#the stump/amputated part

[uniquezombiedestiny]

disease of the body, disease of the mind

[cy-cyborg]

I'm begging dragonage fans to do a tiny bit of research about arm amputees before loudly shouting their opinions on the inquisitor returning in the next game Please lol.

Apparently, it was confirmed that the inquisitor, your chatacter from the last game (who looses their arm in the final cutscene of the DLC), will return in Veilguard as a customisable character, similar to Hawke, and they will play an active roll in the story. This has caused a lot of people to start speculating on how they'll handle the inquisitor's missing hand, with most people agreeing they'll have to have a prosthetic to be an active part of the story. Which, while I do think this is the rought bioware will take, isn't true, and a part of me really hopes they leave the inquisitor without a prosthetic arm like in the end of Tresspasser

Partially because we already have a companion with a prosthetic (neve) and it would be nice to see some diversity in how amputation is depicted in such a mainstream game, but also because you dont need a prosthetic to fight as any of the main 3 classes from inquisition.

Mage:

mages just need a staff, the game shows them as 2 handed weapons but it's totally beleiveable that it would be usable 1-handed (Neve also uses a dagger-like weapon in the trailer, you can make a "staff" in inquisition that functions more like an energy sword, and the Mage in the chargers uses a staff resembling a bow, so I think it's more that they just need a focus, the shape doesn't matter as much). A knight enchanter may struggle more 1 handed, but I wouldn't write it off as an option with some modifications made to their main staff.

Warrior:

the easiest to justify, because there are several cases of arm amputees fighting with a sword and sheild in history, and while many did have prosthetics, most weren't functional (meaning they were mainly for aesthetic purposes and didn't actually aid the fighter in any way. There were exceptions, like Götz of the iron hand, who's prosthetic was functional, but most were not). The inquisitor looses their arm just above the wrist*, so they still have most of their forearm. Most sheilds strap to the forearm, so it wouldn't take much adjustment to make that work, and you can use the other hand for the weapon. Obviously, two-handed weapons will probably be off the table, though, lol.

*edit to say, as several people pointed out, i got that wrong, my bad 😅. The inquisitors arm is actually amputated through the elbow, the screenshots i was looking at just weren't very clear and it has been a while since i got to trespasser lol. It would still entirely possible to strap a shield to the upper arm though, with some pretty minor adjustments to the existing straps on standard (as in, those used by non-disabled warriors) tall shields, so the point still stands.

Rogue

this is the one people tend to be the loudest about and the one I understand the most. Obviously duel-weilding daggers won't work (unless you give them something like the hidden blades in assassin's creed on their stump side, I guess) but using a single dagger still would, and is a perfectly reasonable approach, given that's how most irl people used daggers. Archery, though, absolutely can work without a prosthetic, despite what people think. Dragonage has crossbows, not something like Bianca (rip) but a small, single-handed crossbow is an option. Even ignoring that though, amputee archery is a thing irl, and not every arm amputee uses prosthetics for it. The bows are modified to be held in one hand and drawn with the mouth using a kind of pully-system built into the bow that I could very easily see being modified into some dwarven-style contraption in game (some double arm amputees use their feet to draw regular bows, but I don't think that would be pheasable in combat).

Like I said, I think bioware will probably go with a prosthetic, but i hope that they don't. Or at the very least, show them with it sometimes and without it other times (the same goes for Neve, no one wears their prosthetic 24/7, I'd love to see them both take them off around the home base, even just occasionally). A lot of arm amputees in particular prefer to go without one, and arm prosthetics in media are some of the worst offenders of the "perfect prosthetic"/"miracle cure prosthetic" tropes. It doesn't count as "diversity" or disability representation if it doesn't actually change anything other than the look of the chatacter, and im really, really desperate for some actually decent amputee representation in games.

[yandere-daydreams]

file #2: the amputation fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!gojo satoru x reader (jjk).

length: 2.9k.

warnings: non/con, amputation, unhealthy relationships, abusive relationships, obsessive behavior, amputation (no injury to reader in fic), handjobs, masturbation, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Babydoll? You wanna let me in?”

A beat of silence, a light knock. You stayed where you were, crumpled on the bathroom floor, and Satoru sighed.

“C’mon, angel. I can’t help from all the way out here.”

You clenched your bloody arm closer, pulling your knees up to your chest. An orange-tinted, half-emptied pill container sat lidless and on its side next to you. Shoko’s pills took care of the worst of the pain, but a steady, persistent throbbing had lodged itself in the knob that used to be your wrist and refused to let-up. It probably wouldn’t for the next hour, if not the next day.

“I can’t take you to see Shoko if you keep me locked out.”

At that, you relented, uncurling with from your self-made bundle. It took a second to shift yourself onto your knees, another to find the doorknob with your remaining hand, but Satoru himself in as soon as the lock clicked out of place. Thankfully, mercifully, he gave you time to skitter back to your corner before crossing the threshold, but that didn’t stop you from withering as his eyes raked over you, as he evaluated the damage. Eventually, he collapsed against the adjacent wall and sunk to the floor, letting out a raspy groan before tossing you a familiar, crooked smile. You didn’t return it. “That mad at me, huh?” You didn’t respond, gaze dropping to your decimated hand – or, rather, the mangled stump that used to be your hand. His smile wavered, but didn’t fall away. “Yeah, no, I probably deserve that. Does it hurt?”

You didn’t indulge him with an answer. “Did you call Shoko?”

“On a mission,” he said with a slight shrug, a strong note of ‘what can you do?’ in his tone. Like this was some minor inconvenience, annoying but ultimately trivial. Like like you weren’t missing an essential part of yourself. “She said she’d swing by as soon as she’s done, but I’d give it another hour. I think she’ll kill me if I keep asking her to make house calls.”

Another beat of silence, another deafening failure to respond on your part. Finally, he turned to face you properly, leaning forward. “…can I?”

He always did this – paused like that, smiled like that, tried to make himself seem so gentle, so loving, so considerate. It might’ve been well-meaning, an attempt to let you know he was sorry without having to swallow enough of his pride to actually apologize, but all it ever seemed to make you feel was cold and alone, stuck in a shell of an apartment with a shell of a man. It was always the same. It was always going to be the fucking same.

And, like always, you relented, looking away as you nodded stiltedly. Satoru’s smile brightened as he closed the distance between you, his thigh pressing into yours as he settled against your side.

When you’d first gotten into a relationship with Gojo Satoru, you told yourself that if things ever so much as seemed like they might be going south, you were gone. You hadn’t known anything about cursed energy or sorcerer hierarchies or malevolent spirits, but you didn’t have to – even if you hadn’t watched him obliterate monsters the size of apartment buildings with a snap of his fingers, he still would’ve been the strongest person you’d ever met, a man capable of shattering bones with his bare hands and breaking open skulls with all the effort it would’ve taken you to swat a fly out of the air. He was dangerous to be around, even if you doubted Satoru could ever intentionally hurt another living, breathing person. He was rich, and pretty, and strong, and used to getting his way. You loved him, but you needed to be able to leave if it ever seemed like that love was going to put you in danger.

And you did leave. The first time you argued, the first time he lost control of his temper and you were left sobbing on the floor with nothing below your left knee, you’d gotten as far as you could as quickly as you could. It’d taken him a full week to track you down, another to convince you that one of his bizarre friends could heal you, and roughly half a minute of Satoru sobbing and clinging to your (newly restored) leg for you to forgive him, to write it off as an accident – just the kind of risk you took when you got into a relationship with someone who could deadlift armored tanks. The second, you’d stayed at a friend’s place for a few days before coming back on your own, as desperate for his miracle-cure as you were for the pet comforts that came with Satoru’s bottomless fortune. The fourth, you’d barricaded yourself in his bedroom for sixteen hours and only come out for Shoko, who’d muttered about your ‘wreck of a boyfriend’ as she rebuilt the three missing fingers on your right hand.

Now, on the ninth, you’d barely managed to keep him locked out of a bathroom for all of five minutes. It was embarrassing, more than anything. You wanted to be able to hate him, you wanted to be scared of him, but it was hard to be scared of someone you loved. Someone you loved as much as Satoru, especially.

You shook your head, dragging yourself out of your own spiraling thoughts. Your attention, instead, moved to Satoru – still slumped against the tiled wall, his head lulled back and his attention focused pointedly on the ceiling. You were dressed to go out, uncomfortable jeans and all, but Satoru looked like he just rolled out of bed – a plain white shirt pulled tight over his broad chest, a pair of pitch-black sweatpants falling low on his waist, the lights dim enough to mean his piercing blue eyes didn’t have to be locked behind tinted glass or thick fabric. That was what you’d been arguing about, even if it was hard to remember why it’d seemed like such a big deal. He had the day off, no class and no cursed spirits to slaughter, and wanted to waste his morning in bed, with you wrapped in his arms. You’d tried to tell him, as slowly and as tenderly as you could, that you couldn’t, that you had an important early-morning lecture, that you’d be back by the time he actually wanted to get up, but he’d whined and pouted and you’d lost your patience when he reminded you that you could ‘always drop out’. You tried to leave, and he tried to catch your hand, to make you stay for that much longer, and—

“Can I see it?” You were almost thankful to hear his voice, if only for the distraction. “Your hand, I mean. If you’re comfortable with showing me.”

You weren’t, but you were desperate not to sink back into your own head, either. Slowly, cautiously, you shuffled that much closer to him, folding your legs underneath you as you gingerly held out the arm you’d spent the better part of the last few minutes cradling. It made you sick to look at a part of your own body so violently distorted, so violently wrong, so you didn’t – keeping your focus trained on your knees as Satoru took up your shortened limb. His own healing abilities had taken care of the worst of the gore, but even with the open, gaping wound at the end of your arm closed, there was still a ring of bruising around your wrist, streaks of dried blood running down the length of your forearm, a raw quality to the skin where his hap-hazard repairs hadn’t quite taken. His touch was feather-light, skirting around the worst of the remaining damage and lingering near your elbow, then your bicep. Acknowledgement came in the form of a low whistle, an airy sigh. You tried not to let his casualness get to you. Sorcerers must’ve seen injuries like this all the time. This was the end of the world for you, but Satoru would be just fine. “I’m not going to let you lift a finger after this. You know that, right? I’ve gotta make sure my pretty baby’s still nice n’ spoiled, even when I go and fuck everything up.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was as close as he’d ever get. You grit your teeth and nodded, taking a second to find your voice. Even with the delay, it came out as a croak; almost too low and too ragged to be coherent. “This can’t keep happening, ‘toru. I love you, but this can’t keep happening.”

“I know, baby, I know.” One of his hands remained wrapped around your arm while the other, unoccupied, fell between his open legs. “I don’t mean to. If I had it my way, nobody would be able to touch you, but…” A pause, a laugh. “I just get so stressed out when we start fighting, like that. All I can think about is someone hurting you when I’m not there to keep you safe, and I forget how delicate I’ve gotta be with you. It feels like I’m not in control of myself.”

Despite your better judgement, you felt a deep, churning well of guilt open up inside of you. It was your turn to sigh, now, to slump, to let your eyes fall shut. “I love you,” you repeated, like it was the only thing you knew how to say. “It’s just— It scares me, when you get like that. I know you’re just trying to be protective, but it hurts.”

