the monster, gained the upper hand. Bram lost his balance and fell, his heart pounding. He knew what to expect: Norrix’s claws in his stomach. But the impact stole the breath from his lungs and sent pain shooting through his body.

His vision greyed out. Through the deepening haze, he heard the crowd gasping in horror.

What kind of creature was Norrix Vangrey, anyway…

Bram came back to life in a pool of his own blood. Horror turned to wild exclamations and applause.

Just another day in the life of the immortal Resurrecting Boy.

@whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumpy-writings @afabulousmrtake @whumpinthepot @silver-ink-iron-words @febuwhump

[whumpshots]

Whump Snippet Saturday #5

Whumpee takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, I got this," they mutter and take one step after the other, still trying to put pressure on their stab wound. Of course his attacker had to pull out the knife again, otherwise it would have been too easy for them. It takes them some strength to not stumble, but Whumpee manages to get out of the building, leaving a path of red behind them.

Their knees get weaker and weaker.

They can hear someone shouting their name, getting closer and closer.

With a grunt, Whumpee collapses into someone's arms, not knowing who it is ... They pass out before they manage to catch a glimpse.

[therookinyellow]

You know it's a good show when it actually makes me finish a piece of art and put it online.

[purplelescent]

The usual fighting style of the guys

[mercutio-the-velaryon]

Me when I see these pics:

[fisherrprince]

instead of going to sleep I decided to give sprawl ven a more detailed set of clothes

[emptyjunior]

ghostmaker is the kinda guy who would look at the scars on batman and go "please stop... for me🥺" and bruce would go "motherfucker YOU did these"

[sweepingboy]

can't get out of my head an image of mu qing recovering after a murder attempt in puqi shrine (because no one is dumb enough to go against hua cheng and xie lian and attack him there) and feng xin making up different excuses to spend time with him, entertain him untill he complains it hurts to laugh, take care of this dumbass

[nitroish]

late night anatomy practice that turned into a little more

[saints-who-never-existed]

One thing I always feel with Fitzjames is that he may well have been happier if he hadn't tried so hard to build himself that great gilded life.

He may say otherwise but clearly it's a life that does humiliate him to live in many ways - he feels forever inadequate, forever a fraud and a fake right up until almost the end of his life when he reaches the end of vanity and is finally free. Perhaps an un-gilded life would have suited him better? Perhaps he ought to have forgone much of that emotional turmoil and continued just being the fighter/deadly weapon/balls-to-the-wall adrenaline junkie madman that life and the military saw fit to make him?

I would never in a million years condone his actions or condone violence and colonialism in general. But you can't deny that he was extremely fucking good at it and derived significant pleasure and purpose from being extremely fucking good at it.

Which is all to say that I'm now thinking the same thing about Hodgson...

We know of course that the real Hodgson appeared to be cut from a similar cloth to Fitzjames - distinguishing himself under heavy fire in battle and earning his commission during the Opium Wars. And there's much to indicate that his fictional counterpart shares that backstory right from his E01 dinner-table reminiscing onward.

Hodgson in the show really does often seem to be at his best under bloody, chaotic, and extremely high-stress circumstances in a similar way to Fitzjames. We see it in E05 when he's able to stop, assess the situation, rally the men around him, and lead them back towards danger to no-scope poor Tuunbaq in the arse in the middle of a blizzard. And to some extent we see it right at the end of his life when he's once again ready and willing to charge forward and make that desperate grab for Armitage's keys, even with chaos and death all around him.

Maybe Hodgson wasn't a Captain. Maybe he wasn't 'made of that'. Maybe he was just made to be a weapon and nothing more.

[writing-whump]

Painful recovery

Part 2 of Rip with silver knife wound to his stomach. No graphic description of the treatment, mostly just the recovery and caretaking. Lots of pain and comfort.

Dylan really wished he had started off on better foot with the man he was going to ask for help.

Perhaps he shouldn't have avoided Isaiah and Matthew at every turn, challenged Isaiah with direct eye contact, acted so rudely, or passed his flu to him

He had believed he could afford to give Isaiah a hard time. Like, he and Seline fought the normal amount between siblings, but they were still pretty damn close.

How many times did she pick him up for the train station? Went to his school to negotiate with the teachers? How many times did she borrow him money when he asked, running out from the pocket money of the week?