You heard his breathing pick-up, his grip tighten ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel. “I know, sweetheart. I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“You do take care of me, but—” You were cut off by a breathy swear, a throat groan. Momentarily, your fear and self-loathing gave way to irritation, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips as you opened your eyes and snapped towards Satoru. He was still focused on your arm – what was left of it, at least – but his gaze was glazed over, far away, and his hand was moving between his—

You put it together too quickly, the force of the realization leaving no time for numbing shock or dampening confusion. He was touching himself, grinding the heel of his palm into the base of his cock. You could see the outline of his shaft against the dark material – already half-hard, if not worse.

If you’d been able to feel anything, you might’ve felt sick.

Reflexively, you tried to pull away from him, but his hold on your arm only tightened, fingertips digging into your bicep as Satoru laughed, the sound strained and airy. “Sorry, sorry, my bad. I know you like a head’s up, but…” Now, he looked at you, but it was too late, too much, too sudden. All you could seem to think to do was gape back at him, unmoving and unthinking. “Guess it’s just what you do to me. I’ll try to make it quick – all you’ve gotta do is sit there and look pretty.”

It was a familiar line, a familiar excuse. You’d heard it a thousand times – mumbled into your neck as draped himself over you in the early hours of the morning, spouted off as he dragged you back to his car halfway through dinner at a restaurant you’d been looking forward to visiting for months – but it didn’t seem to make sense, this time, didn’t fit with the image of your missing hand hovering a few inches above your loving boyfriend’s erection. The dissonance only seemed to get worse, more dizzying as he shrugged the waistband of his sweats past his hips and down to his thighs, freeing his stiff cock. You’d been too generous, before; he was already hard, his tip flushed a dark pink and leaking thick beads of arousal. Again, you tried to get away, and again, he only pulled you closer, until your side was flush against his. There was a deep grunt, a hazy grin as he wrapped a fist around the shaft of his cock, his grip almost painfully tight. His eyes never left the dull stump on the end of your left arm, his raspy breathing soon turning to a deep, heady panting as you watched him pump his fist over his cock, his pace slow and methodical – a far cry from the spontaneous, erratic Satoru you were used to. A soft voice in the back of your mind, awful and treacherous, suggested that he might be trying to savor it, and a dozen more screamed loudly enough to drown it out.

“Satoru,” you said, nearly surprising yourself with how distant you sounded, how detached. You didn’t feel detached. If anything, you almost felt too grounded in the feeling of cool tile against your back, the heat of his body where it pressed into yours. “Please, stop.”

“I don’t really have a choice, babe.” He shot you a playful grin, and for a second, you could almost imagine hating him. “It’d go a lot faster if you helped me out, though.”

You didn’t answer, but he didn’t need you to. His hand was already groping for yours, already forcing your reluctant participation. The position was awkward, your body half-bent over his, but when you shifted, Satoru’s thumb dug into the bone of your wrist and instantly, you went still. This was bad. Not having control of your only remaining hand was bad. But having your only remaining hand taken away from you would be worse.

Satoru didn’t seem to see it that way. Sounds of aching pleasure bubbled past his lips shamelessly, turning the abruptly claustrophobic bathroom into an echo chamber of pitchy whines and raspy groans and the slick, wet clicks of his cock fucking into your balled fist. It was terrible – being able to feel how his cock pulsed against your palm, being forced to acknowledge the little, stilted movements of his hips whenever he decided your (admittedly lackluster) pace left something to be desired. In less than a minute, his head had lulled onto your shoulder, his voice muffled by the proximity as he struggled to speak in spite of his own unabashed moaning. “Love you so much,” he half-mumbled, half-panted. You could feel his breath against your shoulder, his drool starting to pool just above your collarbone. “W-wanna take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself, make sure nobody else ever gets to put their hands on you. I’d be good – cook for you, n’ shower with you, ‘n dress you up all nice n’ pretty,” He paused, nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “You… You wouldn’t hate me that much if we left it that way, right?”

You felt something drop into the pit of your stomach. “Satoru, you’re—”

“Please, baby.” It was the same tone he used when he was begging you to make a late-night snack run with him, or when he wanted to finish inside of you without protection. “Just—Just tell me that you’d let me take care of you. Just say that you’d still love me.”

It felt like your throat was swollen shut, your chest stuffed to bursting with shattered glass and razor blades and spiny needles only just beginning to poke through your skin. You didn’t want to say anything, you didn’t think you could say anything, and yet, when your mouth fell open, you found a voice that was not your own seeping out by means beyond your control. “It’s alright,” you muttered, distantly, as his cock throbbed in your hand. “I’d still love you, ‘toru.”

Although, you were starting to wish you wouldn’t.

You heard him groan, felt something thick and searing spill over the back of your hand. Satoru’s hand, cupped snuggly over yours, kept you moving until every last drop had been milked out of him, until the final ember of his climax had burnt itself out. He went limp against you, his vice-grip finally falling away, but rather than run, you only straightened, wiping your hand on your jeans before tucking it into your lap. How you looked didn’t matter, anymore.  There couldn’t have been more than a few minutes left in your lecture, if you hadn’t already missed it entirely.

Silence interrupted only by panting breaths and the beating, drowning drum playing in your ears reigned over the confined space, keeping you in a state of bleary stasis until the sound of a sharp knock, shortly followed by a distant door opening broke through the fog. “That’s Shoko,” Satoru murmured, almost disappointed. He started to separate himself from you, only to relapse – burying his face in the crook of your neck and letting out a deep, contented sigh. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know that all I wanna do is keep you happy?”

“I know, ‘toru.”

“Good.” He pulled back, grinning. “’cause all I ever wanna do is take care of my angel. Don’t let anything ‘side from that get into your pretty little head.”

You only nodded as he pushed himself to his feet, as he slipped out of the bathroom to meet Shoko, to explain what vital part of yourself he’d torn away this time. You wanted to get up, to wash the cum off of your hand, to pump feeling back into your numb legs, but your remaining limbs were uncooperative, heavy and awkward and useless. It was all you could do to pull your knees up to your chest, wrap your arms around your legs, and hold yourself as you started to cry.

At least, next time Satoru decided to tear you apart, you might not find it so hard to hate him for it.

[whenthewallfell]

~The Many Legs of Peeta Mellark, or A Weirdly In-Depth Look at Panem Prosthetics~

Concept art for Peeta’s leg because I can (details below the cut)

Catching Fire: though the leg itself is removable, the cover is non-optional and the access panels can only be used by Capitol technicians. Due to how ornate it is it can get a bit heavy after long periods of wear, and there’s limited movement in the ankle which impedes walking. It’s designed to mimic the shape of the original leg so it fills out clothes nicely, but flashy enough to be worthy of a Victor should anyone see it. A very pretty prosthetic, but only slightly better than a peg leg. Mockingjay: this is what the prosthetic looks like without the fancy cover. It’s very no-nonsense with an advanced ankle component that has better range of motion without the casing, and features a rubber tread on the bottom of the foot blade to allow for better traction when chasing down and murdering his one true love. Although a vast improvement mobility-wise, it’s been permanently bolted to his leg and the control panels are all welded shut. Everything about this is short-term - they don’t care what happens to him once he’s killed Katniss.

Post War: when he’s caught in the explosion/fire from the bombs that got Prim his leg melts and fuses to his stump, so the doctors end up having to amputate even more. He’s given the choice to try out an experimental implant, which he accepts. This is vastly different from the other ones because he’s got so much autonomy - he can change the settings himself, remove the foot shell, opt in for a leg casing if he wants (he doesn’t). All in all it’s a very low maintenance leg, which suits him just fine, and because it’s an implant it finally feels like a part of him again.

[worrywrite]

I am frequently amused when I see art of Ianthe post skeleton arm. Amused because almost every artist picks where the skeletal structure starts at a different point. Some go right up to the shoulder, some go just under, some go past the elbow (though I've only seen this once) and some don't even get which arm it is correct. And I'm amused because there is a fairly accurate description in HtN of where Harrow cuts off the grafted arm and begins rebuilding with bone. It's about 3-4 inches above the elbow on the right arm. You can extrapolate her height and estimate just about where it would be. And in m head it should be lower than where most people draw it.

More musings on Ianthe and art of her below.

I've met a handful of folks with a stump in about that same place and I think it's a fairly common point for amputation and so whenever I see art with the skeletal emerging higher up it seems off.

I'm not trying to shame the artists, of course. I don't think I've seen a bad portrait of Ianthe yet. I am, perhaps, most amused as a result of all this how you can tell the artists usually just want to draw a girl with a cool bone arm. And in my head, the higher up on the arm it starts the more I to it they are. After all, why no just give her more visible bones.

I wouldn't be surprised if, in an effort to seduce Harrow she slowly abandoned more and more flesh in favor of gilded bone. Sure she started with it just above the elbow, but then she stripped off the bicep. Then the shoulder. Then part of the flesh around the collarbone. And when she started encountering more arteries and organs it gets trickier but she manages to remove the flesh and grow out her osseous material into plated structures to keep the important bits covered. Then she takes off the neck and the lower jaw. Then the entire left arm piece by piece from the fingertips up, one segment per day. At that point she doesn't feel pain any more. After that, it's the whole collar bone. The face she keeps, because she won't go quite so far as to essentially wear the paint of the ninth house by making her face a mask of bone. What beauty would that leave? She'll leave her breasts too, to satisfy her own vanity and hope that Harrow appreciates it least some flesh. But then it's to the ribcage; which is tricky, but it can be externalized and most of the internal organs can be put in flexible cartilaginous or osseous chambers padded with fat. By the time it gets to the pelvis she's torn, she wouldn't dare rob herself of some of the last pieces of stimulating nerve endings she has, and yet she feels like Harrow wouldn't care much; so naturally she exposes portions but not all of the pelvis. And then it's just the legs, and that's not even a big deal by that point.

Now fully formed, Lich!Ianthe has made herself everything that she thinks Harrow would adore. She has lost her sense of pain, and also almost all of her pride as she has come to realize that she has succumbed to an obsession. She has made herself a monster the likes of which stirs fear in the eyes of God. She is asked time and again to stop, but she only does when she's taken all that she can. Now she's gilded to perfection, equal parts gaudy trophy and skeletal object of desire. And she feels more like her own person than she's ever been.

[bibbibib]

Peeta's amputation

One of the things I really wish we'd gotten more information for in the books was the impact of Peeta losing his leg. On himself, on his habits, his reactions, anything really. We don't even know how badly he took it because around that time all Katniss was able to describe was him (understandably) being just happy to have survived it all along with her, plus he was putting on a brave face throughout the interviews, and maybe even in front of her so she would feel less guilty. And, I get it, most of the stuff I'm going to mention is just slice of life and maybe not that important as plot points, but I find them super interesting, for the perspective if anything.

Would Peeta's self-esteem take another deep dive after that? With everything happening during that time (moving out of his parents' house, his falling out with Katniss, being viewed differently by the rest of the district, living alone and possibly lonely, his romantic hopes crushed, PTSD from the Games, etc etc etc) he had a lot of triggers seemingly supporting those thoughts of being useless and uneeded and generally not good enough.

It's so frustrating to lose a limb and have to basically relearn everything from the beginning. How to navigate stairs, how to get in and out of a sitting position, how to balance and not tip over, stuff you've been doing esentially your whole life. And Peeta was athletic, he worked manually, he trusted himself to be capable of doing physical things, so that might have hurt a little more.

How about medical complications? From weird sensations to nerve pain, possibly phantom pains, everything related to his prosthetic leg (which, depending on the type, can get uncomfortable in sooo many ways, especially since he's still a teenager who's growing). And he was dumped at a place with basically no medical care at all, let alone anything specialized. Which, ok, was part of everyone's life in D12 already, but it must have still left a bitter taste... There was no one around to know much about his state, (exept maybe Ripper the liquor seller) and he had to make do on his own.

What if the Capitol had chosen his prosthetic more for aesthetic functions and less for functional? @whenthewallfell has a fantastic post about it, complete with illustrations!

Peeta's artificial foot getting tangled in the vines in the second arena and impeding his ability to run was no funny business. With prosthetic legs, there's usually different kinds for different functions. Your average foot people use to be able to walk is stiff and does a horrible job at supporting these sorts of activities. That's why equipment like running blades exists for amputees who want to be running and jumping. And you have to switch to that before the activity! Peeta apparently never got one. Even if he had, he would have to carry the alternative equipment around in the arena.

Speaking of that, even with a single type of artificial leg/foot, adjustments are frequently needed throughout the day. Most people as far as I understand remove the prosthetic to sleep, but also ball -and-socket models at least move around and need to be put back in place because it gets uncomfortable (sleeves -stump covers- sliding down, etc). The fact that Katniss never mentioned anything like this means that either he was actively not doing it in front of her or she just doesn't wanna talk about it (or maybe his leg is some fancy Capitol tech that doesn't work that way?)

Also, he's got to be hungry. All the time. He needs more food after the amputation, because the rest of his body is compensating for the lost limp and he has to use different muscles/nerves/tendons/etc. that are not designed spesifically for this. The same thing means he gets tired more easily. So Peeta being that active and training for the Quarter Quell while battling insomnia and nightmares with an amputated leg? Even harder than we thought.

[catflorist]

omg that sasusaku art you reblogged... i would pay so much money for your take on that prompt!!!

hi anon! here you go! :) thank you for this prompt, it's been a long time since i wrote anything and it was really fun! i hope you like it!

inspired by this incredibly beautiful artwork by @millientea!

dreams [post-war sasusaku, rated T] ao3 / ffn

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible.

After the war, Sasuke's injuries keep him stuck in the hospital. Sakura visits every day.

First Sasuke lost a war with himself. Then he lost an arm. Then the infection and the fever struck, making him keel over then shiver feebly in his hospital bed for three days straight.

His more lucid moments were filled with strangers whizzing into his room to poke and prod him and stick needles horribly into his arm. And when the fever took hold, it carried him downstream to delirium. His nightmares were kind enough to visit him in waking hours, magnified and painted in strong color and detail. And each time he drifted briefly back to consciousness he was greeted with hot, billowing pain at the stump of his arm and the sound of his vitals blaring.

Later a team of doctors inform him that he’s survived a deadly case of sepsis and avoided a second amputation of his left arm. He’ll need bedrest and continued close monitoring. Naruto’s healing well, he hears. Figures.

The days blur. An IV chains Sasuke to bed, where he chokes on boredom thick as smoke. He memorizes the markings of each bird that lands on his windowsill. He watches a ball of dust in the corner move three riveting inches to the left over the course of twenty-four hours. He whips out his sharingan to memorize the lines of his palm, and compares that image to a corresponding record from the last time he was bored to death in a hospital. His heart line has grown longer.

Monotony breaks whenever Sakura breezes into his room.

“I brought you apples.” She smiles at him, a little knowingly. The apples are cut neatly into decorative slices.

She visits at the beginning and end of each shift. In the mornings she smiles brightly in a crisp white coat, and twelve hours later she still smiles brightly, with tired circles under her eyes and loose uncombed hair. This time she’s wearing civilian clothes, here to see him even on her day off.

She’s fearless, for her part. He’s quiet.

When he thinks back to the haze of fever, he remembers slender and cool fingers smoothing damp hair from his brow. A swirl of healing chakra that felt like the way her voice sounds. When he awoke, a nurse mentioned the doctor attending his case invented a new chakra technique on the spot to siphon away the infection.

Sasuke didn’t need to ask who. She never said anything, and he never asked.

He suspects Sakura’s involvement elsewhere, too. When he thinks about why he’s not kept in handcuffs or locked away entirely. In the roasted tomatoes that appear on his meal trays. The reason why Naruto is allowed the occasional visit, shuffling in on crutches and staying until the nurses chase him away.

Sakura sets the plate of apples at his bedside. Today, they resemble rabbits. Sasuke has never eaten more apples in his life, but he does not think of complaining.

“Good news. Your IV is coming out tomorrow!” She smiles, waiting for his reaction.

Right. He should be happy. The feeling flickers dimly and goes out like a damp torch.

Sasuke doesn’t know what his life will look like from here on out. There’s nothing left to hunt after. The main sources of his suffering have all vanished or changed form. All that awaits him is empty space and time—time to reflect, to let the cumulation of all his actions and decisions sink in.

He doesn’t regret the desertion, the treason, as much as others might hope. If he were to go back in time, knowing what he knows about the village, his choices might even look similar. But he regrets hurting the people who cared for him.

He regrets hurting her.

Sakura’s smile has faded. “What’s wrong?”

Sasuke wants to sink under his blankets, to be alone with his guilt. “Nothing.”

“Are you in pain?”

He throws her a glare. “I said it’s nothing.”

Years ago, this would have been enough to scare her away. Now green eyes meet his with full force. “Don’t do this. Don’t be distant.” Sakura’s fingers flex and curl at her sides. “Whatever is on your mind, you can tell me.”

She treats him with such kindness, such patience, though he’s certain he doesn’t deserve it.

“Why are you here, Sakura?” he asks quietly.

“I’m a doctor,” she says, with a flash of irritation.

“You know what I mean.” Sasuke’s vision swims like the beginnings of a migraine. “Leave me. Get on with your life.” He wants the words to carry a touch of contempt, but the lump in his throat filters it all out.

“Why would I leave you?” The pure sincerity of her voice cuts him through. “We just got you back.”

His tongue feels thick and heavy. “I’ve hurt you.” How could she forget?

“I’ve hurt you, too.”

He manages a shake of the head. It’s not the same.

“It’s in the past,” she insists. “We want you in our lives—we always have!”

“I don’t understand why,” he bites, gaining strength.

“Because I love you!”

Birds take off from the windowsill.

Wringing her hands, Sakura clarifies, more weakly, “I love all my friends.”

An icy flame tears through Sasuke’s entire body. He doesn’t believe her. Somehow, he must have tricked her. After everything he’s done, how can someone lower themselves so deeply as to love him? Hot pressure rises behind his eyes. He opens his mouth to recite every reason why she’s wrong.

“So get used to it,” Sakura snaps, recovering and doubling down, like she knows what he’s about to say. Sakura, who has always been a little brazen with her affection, who has so much love and care to give that it confounds him and most others. “I don’t care what’s happened or how long it’s been. You’re still my teammate.”

Sasuke feels a phantom of his past self crouch on his chest. It whispers, push her away, break the plate of apples. Trust yourself and no one else. Be alone. This is the way he knows to protect himself. It’s worked so well, all throughout his life, he can’t imagine anything different.

Does he need to protect himself, from her? Did he ever?

“And…you’re still my friend.” Sakura’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. “If that’s what you want.”

Outside, a raven’s feather drifts in a slow spiral of wind. Sasuke nods.

Sakura straightens. “Good.” Her eyes are jade reflecting fire. “Being friends won’t kill you, I promise. See you in the morning.”

In the morning, Sakura arrives to remove his IV. She’s still carrying an air of quiet victory. To inch this close, to insist on picking up their friendship exactly where they left it, that’s some audacity. Bravery, even.

He needs it.

His heart would crack without it.

Sakura carefully loosens the adhesive and presses gauze over the IV site. Sasuke is already looking away, taking a shallow breath to prepare himself.

“There’s no needles at this part,” she says.

It’s true, he hates needles—one glimpse and he breaks into a cold sweat. But he’s never told anyone. It bothers him that she noticed. “How did you know?”

“I’m a doctor,” she says, which explains very little. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Still hate it,” he breathes.

“I know,” she says. “Done.”

He looks back. She smiles when their gazes meet, holding down pressure on his arm. He didn’t feel a thing.

“You make a small sound.” Her voice is soft. “Under your breath. Like you’re trying to speak but hold it back.”

Sasuke thought he hid the discomfort well. If he can miss such small details about himself, no wonder he was wrong about almost everything—what path to take, and where to place blame, and who to trust. His world has turned over too many times to count.

His senses hone in on Sakura’s touch, muted as it is through gloves and layers of gauze. She’s never changed. Never failed to ease his hurts.

He wants to ask about the fever. The infection that strode in like one last attempt by the world to kill him. She saved his life.

He feels his hand float through the air, stretching towards her face.

Empty air buzzes where his fingers should be grazing her brow. He’s still not used to the loss of his dominant hand. His stump lowers back to his side. Sakura’s expression remains calm, unknowing.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

He knows what the words will mean to her. And so he says it.

A soft smile overtakes Sakura’s face. Sasuke is known for his infamous gaze, but now he doesn’t know where to put it. When to meet her crinkling eyes and for how long. If it’s considered normal to observe the rise of her cheek, the strands of pink hair falling around her face. If he should risk a glance at her smiling lips. The decisions overwhelm him, and he finds he must look away.

Something is different, he thinks.

.

.

“He’s on your roster today? Good luck.”

Sasuke’s room is stationed at a quiet bend of the hall, a blind spot between patient rooms and administrative offices where hospital staff stop to gossip before continuing on their rounds. Whether he wants to or not, he’s often forced to eavesdrop.

“—ripped out his IV. Yes, just ripped it out. Three times. Maybe four. Wouldn’t let anyone touch him.”

“Have you noticed all those horrible birds outside his window? The crows?”

A laugh. “Never seen anything like it. Like a curse, I swear—”

“Excuse me.” The conversation grinds to a halt at Sakura’s sharp voice. “Room Four is still waiting on warm blankets.”

Footsteps scatter in two different directions. Sakura sweeps into his room. Her face is a storm. If he saw that expression on a battlefield, he would reach for his weapon. He pictures her cutting apple slices into playful shapes to reverse the effect.

“Don’t listen to them,” she mutters, and throws the curtain divider closed.

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Absent-minded, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth, Sakura does something she’s never done before: she sits on his bed. All Sasuke’s attention is pulled to the hand’s width of space between his ankle and the slight dip of her weight on the mattress. He slowly shifts his legs away, careful not to draw her notice.

Sakura pulls a velvet pouch out of her coat. “Here. I brought something.”