How many times did he invite her to his room to talk him to sleep with her presentations for the next day? How many times did they exchange song recommendations?

And then this guy swooped in right when things were most tense. Super capable at everything Dylan couldn't do. Taking his sister away.

Sure, Seline never really liked his dates either, but wasn't that what siblings did?

Dylan's mind raced with these unsettling thoughts as he rushed through the streets. A gentle drizzle began, storm clouds merging into a uniform gray overhead.

Finally, he found the right building, sprinting up the stairs. He was faster on foot than with the lift.

Dylan banged on the door without considering a better greeting, urgency overriding manners.

When a redhead wolf opened the door, Dylan nearly fell inside. He caught himself against the doorframe, panting for breath. His lungs were burning.

"Is Isaiah here? I need help," he said between gulps of air. This time, he was careful to avoid looking at the wolf's face.

All the jealousy, all the competition drained out of his shadow. He felt a strong urge to crawl on the floor, kneel, plead - anything to save Rip.

The redhead stepped back into the living room, nodding in his direction. Dylan followed suit then, one hand circling to his back to hold Rip tight.

Isaiah's voice came from the kitchen, nearing closer. "Seline isn't here yet. I can call her-"

"I need you." Dylan lowered himself on the ground to gently put Rip down, propping him against the wall. His head lolled back, face slack and empty of any expression. He looked almost peaceful.

Dylan hated that resignation. Like there was nothing to fight for.

"Is that silver?" The wolf Dylan assumed to be Matthew said with a scowl.

Dylan stayed on the ground, kneeling, bowing his head. "He says the hospital won't treat him. Too dangerous. He's a stray and hunted for reasons I don't know. But please, please, help him."

There was a beat of tense silence. Dylan was breathing frantically, still catching his breath from the run.

What if Isaiah refused? Should he have lied about the hunted part? Would that mean Isaiah would deny him the help – or even worse, kill Rip himself?

Dylan didn't know that much what an Executioner did or what the Wolfson name ment. But he knew Isaiah had connections and that he was often involved with wolves and conflicts with authorities.

But if he lied and Isaiah took him to a hospital and they refused to treat him as a stray...could Isaiah care about that? Should he have had thought this through more?

Maybe he should have called Seline first. She could have put in a good word for Dylan, if not for Rip.

"Can we help him?" Matthew said with a growl. "Isaiah?"

There was a quiet sigh. Dylan dared to lift his head a little, eyes darting to Isaiah.

"Dylan, call Seline. Matt, help me get him on the table. I'll take a look."

Matt spluttered. "You have medical training for this...?"

"Depending on the wound, I might be able to help. If not, we'll call a private doctor from the clinic."

Dylan felt Isaiah's gaze on him and bowed his head again. He felt the weight of his shadow right after, cringing...but it passed over him and moved to Rip, rolling his still, unmoving shadow down.

"Just for now, so he doesn't fight us. He'll need it once we get the knife out."

...

"How is he?" Seline asked as she joined Matthew on the balcony.

"Still breathing, surprisingly."

"I've never seen so much blood."

"Yeah. It was pouring out of him...I had no idea Isaiah could do something like that."

"...I didn't either."

"Wolves don't usually know... we have our shadows," Matthew said.

"Now that you say it, he did mention to me that knowing anatomy and wound treatment can help while healing with the shadow too."

Matthew shook his head. "Leave it to him to know something crazy like that."

"No one could have saved him if one of his internal organs had been pierced."

"True. He was lucky."

"Would they really refuse to treat him at the hospital?"

Matthew crossed his arms on his chest with an unhappy grumble. "Not even the packs treat strays, and humans stay away from them as much as possible. There's really nowhere for them to go. Everyone just waits for them to die. Though…"

"Yeah?"

"Never mind."

"Matt, come on. Say it."

"He was staring for so long, I thought... he wasn't gonna-"

"Nonsense," she scoffed. "Isaiah would never- do you know him?"

"I've heard about him. He is well-known in the fighting rings. Keeps a lid on street strays."

"I thought they didn't listen to anyone."

"Yep."

"... Interesting. But how did he run across my brother? I don't understand."