The most exciting part of Sasuke’s day was when the scent of antiseptic wafted through the door a little stronger than usual. His interest spikes. “What is it?”

Sakura opens the pouch and pours dozens of black and white Go pieces onto the bedspread. She begins arranging the board among the folds of his blankets, and after a moment, Sasuke leans forward to help. He hasn’t played Go since he was a child, but the smooth, round stones feel familiar in his palm, and the rules come back quickly. They play five games in a row without speaking. Sakura wins the first, and he wins the last four.

When they look up again, it’s dark. Sasuke’s neck is stiff from bending over the game for so long. Time has never passed so quickly for him in the hospital.

Sakura is sitting fully atop the bed now, as she has for the past three games, legs crossed with a pensive hand held to her chin. She packs away the game pieces in silence and pulls the drawstring shut. A crease lingers between her eyebrows.

“You could have died.”

Her eyes swell with tears. She doesn’t make a sound.

“I didn’t,” Sasuke says, soft as he can.

“But you could have.” The tears flow faster than she can wipe them away.

“You didn’t let me.” It makes his gut twist to see her cry, even if she cries because his life matters to her.

“I almost didn’t bring the flowers that day. I didn’t know if you’d want them.” Sakura lifts a sleeve to her face. “If I wasn’t there when the shock hit…”

Sasuke struggles to follow. His memory of the whole ordeal is hazy. He has a vague recollection of a nurse removing a vase of wilted flowers from the bedside in the days after the fever lifted.

Sakura’s shoulders tremble with a sob. “I could have lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” He catches her hand. Fingers slide together like whispering a secret. “You have me.”

She lifts her tearstained face. Sasuke feels feverish as his words echo back in the silence of their breathing. Her lips part, bitten and red.

“You only ripped out the IV twice, Sasuke-kun.”

Her expression is knit with determination. Sasuke can’t stop himself—a smile twitches onto his mouth. Sakura seems confused by the reaction, studying him hard.

Movement flashes in the corner of Sasuke’s eye as a large black bird lands smoothly on the windowsill. He recognizes this one for a miniscule nick in its leftmost flight feather.

“And the birds. They’re ravens,” he says evenly. “Not crows.”

Sakura smiles, sudden and shining and wide. Sasuke doesn’t fully understand the meaning of the exchange, but contentment sweeps over him.

The warmth of her hand lingers long after she lets go, and he remembers something about the fever.

.

.

The infection stalls for days, but when the worst comes, it comes quickly.

First Sasuke’s mouth fills with saliva, then arrives a tsunami of inexplicable dread, and that’s all the warning he receives before an important current in his body shifts off-course and begins to sweep him away. Sasuke breathes deep. A sweet scent hovers in the air. Sakura arrived a moment ago with fresh-cut flowers.

His stump throbs with such a sick, bleeding ache that he loses his grip on his senses. His limbs are all trembling. Another breath. His lungs allow just enough air to call out her name.

Footsteps, a sharp voice. “Sasuke? What’s wrong?”

Healing chakra skims over his body. Sakura lets out a tense breath.

Sasuke knows suffering like he knows the face of an old friend. He can feel it loom over him, its breath ghosting the back of his neck.

“It’s—it’s serious, Sasuke-kun.” The air thickens with chakra, a thrum strong enough to detect by ear. “But you’re going to be fine.”

The breath returns to his lungs, but in exchange, screaming hot pain erupts at his arm and reverberates through every corner of his body. Each pain that flares and fades is replaced quickly by another. His mouth and the tip of his nose go numb. His vision cuts in and out. He is a boat tossed by angry waves, kept afloat solely by the light touch of Sakura’s fingertips.

“Don’t leave,” he hears himself say.

Her voice finds him like sunlight. “I won’t.”

“Do you hate me, Sakura?”

Not long ago, Sasuke hated her. The ache of hatred never left his chest. He hated her so much that her face sometimes replaced his nightmares, and he would wake up blinking away tears. He understands if she feels the same.

He never hears her response. A dark, turbulent quiet rushes over his head, and his old friend follows after him.

At dawn on the day his fever breaks, Sasuke floats awake, greeted by swirls of light floating on the inside of his eyelids. His body feels like his own, but different, like he’s been pulled apart and put back together in a different order. He curls his fingers—the numb tingle of phantom pain lights on one side. The fingers of his other hand tighten around something.

He opens his eyes to a world washed in soft grey. To Sakura’s sleeping face, her hair silver in the light. A dream? No, his mind doesn’t grant him peaceful dreams.

Her head rests tired and heavy on the edge of the bed. Between them lies their hands, tightly clasped, as if they met in a moment of turbulence and held on ever since. Long enough so he can’t distinguish her touch from his own. Flowers watch on the windowsill, shedding petals.

.

.

Sasuke plays more games of Go. Less needles are stuck into his arm. He begins to walk again. He feels fresh air on his face. Sakura’s visits continue like clockwork, until one morning she fails to walk through his door.

He sits and watches the birds as morning stretches into afternoon. The chair that has never left his bedside remains empty. After years apart, how quickly he’s grown accustomed to her presence. But this stretch of time is coming to a close. When he leaves the hospital, he doubts he will see her so often.

His window looks out onto the hospital roof, crisscrossed with pipes and exhaust vents, and a small sliver of the street. When the wind blows just right, the branches of a sakura tree wave into view, buds unfurling.

Hard as Sasuke tried to shunt away his past life, he could never escape the spring. The torture of falling petals, of green and pink. The world around him transformed as if to ensure he could never forget her.

Daylight is getting long when Sakura wobbles in, rubbing her eyes. “Hi.”

Sasuke’s spine straightens. “Hey.”

She sits in her spot by the bed, where he’s been playing a game of Go with himself. “How’s the game?”

“I’m losing,” he says.

Sakura smiles and shifts one of the white stones to a dangerous location. Warmth floods Sasuke’s chest, though now he’s certain to lose. Their hands move back and forth over the imaginary board, bold and quick.

Sakura yawns victoriously as she captures his last tile. “Another?”

Exhaustion shadows her eyes, but if he answers yes, she’ll delay sleep even longer. Does she ever sleep? Hospital staff are always wandering the halls to seek her opinion, or pull her into surgeries, or hand her a stack of paperwork. Yet she carves out a portion of her valuable time for him.

Sasuke shakes his head. But he’s not selfless enough to give up her company so soon. “How are you?”

Her tired gaze lifts and flicks away. A faint blush dusts her cheeks. Why? Is it strange for him to ask? He’s still ruminating when she answers. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day. Emergency surgery, complications, everything. I can’t remember the last time I slept…” Their fingers brush twice as they put away the game pieces. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Sakura leans against his bed and drops her head onto her arms. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

What can he say? He did miss her.

Springtime has come again. The season used to drive him mad. The sakura flowering all at once, all over the continent, wherever he looked. The petals scattering like rain in the wind, catching in the folds of his cloak. The sight of blossoms on bare wood, crossing over his head in a blooming lattice. The five-petaled flowers, the five fingers of a hand he would never touch again. The color. It tested his patience, his devotion to his goal like nothing else.

Sasuke skims his fingers over the pink wave of her hair. He’s always wanted to, deep down. Sakura cracks open her eyes, catches him red-handed in his affection. He runs a thumb in the barest caress across her cheekbone. He is at his weakest in the spring.

“Come here,” he mumbles, fairly certain that she will. Terrified that she won’t.

“Where?” she whispers.

Sasuke lifts his chin. He rests his hand on the blanket. His fingertips burn from touching her. “Here.”

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible. He did not deserve her, but he pretended he did.

Even as Sakura slides into the bed, rests her head in his lap, he cannot fully believe what he’s seeing. She presses closer to him, as if she wants to be close, and her eyes drift shut, as if his presence soothes her. A spell falls over Sasuke as he listens to her breathing. His hand lowers to her back.

Maybe, in the end, it’s as simple as she said. She loves him.

Sleepy green eyes blink open with a trace of shyness, of the girl that used to blush each time he spared her a glance. He will never admit how often he tested his powers. “You don’t mind?”

“No,” he says.

Sakura climbs higher. She folds her arms across his chest like he’s a pillow and tucks her cheek into the crook of her elbow. Sasuke’s heartbeat grows unsteady. Her hair smells the same, like jasmine.

Sasuke never imagined a future beyond his revenge, that his life could continue on and contain moments lit in a glow like sunlight through petals. Holding her awakens desires that have nothing to do with pain and sacrifice. He wants to stroke her hair until she falls asleep. He wants to visit her dreams. He wants even more. His chest aches in the way he once thought was hatred.

He touches her cheek, straightening out a lock of silky hair. She doesn’t stir.

Sasuke closes his eyes, and like he’s never had trouble with it before, dreams.

.

.

.

.

[wolfawaycamp]

Hello! I would like to request a realistic aftermath of the shotgun amputation ;)

🐰 Okay, so, this was discussed on Discord prior to Torch's request (thank you Torch!) and Cas really thought we should get to see Kaitlyn plucking buckshot out of Dylan's arm. You're not actually supposed to do that, but it IS realistic that a bunch of teens/young adults might not know that. This is another long one from me because I'm incapable of being brief, but so far I've I've gotten positive feedback on my 'ficlets' that are so long they're basically just one-shots. I started my Quarry fanfic writing career with chainsaw hurt/comfort, so of course I had to inject some of that here! Hope you enjoy! :3

*******

When Ryan shoots Dylan’s hand off with his shotgun on the floor of the radio hut, he really doesn’t have time to panic. Some kind of black venom is visibly spreading up Dylan’s arm and, at that moment, Ryan agrees that it needs to be stopped. So, he stops it. He doesn’t second guess that decision at the time, because something huge and ugly is stalking the two of them and their fellow counselors. The fact that he’s just blown the left hand off the boy he’s spent the better part of the evening casually flirting with, the one he kissed for the first time a few hours before, can barely sink in because he’s trying so hard to finish engineering the feedback loop and keep them all alive. But once he’s sounded that earsplitting noise and chased the immediate danger away, Ryan’s better able to take in the horror of the scene that remains.

Dylan lies in a pool of his own blood, and the unrecognizable lump of tissue that used to be a hand sits inches from the mutilated end of his wrist. There are holes in the floor where buckshot has passed through Dylan’s flesh and bone entirely and into the aged wood. Ryan, still fueled by adrenaline, tells him his plan worked. He is genuinely impressed with Dylan’s ingenuity.

“It did the trick,” he says, “Nice work, Dylan.”

The bloodied boy on the floor begins laughing in a way Ryan finds deeply concerning, as if he’s completely delirious, before the chaos in front of him seems to sober him up. “Oh fuck, my hand!” Dylan exclaims, like he’s just noticed it. “Why did you do that?!”

“You told me to!” Ryan bites back in disbelief.

Does he really not remember?

“That was a bad idea,” Dylan admits, still holding pressure to the bleeding stump of his left arm, “aw fuck.”

At that very moment, the door bursts open, scaring the absolute shit out of both the boys. It’s Kaitlyn, likely having heard the gunshot and certainly the sound that followed. She’s come to see what’s become of the two of them. 

Kaitlyn manages to get out the words, “You guys all right… in… here?” before she begins processing the gruesome scene in front of her. Ryan watches her take in the handless Dylan, the pool of blood, and the detached former hand in silence, her mouth hanging slightly open for a moment.

“‘Sup Kaitlyn?” Dylan drawls from the pool of blood he’s lying in. He gives her a slight nod as a greeting since his one remaining hand is busy holding back arterial spray from where his other hand was once attached.

“What the fuck?!” Kaitlyn says breathlessly, “what the fuck happened here?!” 

“I—he—that thing bit Dylan’s hand and I, uh…” Ryan struggles to explain the situation, struggles to even understand it himself. 

Kaitlyn looks from Dylan to Ryan and back again, over and over, finally clocking Ryan’s bloodied face and the shotgun in his hand. Her shock gives way to fury. “Oh—oh my god, Ryan, what the fuck have you done?!”

“He—” Ryan points at Dylan like a child tattling to an adult, “he told me to!”

“I would really like for the record to show,” Dylan says, entirely too steady for the state he’s in, “that I said ‘cut it off.’ Not shoot. Cut. There’s a perfectly good chainsaw right over there.” He jerks his head toward the workbench where the chainsaw sits along with the other power tools.

“Why?! Dylan, why on earth would you say that?!” Kaitlyn asks. She wheels around to face Ryan without giving Dylan a chance to answer, “and why would you listen to him?!”

Kaitlyn glares at Ryan like she might bite him. He thinks he would probably deserve that. He can’t seem to get a word out to explain why blasting a hand off with a shotgun seemed like a good idea at the time but, for better or worse, Dylan is still fairly talkative despite his devastating injury.

“Hey, it’s okay Kaitlyn,” Dylan says, trying his best to sound normal and not quite achieving it, “you kinda had to be here to get the full effect, I guess, but there was this black stuff going up my arm, and we had to stop it before it got any higher, and this did stop it! I’m okay, really… I mean, I’m not, but it doesn’t hurt. I don’t even feel it. Which is… weird, right? I feel like having your hand shot off should hurt more than this.”

“It’s probably the adrenaline,” Kaitlyn explains, “or else you’re going into shock. Either way you’re going to be in a world of hurt sooner or later. You’ve probably got a bunch of buckshot still in your arm. Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t leave the two of you alone for a minute.”

Ryan thinks this is a somewhat unfair assessment of what they’ve accomplished here, given that Dylan’s plan and Ryan’s execution of it saved Kaitlyn’s ass as well as theirs. Dylan, for his part, laughs at Kaitlyn, because he’s apparently gone insane and lost all fear of death. Kaitlyn looks like she’s considering snatching Ryan’s gun, blowing Dylan’s head off, and calling it a total loss instead of trying to patch him up. She inhales deeply and lets it back out, as if meditative breathing will repair the rift in reality they’re currently experiencing.

“Ryan get the first aid kit,” she says, her tone more measured now, “we have to stop the bleeding before we move him, but if we can get Dylan down to the poolhouse, we’ll at least have running water to rinse this wound off. That’s where I sent Abi and Nick when I headed up here.” Kaitlyn kneels next to Dylan, then she grabs his arm roughly and he cries out in pain. “Stop moving so much!” she snaps, though the boy with the shot-off hand has barely moved a muscle.

“Fucking hell, Kaitlyn, be careful!” Ryan barks at her, and Kaitlyn’s head whips to the side to face him with a challenging look.

“Oh, I’m sorry Ryan, should I be as careful as you were when you turned Dylan’s hand into raw fucking meatloaf?” The boys are speechless at her outburst.

Wow, Kaitlyn’s being a kind of a bitch, Ryan thinks, and then it clicks in Ryan’s head that she’s not actually angry, not at him or at Dylan, she’s afraid. This is what fear looks like on Kaitlyn Ka, who he’d mistakenly thought was fearless. It’s raw and ferocious. Other than Jacob, who she’s known most of her life, Dylan’s the person she’s closest to at camp. Kaitlyn expresses her concern like a mother bear and if Ryan isn’t careful he really might get mauled by her before whatever the fuck bit Dylan gets a chance to sink its teeth into him.

Kaitlyn fashions a tourniquet out of bandages and a screwdriver, warning Dylan that it’s going to hurt, and Dylan winces as she twists the metal tool over and over to tighten it around his forearm, just below his elbow. She hands him a bottle of what appears to be ibuprofen from the nurse’s station, saying it’s the last of the supply after she gave some to Nick. 

“Ooh, fun,” Dylan says, throwing back the pills and swallowing them dry, and Ryan can feel Kaitlyn rolling her eyes at him even if he can’t see it.

The bleeding appears to stop, though there’s so much blood already that it’s difficult to tell. It seems stable enough that the three of them can set out for the poolhouse. Dylan is a bit wobbly at first but once he gets a few steps in he seems steady on his feet. Kaitlyn and Ryan flank him with Kaitlyn on the left holding onto his injured arm. Ryan carries the first aid kit with him, even though there’s another one in the poolhouse. It can’t hurt to have more supplies.

On the way, they get into a minor argument about whether the pellets of buckshot from the shotgun shell should be removed from Dylan’s arm or left in. Ryan thinks they should come out, he’s seen that in a number of TV shows and movies and while he knows those aren’t always accurate, he doesn’t think it seems right to leave foreign bodies in a wound. Kaitlyn is more hesitant. She knows that doctors will remove pellets from wounds but if they’re deep they might do more damage trying to remove them. In the end, Dylan says it’s his arm and therefore they’re his buckshot pellets and he should get a say, and he thinks they should compromise and get the ones that seem close enough to the surface to grab with tweezers and leave the others.

When the three of them make it into the poolhouse, Abi has Nick laid out by the showers, resting on a stack of rolled towels. She turns to them, saying “I was wondering when you guys would…” and is cut off at the sight of Dylan’s bloody arm stump. She shrieks. “Oh my god, ohh my god Dylan, what happened?!” Abi is keeping her eyes off of Dylan’s arm. She looks like she might cry, or faint, and Ryan watches, stunned, as Dylan tries to comfort her instead of the other way around.

“It’s okay Abi,” he says, a little too jovially, “just a flesh wound.”

“It’s literally not,” Ryan corrects him, thinking of the bits of bright white bone he could see in the remains of Dylan’s obliterated hand, and Dylan shakes his head at him to keep him from saying anything else.

Kaitlyn explains the situation much more succinctly than either of the boys could, then she sends Abi to find the poolhouse first aid kit while she and Ryan drag Dylan over to the sinks to rinse his wound in warm water. Dylan flinches when they direct the flow of the water over the end of his wrist but he doesn’t pull away. As the coagulated blood is rinsed away, Ryan can see exposed bone at the end of Dylan’s arm and several perfectly round holes that, as Kaitlyn predicted, almost certainly contain pieces of buckshot. The sight of it makes his stomach clench with guilt and worry.

Kaitlyn sits on the floor, picking through the two first aid kits for what she needs. She assembles gauze, more bandages, a small set of forceps, only slightly larger than standard tweezers, that Ryan assumes were intended for pulling splinters out of campers, some rubbing alcohol, an empty glass bottle she’s found to corral the pellets in—Ryan thinks it likely once contained apple juice, though the label has been peeled off—and a lidocaine spray intended for sunburns. It’s the best they have, under the circumstances.

Kaitlyn tells Ryan to join her on the floor and instructs Dylan to essentially sit between Ryan’s legs. Dylan raises an eyebrow at this and Ryan sighs and gestures at him to hurry up. Dylan sits where he’s told.

“This is not going to be fun,” Kaitlyn warns Dylan, then she looks to Ryan and says, “you’re going to have to hold him down, hold his arm still so I don’t cause any more damage.” 

Ryan swallows and holds Dylan’s left arm down, pinning it between his own arm and his bent knee with his hand steadying the wounded forearm just below the wrist. He reaches over Dylan’s right shoulder with his right arm and presses his hand to the middle of the injured boy’s chest, encouraging Dylan to lean back against him. It’s already pretty intimate, with Dylan's head resting on Ryan’s shoulder, and then Dylan grabs Ryan’s hand with his and interlocks their fingers, needing something to hold onto.

“Okay,” Dylan tells Kaitlyn, “let’s get this over with.”

Kaitlyn dunks the forceps in the rubbing alcohol and sprays around the wound and all the pellet holes she can find with the lidocaine spray. It’s not very strong, and she tells Dylan it’s only going to numb the surface, everything below that he’s going to feel. He nods, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, and Kaitlyn gets to work.

The first pellet is close to the surface and Ryan watches it pop out of Dylan’s skin easily with the fascination some people feel for those pimple extraction videos online. Kaitlyn drops it into the glass bottle where it makes a satisfying plinking sound.

“Oh!” says Dylan, that wasn’t so—OW!” He’s spoken too soon, and before Dylan can finish his statement, Kaitlyn has gone back in for another pellet. This one must be deeper, she has to fish around where the anesthetic spray hasn’t been able to reach before it comes out. Dylan has a vice-grip on Ryan’s hand by the time this one joins the other in the glass bottle.

“Two down,” Kaitlyn says, “only… six or so to go?”

“Awesome,” Dylan says sarcastically, and even in the dim light of the poolhouse, Ryan thinks he looks paler than usual.

Dylan is clearly in pain now as Kaitlyn digs for buckshot in his forearm and Ryan feels terrible about the choices he’s made. He’d thought the shotgun would be cleaner than the chainsaw, leave less chance for infection than a rusty tool Chris Hackett uses to carve up firewood, but Kaitlyn doesn’t seem to think it would’ve make that big a difference. She had warned him about the shotgun’s spread earlier, and though he’d taken the shot pretty close to his target, they certainly wouldn’t be playing this very advanced game of Operation right now if he’d gone for the chainsaw instead. On top of everything, the light from Abi’s phone flashlight keeps wavering, making it difficult for Kaitlyn to see what she’s doing.

“For fuck’s sake, Abi, can’t you hold that thing steady?!” Ryan snaps before he can stop himself.

“Ryan!” Kaitlyn chastises him as another pellet of buckshot clinks into the glass bottle.  

“I’m trying! You know the sight of blood makes me nauseous!” Abi nearly sobs the words and Ryan immediately feels bad, realizes he can, in fact, feel even worse than he had a moment ago. He’d forgotten how much she hates blood. She’d nearly fainted earlier in the summer when one of her campers had a nosebleed. It’s a rough night for all of them, certainly roughest for Dylan and Nick, but Ryan finds some sympathy for Abi—it’s a particularly bad night for anyone who hates the sight of blood.

“Sorry,” he mutters lamely.

“It’s all right,” Abi says, “I’ll try to do better.”

Ryan doesn’t think of himself as having a particularly comforting presence, but for Dylan he does his best, murmuring a steady stream of reassuring nonsense like he might if his little sister crawled in bed with him after having a nightmare back home. “It’s okay,” he says, “it’s okay, you’re okay. Just hang on, all right?This’ll be over soon. I’ve got you. Just stay with me, Dylan. I’m here. I’m right here and I’ve got you.” 