"No idea. He didn't leave his side once. That kid. It's like he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet."

"But we treated him," Seline insisted.

"On the outside. Internally, he's got to heal and on his own, because of the silver. What kind of fuckers could ha-"

"What can we do?"

"Hope it doesn't get infected. Keep him safe so he can heal."

"Matt?" She touched his arm. There was something tense and melancholic about him that she didn't like.

"..."

"Tell me."

"That could have been me. You know?"

Seline leaned her head on his shoulder. "But it's not." And never will be.

...

Rip didn't understand why the knife didn't hurt him.

When it first pierced him, he was more shocked than anything else.

The silver felt cold and foreign, but once he got over the initial panic, it didn't actually hurt that much. It bled, and moved. Creeped him out. But for some reason the familiar burning of silver didn't come and neither did the pain.

The numbness spread from his stomach. His fingers and toes tingled.

A calming darkness was settling over him. With each breath, he felt weaker. He didn't have it in him to pull the knife out and end it faster. But if this was what dying felt like, it wasn't half as bad as being alive.

He tried to explain it to Dylan. Seriously, that Dylan. What kind of dream world did he come from to return and check on him, to try and save him?

Rip let him fuss, but he knew he was marked by darkness.

He let it pull him under.

Waking up again was a shock.

He was in a dark room with covered windows. It must have been a bedroom, as there were two beds and two tables. But he was lying on a mattress of his own, a thick and comfortable one. Much better than the couch he had at home.

He was covered in blankets. There was an IV sticking from his arm. Like he was at a hospital. He squinted at it, confused.

His senses were still numb. Automatically, he reached for his shadow… only to find a gaping hole.

His breath hitched as he tried to get up, hissing at the movement as cold weakness exploded in his middle.

"Rip? You awake?" Two hands came to hold him down by the shoulder. Then Dylan's head, big hazel eyes and chocolate brown hair came into view over him.

"What...?"

"You're safe. Just keep still. You gotta keep still, or you'll open the wound again."

"My shadow..."

"Yeah, I know. They had to roll it down." Dylan sat back down onto the chair at Rip's side. His hands stayed on his arm though.

"What happened? Where-?"

"Shhh, don't talk so much." Dylan smiled at him. "I told you I would get you help, didn't I?"

Rip's forehead furrowed in confusion. "Help...? Who...?"

"I got you to my sister's pack leader. He treated you. Been to wolf wars or some shit. Knows all kinds of medical stuff. The knife didn't hit any internal organs. You are going to be fine." Dylan gave a bit hysterical shrug, lips trembling. "It was bleeding as heck and it will need time to heal, but they got you blood and antibiotics and crap. You'll be fine."

Rip turned his head to the side. His vision blurred, and his eyes grew heavy.

He didn't like not being able to feel anything. That his senses were shot. It was like half of his brain was missing.

"You are safe, you are safe. You can sleep. It's okay."

For some reason, Rip believed him. His body relaxed and he fell under again.

...

Rip woke up to searing pain.

He scrunched his forehead, wiggling under the blankets. There was a spot at his side that was radiating horrible pain, the kind he had never felt before.

Raging hot poker straight from the fire was in his stomach, the place shooting pain up through his whole middle.

He whimpered involuntarily, forcing his eyes open. Still that unfamiliar room. His senses were back though. And so was his shadow.

He could feel exactly how upset his shadow was, wiggling in pain. There was an acid burning to a spot at it corresponding with the pain in his side.

Oh yes, this was how silver burned. And it was burning a hole in his flesh and in his shadow parallelly. Silver always left traces on the shadow.

Rip twisted in the sheets, moaning. Oh god, oh god, oh god. How he missed not feeling anything now.

He couldn't breathe. A wave of pain and heat rolled through him, causing his whole body to shake with tremors as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"D–" He was there, wasn't he? Rip could remember him being there. Where was he now?

His shadow rippled underneath him, flooding him with information he didn't want. Two overwhelmingly big shadows. Three people—no four. Foreign, strange scents.

Where was he? Why was he here? What was going on?

His pulse quickened, each painful heartbeat like a punch against the searing black hole in his stomach. Like a piece of his flesh got clawed out.

Oh god, how was he supposed to endure this kind of pain?

"D–" he couldn't even get the sound out. "D....please..."