It’s bullshit, he knows it and Dylan probably knows it too—his wounded friend is in bad shape and Ryan hasn’t got shit, nothing is under control and nothing is okay, but Dylan squeezes his hand, his head turned so the right side of his face is pressed against Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan can tell he’s trying very hard to be brave. Dylan holds back from crying out for the most part, expressing his pain through bitten off groans that he tries but can’t quite silence. Occasionally, he sucks air through his teeth and swears. Dylan’s trembling a little and sweating and he sniffles from time to time because he can’t keep the tears from streaming down his face, dampening the fabric of Ryan’s Cult Damage t-shirt.

Kaitlyn digs for a pellet at the very end of Dylan’s wrist, and he’s completely quiet for a moment, then he goes limp in Ryan’s arms.

“Oh, shit. Dylan?” Ryan hears the panic in his own voice when he speaks.

“Fuck, he passed out.” Kaitlyn pats at Dylan’s cheek, not all that gently but not quite hard enough to qualify as a smack. It does nothing to rouse him. Her fingers press into the side of his neck to feel his pulse, but she doesn’t seem overly concerned with whatever she finds there. Ryan can feel Dylan breathing, but he’s terrified by this development just the same.

“What? Why would that happen?!” He demands of Kaitlyn. “Why now?”

“I don’t know!” Kaitlyn says, “Pain, I guess. Shock? Maybe that last pellet was near a nerve? I barely scraped a B in anatomy.”

“Blood loss?” Abi offers, her expression grave. She looks over at Nick, who adjusts his position a little, and then turns her attention back to Dylan.

“Let’s just get this finished,” Kaitlyn says, “then we can get him cleaned up.” 

She plucks three more pellets from Dylan’s arm, dropping them into the bottle, and then declares that if there are any more, he’ll need an x-ray to find them and trying to dig for them blindly would do way more harm than good. She sends Abi to the sink for a couple of wet washcloths and Kaitlyn wipes down Dylan’s arm while Abi dabs at his face.

Dylan begins to stir, finally, as Kaitlyn is working to bandage his wound. Ryan watches his face intently as he comes around, his brows scrunching and relaxing, eyes moving behind his closed lids. He groans softly before his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at Ryan, seeming to search Ryan’s face for clues as to what the fuck is even happening right now. 

“Dylan,” Ryan says, relief washing over him, “hey! You’re awake.” 

“G’morning Hacketteers,” Dylan rasps weakly, his voice a pale imitation of the one that has boomed out over the PA all summer. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Cap’n Crunch,” Kaitlyn says, rattling the bottle of pellets, “it’s the ‘Oops! All Buckshot’ flavor, unfortunately.”

“Oh, no thanks,” Dylan snorts, “I’m full.” He looks down at the bandaged end of his left forearm. “Though… less full than I used to be, apparently.”

Dylan’s jokes are as obnoxious as ever and Ryan is thanking the cosmic space gods that he’s coherent enough to make them.

As Kaitlyn finishes taping up the bandages, Dylan looks down at his remaining hand and seems to realize it’s still loosely entwined with Ryan’s. He grips Ryan’s hand and Ryan squeezes his right back.

“Thanks you guys,” Dylan says, almost uncharacteristically earnest, and Ryan is reminded of their conversation about his blasé persona and ‘Dylan-Dylan,’ which feels like it happened weeks ago.

“Don’t mention it,” Kaitlyn says with a smile, “just, never do anything this stupid again if you can help it, please.”

Dylan nods. Ryan doesn’t really need to hold onto him anymore, but he is just the same.

“I’m just glad you’re still with me, buddy,” Ryan says in a half whisper.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Ryan. You know how the old saying goes, ‘hand a man a gun, he shoots for a day, shoot a man’s hand off with your gun and you have to, um, let him hold your hand in the hand that he has left. Forever. Or at least for one date. But probably forever.’”

“Yeah,” Ryan deadpans, “I can see how that became a proverb for sure. Real snappy.”

Kaitlyn bursts out laughing. Even Abi giggles at this, putting a hand on Dylan’s shoulder before hurrying back over to check on Nick.

“What? He can shoot my hand off but I can’t shoot my shot? Seems unfair. I—”

Dylan’s words are cut off when Ryan leans down and kisses him on the mouth, his hands pressing to either side of Dylan’s face. It’s the only thing he can think to do to express his relief and concern and gratitude at that moment, to say that he’s sorry but also not. And another feeling is in the mix there, something soft but undeniable and deeply unfamiliar, something that, Ryan’s terrified to realize, might actually be love.

“Let’s save our strength with some quiet time, hm?” he says, still holding Dylan’s face in his hands.

Dylan looks back at him, awestruck. He nods, slowly, and then there’s a gunshot outside. A howl of inhuman agony follows and then a splash. 

Something big has just landed in the pool.

[secretboots]

♡ seen bits of the route where peter amputates one of Y/N's legs and my brain decided to blurb a bit on that ♡

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

fandom: your boyfriend

tags: HCs, word salad, disturbing themes (kidnapping, at-home amputation), graphic description of medical procedures, peter being peter, not edited b/c i'm too lazy to bother

he's read the relevant material. watched the videos, studied the basic techniques- so for a night, he can be a surgeon. for one night, he can be the man who manufactures the hurdle that keeps you safe with him. swallow the distant, queasy horror that comes at the prospect of hurting you, because sometimes, love hurts.

and then it heals. that's the deal, that is the living truth etched into every bone, every muscle, every fibre that makes peter dunbar.

love hurts. it heals, it frightens, it comforts, and you? you are love. at least, the closest to it he's ever been. perfection, resplendent, in human form.

so it's worth it.

it was worth preparing your room.

organising the instruments on your bedside table with a cold resolution settling heavy in his stomach, protecting your bed with a shower curtain stretched taut across the mattress, and laying you down to rest on that sterile field with all the tender care of a heartsick lover. brushing a kiss to your shin, a wordless apology offered to the part of you he has no choice but to part with. it hurts him more than it hurts you. he wants all of you, whole and undamaged.

it hurts him more than it hurts you.

you can't feel the tourniquet twisting, twisting, twisting into place around your thigh. you aren't forced to mark the tibial tubercle, or the anterior and posterior incisions. you can't feel when he makes his first cut, the way his soul shrieks for just a second of rational thought when he guides his vertical incision with shaking hands over the anterior crest of your tibia. identifying and misidentifying those perfect, delicate nerves and resecting them, dissecting muscle and ligating the thick, gorgeous tibial artery with a gasping prayer that the tourniquet holds.

but peter, he feels it.

he feels it when he pulls back the flap that will become the stump, when he marks the fibula cut and the saw whines to life. peter feels it, in his blood, when he saws through sweet tibia and blood-pinkened water speckles his face. he feels it, when he transects and tapers the masterwork that is the posterior musculature, brows pinched tight with the hope he's done it right.

it's amateurish, the way he closes the wound and prays to a power he's never believed in, that his stitches aren't so tight they rot the fatty stump of your knee. and he's sorry, you're beautiful, he loves you so much, and he's so, so sorry.

but the life he has laid out for you is one that comes with sacrifice.

so he can accept the fact that you screamed and sobbed when you woke up and the drugs wore off, though the sound of your voice so broken fractured his psyche into miserable, tiny little fragments that each cry their self-hatred and vitriol for what he's done. because he can fix it- fix you, you just need time to see! to understand! he can kiss away your tears and whisper his hollow apologies when he checks your dressing every day, and again when he feeds you antibiotics and checks your drain tube for the little markers of surgical complications.

he can hold you tight even when you punch and scratch and kick, and he can promise he buried your leg somewhere pretty, because there is no world that exists where peter handles any piece of you with anything less than love and reverence.

he knows it hurts, love, when you need to move. but movement is crucial to recovery, and the leg raises are a safe start to the long, beautiful road ahead. you're so strong, and it's okay to cry- his shoulder exists to catch your tears. you're doing so well, and it's for your own good. one day, when you understand, he can find you a pretty new leg, and then- and then! then, it will be like none of this ever happened. you'll walk, you'll run, you'll go outside again, one day. together. happy, and together.

but first you need to be honest. with him, with yourself.

you love him, don't you? he knows you do. you just don't know how it feels to love and be loved in turn. he's learning to cook, just for you! your favourite meals, so you don't need to worry about making them yourself. that's love. the way he holds you, like you're something precious and fleeting that he can't ever let go of. the way he dresses your residual limb and peppers kisses across your knee and helps you through the physio he'd researched just for you, because while that piece of you is gone, he loves you all the more for it.

you don't know what it means to love. but you'll learn.

for your own sake, you'll learn.

[yandere-daydreams]

so is the amputation thing like he likes to cut off your limbs and then go to town on the stumps? or use the amputated parts to stuff you or himself with?

tw - amateur amputation, unhealthy relationships, forced codependence, and controlling behavior.

in purely my own defense i think it's less of a physical 'jerking off on the bloody stumps' thing and more of a 'masturbating to the thought of you never be able to physically get away from him' thing. he's just got such condensed abandonment issues that, as soon as you two hit your first rough patch and the extent of his obsessiveness starts to show, the 'please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me' mantra that's been playing in the back of his head since he met you shifts to something more along the lines of 'don't let them leave don't let them leave don't let them leave' and he,,, gets the urge to make it so you can't leave, whether that means severing the legs you would've used to run away from him or breaking the hand you'd slapped him with when he offered to pay his way out of your last argument. he'll usually panic and take you to shoko to get fixed up in a few hours, but the fact that there's no lasting damage doesn't mean he can't get hard every time he pictures you all cute and helpless, unable to walk or eat or breathe without his help, and it doesn't mean the next time he does something unforgivable (because there's always going to be a next time), he can't put off your visit to shoko for just a little longer, spend just a little more time bouncing his cute little fuckdoll on his cock despite the bitter tears rolling down your cheeks, the way your voice shakes as you whimper his name.

he's also be the type to want to have some part of you on some part of him at all times. it might be enough to carry a lock of your hair close to his heart early on, but as the regenerated limbs stack up and he's given more time to toy with the idea of more permeant changes, he might decide that a vial of your saliva is more romantic - or better yet, a ring made out a few of your finger bones. just pray you don't have the same blood type. he might find out about kidney transplants and get some ideas.

[thetravelerwrites]

Yew (Part 1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences  Relationship: Male Centaur/Male Centaur  Additional Tags: Exophilia, Centaurs, MLM Content Warnings: Amputee, Amputated Leg, Prosthetics Series: Part 12 of Monster Lovers: Shelter Forest  Words:  4,101

Yew finally gets his own fic! Yew makes his very first rescue: a surly centaur dumped on the side of the road. Please reblog and leave feedback!

Ethari was losing his vision rapidly. He hadn’t eaten in days, the fever was taking over his entire body, and the blood loss had rendered him extremely frail. The ranch hands had dropped him on the side of the road somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where. He kept trying to stand, but in his delirium, he forgot that his left foreleg up to the knee was now missing and unable to take any weight, so he continuously stumbled and fell into the mud of the roadside.

He fell for a final time, completely sapped of strength, and as he was losing consciousness, he heard a voice call out.

“I knew it! I saw someone! Mama, hurry!” 

In his dimming perception, he saw a dark face with green-blue eyes and a fluff of white hair haloed around their head. 

“You’re gonna be alright,” They said softly. “Everything’s going to be alright.” 

And Ethari passed out.

When he awoke again, he was inside a stall lying on rough burlap cushions instead of hay or straw and was covered with several blankets to guard against the winter cold. Panicking, he began kicking the walls with his back legs. He had been conditioned not to scream or yell, so kicking was the only means of rebellion or dissent he was capable of. So he kicked hard over and over, making a lot of noise in the process.

“Oi, oi!” A voice called. Ethari saw the face of a handsome man look into the open upper half of the stall door. He had blue eyes, tanned skin, and dark hair. “Could you keep it down? My wife is resting.” 

“Who are you?” Ethari asked aggressively, his voice raspy and harsh to his own ear. “What’s going on, where am I?” 

“Ugh, I hate dealing with pissy, angry males. Yew! Would you come and deal with this, please? I need to look after Hazel.” 

The handsome face disappeared momentarily, and the full door swung open, revealing that the handsome face was attached to a brown centaur body with black socks and a black tail, which flicked back and forth in agitation. He wore a bright red winter coat on his upper body and a matching riding blanket on his back. 

Seeing one of his own kind, Ethari relaxed slightly without realizing it.

“I thought she was feeling better,” Said another voice, almost chirpy sounding, and a beautiful, slender, black-and-white piebald centaur entered Ethari’s vision. Ethari recognized him as the person he’d seen when he was blacking out on the roadside. The skin of his upper torso was so dark that it was nearly black, contrasting starkly with his pale eyes, curly mop of white hair, and long, feathery lashes. He wore a black winter coat and riding blanket, both with intricate white stitching.

“She still needs rest,” The other centaur said, annoyed. There was a knock that came from somewhere in the building, and Birch’s head swiveled sharply to look in that direction. “Keep this guy quiet, would you? If she takes a bad turn, I’m taking it out on him, I don’t care how hurt he is.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yew said, waving him away.

The brown centaur dashed off, disappearing from view, and the black and white centaur came into the stall, which was spacious enough to allow him inside with Ethari comfortably. 

“Sorry about him,” He said, and it was then that Ethari realized he was carrying a tray with fruit and vegetables on it on one arm and a simple brown wool coat in the other. “He’s really touchy when it comes to Hazel. You shouldn’t move around so much, you know, since you were a proper mess to clean up. You've lost a lot of blood; it took my mother ages to stop the bleeding. There were bone fragments in the stump that had to be removed, too, and you’ve got a nasty infection. You’re gonna feel like pounded garbage for quite a while, so try not to reopen the wound and make it worse.” 

“Where am I?” Ethari repeated. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Yew,” The centaur said, setting the tray on a low table nearby. It was one of several items of furniture that seemed designed with four-legged folks in mind. “You’re in a guest stall at my parents’ farm, the barn specifically. You’ve been out for a couple of days. Mama was worried you’d starve. Here, put this on. It’s cold.” 

He held out the coat for Ethari to take, which he did, snatching it out of his hands roughly. Once he had shrugged it on, Yew reached out to touch Ethari, and Ethari flinched, slapping his hand away. 

“Relax, I’m just checking your temperature,” Yew said, knocking Ethari’s hand aside and placing his palm on his forehead. “You’re still feverish, but you’re not boiling like you were two days ago.” 

Ethari swiped at him, his anxiety spiking. “Get off me! What are you people going to do to me?” He asked indignantly, trying to back away from Yew but not getting far. 

“Nothing?” Yew replied, tilting his head. “Other than overfeed you, maybe. My papa is always encouraging people to eat more. Speaking of which, you must be hungry, right? Eat.” Yew motioned at the tray. “Don’t try to stand up yet. We’ve contacted my brother, Cetzu; he’s really good at carving. He may be able to fix you up.” 

“What are you talking about?” Ethari said distrustfully. “What do you mean? What do you people want from me?” 

“Like I said, nothing,” Yew said, moving toward the door. “Eat your food before you pass out again. Keep the noise down, though. Birch’s threats aren’t empty. If you disturb Hazel at all, he’ll knock you on your tail.” 

“I’m already on my tail,” Ethari said sarcastically. 

Yew laughed good naturedly. 

“I suppose that’s true. Eat.” And with that, Yew closed his door.

As soon as there was no one in sight, Ethari began wolfing down the food that was offered. He knew he would make himself sick doing that, but he couldn’t control himself; he was literally starving. Thankfully there wasn’t too much on the tray, perhaps because they knew he would have gorged himself if there was, so he wasn’t grossly over-full. There was a jug of water on the table and he drank deeply from it, not even bothering to use a cup.

After he finished, he made an attempt to stand, only to stumble and fall immediately. Groaning in frustration, he thumped his hands against the floor. Unable to move and suddenly exhausted, despite his anxiety and fear, Ethari passed out once more.

When he woke up again, it was dark. His stall door was open and there was a candle burning on the frame of the door. Yew was kneeling on his belly just outside of his stall door, knotting cord by candlelight. 

“What do you want?” Ethari snapped. 

Yew looked up. “Ah, you’re awake.” He set the cord aside and got to his feet, bringing in another tray of food and taking the empty one. 

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” Ethari asked. “What do you get out of helping me?” 

“Why would we need to get something out of it?” Yew asked, tilting his head again as if he didn’t understand. He reminded Ethari of a puppy he once knew, ages and ages ago. “That’s not something we care about around here.” 

Ethari grunted distrustfully. Yew knelt down next to him and regarded him thoughtfully. Ethari leaned back, glaring at Yew.

“Am I allowed to leave?” Ethari asked. 

“Well, sure,” Yew said. “If you really want to leave, we won’t stop you, but I… can’t imagine you’d get far at the moment. You can’t even stand up yet.” 

Ethari couldn’t argue with that, but he wasn’t about to say it out loud.

“You’re from a ranch, too, aren’t you?” Yew said suddenly. 

Ethari blinked. “Too?” He echoed, surprised out of his wary demeanor. He didn’t need to ask what kind of ranch Yew meant.

“Yeah,” Yew pulled his curly hair aside and showed Ethari the ear with the puncture hole in it from where the cattle tag had been. “My brother, Birch, and I escaped from one years ago when I was seven, from the big continent north of here. Did you escape too?” 

“I don’t know you. I don’t have to tell you anything,” Ethari said hotly.

“No, I know that,” Yew said, but he waited expectantly, his expression open and curious.

“I didn’t escape,” Ethari said eventually, if reluctantly. “There was… an accident.” He shifted his missing leg, and then stopped and winced when the pain got worse. “I couldn’t work anymore, so they were sending me somewhere, but I don’t know where. When they realized I was dying, they dumped me on the road.” He peered at Yew. “How did you know?” 

“You don’t have a tag like Birch and I did, but I can tell. You’ve got whip marks on your flanks and I saw what seemed like shackle marks on your back legs. I’ve seen enough of those in my youth to know exactly what it means.” Yew sighed despondently. “I didn’t realize there were slave ranches here.” 

For the first time, he looked sad and disheartened. It didn’t suit him, Ethari thought. He looked better when he had that big, dopey smile on his face.

“Officially, there aren’t,” Ethari told him. “It’s operating illegally, I gather. That’s why they were sending me away. I heard that legal ranches have to report accidents to the local lord, for compensation. I can’t collect compensation as a slave, and the owners can’t report and out themselves for owning slaves illegally. So they had to get rid of me. I don’t know what their original plan was. I shudder to imagine, though.” 

“Are there others? I mean centaurs, like us?” 

Ethari shook his head. “Only me and two others. They’re still there. They were sold to the ranch from the colosseum in the big city, what’s it called? Dunmountain? Around there. They have debts to pay, so they’re indentured. My mother was also enslaved there, but she died four winters back. I think she was indentured, too, but we never talked about it. She didn’t like to bring it up. But when she died, I inherited her debts, so…”

“Are there others besides centaurs? How many?” 

“A dozen, I think? There could be more I don’t know about, I was confined to the fields and the barn, so there were places on the ranch I’d never seen or entered.”  

“Where is it? The ranch, I mean,” Yew asked, a strange glint in his eye. A hint of anger, perhaps? Another emotion that didn’t suit his face.

“I don’t know,” Ethari admitted. “I was born and raised there. This is the first time I’ve ever been off the ranch in my life.”

“It feels weird, huh?” Yew said with a sad smile. “Like you should be doing something. You’re not used to sitting still in one place, right?” 

Ethari paused and nodded, grimacing. “I feel… off. Out of place. The ranch was terrible, but… it’s familiar. I know what to expect there. All this…” He waved at the stall and gestured at Yew. “I don’t know what any of this is.” 

Yew nodded. “It’ll feel strange for a while. Don’t worry. Everything will be alright.” 

Ethari couldn’t help but allow the corner of his mouth to go up slightly.

“You sound so certain of that.” 

Yew grinned. “I am.” Yew got to his feet and made to leave. “Eat and rest. Don’t worry about a thing. Mama will be in in the morning to check on you, but don’t be rude to her; she saved your life.” He pointed a finger at Ethari in warning, but Yew looked so unserious that Ethari nearly laughed. “One thing you gotta know about me: I’m a mama’s boy through and through, so don’t you go disrespecting my mama.”

Ethari snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The next morning, Ethari was awoken by the door of his stall opening and an older human woman with greying hair entered, wearing a blouse and sensible trousers and carrying a bag.

“You’re not a centaur,” Ethari said. 

“Well-spotted,” She said with a lilt in her voice. “You’ll be hard pressed to find many of your kind on this continent. There are only a handful or so that I know of, besides my boys, and that includes you.” 

“You’re Yew’s mother?” 

“The very same,” She said, reaching out her hand for a handshake. “I’m Ryel.” 

Ethari didn’t take her hand, simply glared at it distrustfully, and she eventually dropped it. 

“I’m here to change your bandages,” Ryel said. “Are you gonna let me do that?” 

“Just don’t do anything funny,” Ethari said, leaning a bit so she could get to the stump. 

“I don’t have a funny bone in my body, child,” She said with a chuckle. Ethari suddenly saw where Yew got his sense of humor. 

“So, Yew’s adopted, then?” 

“Of course,” Ryel said, pulling off the dirty bandages. “All of my children are adopted. My husband and I can’t have children, so we opened our home to the ones who need one.” 

“How many kids do you have?”

“Certainly more than most, but we like it that way. There are always more kids that need homes, and we like being that home. We’ll likely be taking them in until we die, and our kids will continue the tradition. That’s why we started this place.” 

“Hmm,” Ethari hummed, and then winced when she began cleaning the wound. “Is that big brown asshole yours, too?” 

Ryel laughed. “Oh, yes, he’s mine. Don’t take his current attitude to heart, child. He and Hazel got married recently, and Hazel’s been in delicate health lately, and he’s a little frazzled. He’s normally more level-headed.” 

“I don’t care,” Ethari said. “I’m not going to be here long enough to find out.” 