His jaw was crawling with awful nauseous sensation. A little whine made its way out between his clenched teeth, eyes burning with moisture.

And then suddenly Dylan was there, leaning over him. "Rip, Rip, shhh, it's okay, everything will be okay-"

"Hurtssss–"

"Your shadow must have returned. Just a sec, they will give you something against the pain in the IV, just a sec-"

Rip's back arched up, which made him sob with agony. His hands shot up, snatching a fistful of Dylan's shirt. "D..."

His side burned, white-hot pain making his stomach muscles spasm. "Make it stop, god, make it stop–I can't–I can't take this–"

Dylan grabbed his shoulders, pushing him against the mattress. Gentle but firm. "I got you, I got you. Just hang on a second. Just a bit longer, Rip, just hang on..." He kept muttering nonsense in the softest tone Rip ever heard from him or anyone in years.

A shadowy figure loomed over him. His IV twitched.

His vision went in and out of focus, as if he were diving underwater and being forcefully pulled up and down.

"D...."

"I'm here, I'm right here. It's gonna feel much better in a minute, I promise."

There was no numbness or darkness, no relief. The pain soared and burned through him, the hot poker twisting his insides.

But then the pain dulled, like the tiniest, thinnest blanket settled over.

It was enough for Rip to let out a miniscule sigh of relief. His eyes rolled back and the blackness finally took him away.

...

Rip woke up with a dry throat, his skin on fire and his side throbbing.

He shifted experimentally, which caused the hot poker of pain to flare up immediately. A high-pitched whine got its way out before he shut it off, muffling it with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

"Stay still."

Rip unscrewed his eyes with great difficulty, tensing up to not let himself turn towards the female voice.

"D?"

"He isn't far away. He just fell asleep. He has been watching over you nonstop for three nights. Needed a breather."

He could see her from the corner of his eyes. Blond wavy hair, held back from her face by a clip. Gray-blue eyes. Rip found that focusing on the details helped distract him from the intense discomfort and itchiness he felt.

"You–" His voice was hoarse, breaking off before he could finish. His throat felt scratchy, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth.

"I'm Dylan's sister, Seline. You are safe."

She was a witch, that he could tell very clearly. A soft humming emanated from her skin, an aura of calmness and light, almost magnetizing. His shadow stirred and settled down at the proximity.

His eyes rolled towards the IV.

She watched him intently. "Yes, you're getting all your nutrition and fluids through the IV. No concerns about anything. You'll have to transition back to normal food slowly."

He didn't understand why she was sitting so close. Alone with a strange wolf in a room. How could her pack allow it? Even if she was Dylan's sister, Dylan himself should have felt more protective than this. Her packmembers should have. They certainly did have the instincts to not let her near outsiders.

The thoughts had his shadow on alert, thickening under the matrass. The two big shadows were still here, still inside...the sheer massiveness of both of them had bile rising in his throat, his hands trembling.

He whimpered. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it. They felt like a threat, one that he was currently too weak and too pained to answer.

Her blond eyebrows furrowed, meeting at the center of her forehead. "Shhhh. It's okay. You are safe. Nobody here will hurt you. I promise."

A half-muffled sob escaped him. He closed his eyes in denial but couldn't fight it.

A sudden movement made his eyes open wide. She stood up, her hands hovering over him, as if she wanted to touch him but stopped herself at the last second, unsure of how he would react.

It blew his mind that she was even considering such a thing.

How long had it been since he was this close to a witch?

Strays never got access to witches, not even from a distance or by accident. Their packs were too protective, the girls too valuable.

The last witch he had been around... was his mother.

His throat closed up, dry and raw. He clawed at the blankets, trembling. The wave of grief that assaulted him made the pain worse, the poker in his stomach exploding with little sparkles of dizzying light dancing in his eyes.

"What is it? Is the pain worse? Rip?" Her voice was gentle, concerned, alarmed. Why was it alarmed for someone like him?

"Rip. Can I touch you? Would that be alright?"

His face twisted in a grimace. He wanted to lift his hand and hide in the crook of his arm, but he was too weak. It only shook in response.

"You're on the highest dose of painkillers we can give you. I'm sorry, I know it still hurts."

Hurt, it did. It wasn't that bad as before. He could think a little more. The throbbing was almost bearable. The meds kept the poker from turning and burning, a light veil enveloping it. But he felt so helpless.

"Hey, hey. You're okay. Take it easy. Breathe. In and out."

He felt feverish and hot and dry. Lost in the sheets, in the foreign room. He wanted Dylan.

Rip tried to breathe like she said, but his chest was heaving. He couldn't get the air in. His breaths came fast and shallow, frantic and shaky.

"I know that it hurts, but you are a fighter. You've got this."

His hands twisted in the sheets, the only grounding he could get, the only movement he was capable of that was semi-safe.

"Shhhhh. Is this alright?" She touched his hand then, just above the wrist. Her skin was soothingly cold and smooth.

Rip shuddered. It felt like touching pure light. The magic in her sparkled and soothed, like a balm against his shadow. Against the wound. Some of the pain subside to the back of his mind as he focused on this new sensation, clinging to it.

"Squeeze my hand if you need to. It's okay. The pain will pass, I promise."

Rip couldn't resist. He relaxed his hand just a bit and hers slipped into his open palm. Touching that light. Touching a kind person.

"There you go. You are so brave. So strong. You are doing very well."

Rip couldn't believe this was real. Maybe he was dreaming it up. But his breathing slowed down.

Comforting warmth spread from the contact, melting some of the tension away.

"Try to sleep."

He held onto her hand, his breathing slowing, but his side radiated pain. It was shooting up into his stomach, his chest, under his ribs. His fingers were tingling again.

Why wouldn't it just stop? He wanted to follow her command, he wanted to sleep...

He trashed on the bed, the movement sending new spikes of pain into the black burning hole in his side. It had her shooting up to her legs again, both hands now clutching his.

"I'm going to try something, Rip. Okay? Just focus on my voice."

That's when she started to sing.

Rip didn't know the song and his mind was too hazy to pick up on the words. To understand them. There was something about a river. A sea. The melody was slow and soothing, like a lullaby.

He didn't know people could sing this well without music. Her skin tingled with more magic and that was when he understood. There was magic in that singing.

There were more words. Something about not being alone, dreams, nights and sleep. There was something about a sun coming up.

The song had a physical effect. Goosebumps rushed on his arms, but where they spread the pain subsided. Waves of soothing cold flew through her hands into his arms, up to his neck and face, the other arm...into his chest and his stomach.

He felt his body relaxing. The air came easier, lighter, like it was refreshed and crisp. Like breathing freely after a day in stuffy heat. Like sunrise on a meadow after a stormy night.

The tears came then, rolling down his cheeks. He wasn't sure why - from the relief, the touch, the memories of his mother and home and feelings that he didn't dare to remember. The feeling of being safe. Of having somewhere to go. Of having somewhere to belong.

The song slowly came to an end, leaving him staring at the ceiling, widened, eyes spilling with tears.

"It's okay, Rip. You can cry or scream. Whatever you need. It's okay."

A series of sobs bubbled up, like her permission was what he needed. He couldn't remember when was the last time he cried.

Seline sat back down, both her hands still holding his. Her thumb rubbed at the back of his hand. Little circles.

She held him until the sobs died down. There was a new kind of quiet in his mind. Peaceful, like an untouched surface of a lake in the middle of a forest.

He dived into it with relief.

[mio-nika]

Disgusting Part 3: Reminiscence and fish

[sunnibits]

had a prompt to do a medical illustration-esque drawing for my classwork today so you knowwww I had to do the arthur lester scar chart

(shout out to this post fr it’s such a lifesaver)

[pettyprocrastination]

cringe brainrot cod thought but Alien!au Simon Riley where he's a retired veteran who takes on a job of being freelance security which means accompanying a collection of scientists led but some capitalist billionaire onto an non-domesticated planet where they all inevitably get picked off one by one until he's the only one left to find their murderer is an alien gal who wants to be left the FUCK alone on her planet. Builds a little hut deep in the forest and learns if he leaves her alone she'll leave his alone on separate sides of the world- eventually they fuck idk what to tell you.

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

MEN'S TITS!!!!!!!

little naked Grace for all your naked grace needs. I'm so normal about him and his tits

thank you @capn-twitchery for letting me draw him!!!!