“If you say so,” Ryel said. She began rewrapping the wound. “Although, I’d wager you’ll be here for quite a while. Cetzu, another of my sons, will be here in a few days. He runs an orphanage in Coleville and he hates leaving it for too long, but he’s agreed to help fit you with a prosthetic. You’ll have to wait a few months for your stump to heal before you can even start to get used to using it, but there’s no reason not to start making it now. It can be adjusted once you’re able to wear it.” 

“And how much is that going to cost me?” Ethari asked bitterly. “What am I going to have to do to pay you back?” 

“Well, that’s not necessary, but hands are always helpful,” Ryel said. “Besides, it’s the chilly season, so there’s really nothing to do at the moment. All the canning and jarring is done, and there are only a few winter crops out in the fields right now which they don’t need much tending to and pretty much grow on their own, so there’s not really any need for you to do anything besides recover.” 

He grunted, not sure if he believed her. 

“And more to the point,” She continued as she packed up the medical bag. “You’re not in any condition to be doing any paying back, as it is.” 

“I’ll accept that,” He said begrudgingly. “I guess I don’t need to worry about it for a while, then.” 

“No reason to worry about it at all,” Ryel said with a laugh. “Listen, son, I get why you’ve got misgivings, but really, we don’t expect anything from you beyond getting better. Whatever you want to do once you’re up and about is your prerogative.”

“If you say so,” He replied. 

“You don’t have to believe me, child,” Ryel said, standing. “Rest. Yew will be in soon with your breakfast.” 

“Why him?” Ethari asked peevishly. 

“I suppose he feels responsible for you, having been the one to find you. You’re his first rescue, after all.” Ryel sighed. “You don’t have to like him, you know, but he’s just trying to help.” And she left. 

It wasn’t so much that Ethari didn’t like Yew, it’s just that Yew… was too perceptive. He saw more than Ethari wanted him to see. It made him uncomfortable. And he was too… happy. Ethari was used to being surrounded by those who were beaten down by their lives and circumstances, so he assumed most people were like that. He’d never met anyone who could brighten a room just by walking in it, the way Yew could. It almost hurt to look at Yew. He was like sunlight, but the kind that suddenly flooded a darkened room that light hadn’t touched in years, blinding and painful.

Soon enough, Yew arrived with another tray, just as Ryel said, but Ethari was squirming by the time he showed up.

“What’s up with you?” Yew asked, noticing Ethari fidget. “Did you eat something bad?” 

Ethari growled. “I… have to…” 

“Hmm? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” 

“I need the privy!” Ethari said loudly, embarrassed. 

“Oh!” Yew said, seemingly unfazed. “No problem, I’ll help. Here.” Yew held out his hands. “Stand up. You can lean on me.” 

Still distrustful but slightly desperate, Ethari took Yew’s hands and, after some struggle, managed to haul himself unsteadily to his feet. Yew swung around and used his own body to support the length of Ethari’s body. Slowly, with a lot of help from Yew, Ethari was able to limp out of the barn. Some of the other stalls also seemed to be occupied, but the doors were closed so Ethari couldn’t see inside. 

“Are there other four-legged folk here?” Ethari asked. 

“There’s Reed. He’s a deertaur, really rare. He’s smaller than centaurs, but he’s got antlers, so he needs as much room as we do. I’ve never even seen another person like him.” 

“Neither have I,” Ethari said, surprised. “I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing.” 

“There’s one more, I fibbed. Reed’s daughter is half-deertaur, but she takes after him and has four legs. She got her own stall recently, just turned thirteen. She’s at that age where she doesn’t want to share a room with her parents anymore, you know.” 

“I don’t know, actually.”

Yew laughed. “His son, River, has two legs, like his mother, but he’s got hooves, too. He’s really unique. Lymera has hooves too, but she’s a fawn, so that’s not unusual. She used to stay in the barn, as well. She liked it better than the house.”  

Ethari made a face. “Why are you telling me all this?” 

Yew laughed again. “Because you asked?” 

“I didn’t ask for the roster of your family, I just asked if there were four-legged folks besides you and your surly brother.” 

“True, but it doesn’t hurt to know. Besides, talking takes your mind off the pain. Hurts more when you’re quiet, doesn’t it? Talking distracts you.” 

It was excruciatingly slow progress, but finally they reached the latrine at the edge of the treeline. It was far enough away that the smell didn’t reach the house of the barn, but that meant getting there was an undertaking for Ethari. He was exhausted by the time he got there. He was able to enter by leaning his body against the walls of the latrine and limping inside, but once he had finished his business in there, it took all his strength not to collapse. 

“I need to rest for a moment,” Ethari said, breathing heavily. 

“Here, let’s get away from the latrine first,” Yew said, swinging around to support him again. Yew managed to get him to a patch of moss before Ethari practically fell. 

“I feel like I’m gonna hurl,” Ethari said, his upper torso bent and resting against a nearby tree. 

“Try not to, it’s not good for our kind to vomit,” Yew said, holding Ethari’s hair. “We’re too similar to horses like that.” 

“I’m fully aware of that,” Ethari snipped. “But that knowledge doesn’t help me in this situation.” 

“You want a beer?” Yew asked. “Birch always drinks when he feels sick. Counter-intuitive, I know, but it seems to help him.” 

“A beer would be amazing right now,” Ethari admitted. 

“Be right back,” Yew said, and dashed off. 

Ethari tried to breathe through the nausea, willing himself to keep his breakfast in his stomach, and heard four legs trotting up. 

“I had to fight Birch to get it,” Yew said, handing Ethari a wooden cup. “He really doesn’t like you.” 

“I don’t like him either,” You said peevishly, taking the cup and gulping swallows of the beer slowly. “Don’t you drink? I’ve never met a centaur who doesn’t drink. We were allowed beer even on the ranch.” 

Yew shrugged. “It’s just not for me. I can supplement what I need from alcohol with other things. Besides, I prefer wine, but it’s hard to store wine here. I get it every once in a while as a treat, but I don’t need it all the time.” 

“And you call yourself a centaur,” Ethari said, snickering.

“Hey, don’t tease, I already get enough of that from Birch.” 

You drained the cup and handed it back. “Is Birch the only one who drinks around here?” 

Yew nodded. “Afraid so. If you need more, you’ll have to go through him.” 

“Can’t I just go through you? Wouldn’t he give you some if you asked?” 

“Well, sure, but he knows I don’t drink. You might want to work on getting in his good graces.” 

“Ugh,” Ethari grunted. “I just can’t wait to kiss that guy’s ass.” 

Yew laughed. “All you gotta do is be nice to Hazel. That’s his softest spot. He really loves her.” 

“Hmm,” Ethari hummed, pensive. “I wonder what that feels like.” 

“Me too,” Yew said wistfully. “I’m kind of jealous of them, to be honest.” 

“You’re too young to think that way.” 

“Am I?” He said, tilting his head again. “I don’t think so. I think it’s normal to think about things like this. Being in love with someone is nearly impossible in a place like a ranch, where people are just trying to survive, so I think it’s normal to wonder about what loving someone feels like. Didn’t you just say that?” 

Ethari snorted. “I guess I did. You’re still too young. You’re not even twenty yet, right?” 

“So what?” Yew said, shrugging. “I’m old enough to get married, so I’m more than old enough to wonder.” Yew looked up toward the house. “Ah! Cetzu is here. I expected him to take longer, but he probably just wants to get back quicker. He’s another one who’s a fool for his family.” 

“The orphanage director?” Ethari asked. “And wood carver?” 

“He’s really a jack-of-all-trades type. He’ll fix you up. Do you think you can make it back to the barn?” 

Ethari sighed heavily. “I’ll try.” 

“Let me know if you can’t. I’ll get the boys to lift you like we did the day we found you.” 

Ethari grimaced at the thought. “No, on second thought, I’ll make it. If it kills me, I’ll make it on my own.” He peered up at Yew in an unfriendly way. “Well… help me up, would you?” 

Yew laughed again. “Yes, yes, come on.” 

With Yew’s help, Ethari managed to return to his stall in the barn, though he was so exhausted that he hit the ground as soon as he entered it. He was breathing hard, his heart beating out of his chest. He was in immense pain from that small amount of physical activity.

“I think I’m dying,” He wheezed. 

“No, you’re not dying,” Yew said, helping him out of his coat and covering him with blankets again. “But maybe we should see about fashioning you some sort of bedpan, so you don’t have to move again.”

“That sounds like a nightmare, but let’s do that,” Ethari said. “I don’t think I can move again for a while.” 

Yew laid his body down next to Ethari, covering him with blankets and using his own body to warm him. 

“You’ll be alright, Ethari,” Yes said softly, patting his back. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. You’ve got your whole life left to live, now that you’re out of that place.” He pulled Ethari’s sweat drenched hair away from his face. “Don’t worry,” He repeated. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Ethari lost consciousness, the last sensation he felt were Yew’s fingertips against his forehead.

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[ravencromwell]

some scattered disability and White London thoughts:

Schwab missed a hundred thousand opportunities for disability rep; this is a bleak, apocalyptic landscape where one of the prevalent currencies is blood, and both children and adults are frequently attacked for their power.

Sign language. Look. Most magicians need to speak to focus their power, though Schwab makes clear it's more a way to keep up concentration than a necessity (take Lila's tiger, tiger, burning bright. So I wanna see that taken to its logical conclusion: tongues removed because many. many people think they! are the source of power, or at least where immense magic will nest.

Therefore: A thriving culture of sign language, where everyone is at least semi-fluent.

Holland, watching Talya's hands trace the old stories in gorgeous, fluid arcs with her hands as her face takes on a million expressions. Later, finishing them beneath the blankets, fingers tracing words intohis skin in the dark.

Holland stands out as much because his Antariness has allowed him to avoid disability as for the power itself.

Way the fuck more prosthetics particularly prosthetic hands considering how so many people carve element-control runes directly on their skin. Take away your hands, and some enemies would think they could take away your ability to fight.

Lethally sharp hooks for hands, with the runes carved directly into the metal and the most ruthless fighters absolutely willing ready and able to gouge out your eyes with their prosthetics.

Consequently: prosthetic care. Eventually, you have to take your hand/hands off; moisturize the stumps etc. Who you choose to be that vulnerable with says a thousand things about your character. (and the moments when you don't particularly *choose* it but you need to anyway because you've had it on too long and the skin is blistering; infection in Makt would be deadly.

The irritations of amputations. I know from some other characters I've researched for: things like washing your hair with only one functioning hand: an absolute bitch.

Anemia. In AGOS, part of what Ojka says Osaron's powers does is "warm her blood". Everyone in that city must be A. constantly cold; and not cold like a coat can fix. Cold from poor circulation and generally "weak" blood. People who have an affinity with bone magic (Athos, Vortalis, Holland himself) would have a significant advantage because everyone else is moving just slightly sluggishly, always dragging at the weight of exhaustion. It's part of what would make Talya's dancing so fucking _impressive, that she moves like that even despite the headaches, dizziness, etc.

Holland as Antari: essentially a fucking human heated blanket to anyone who isn't afraid to be so close to y'know the extremely dangerous magician.

God, there's so. so much more, but my brain is swiss cheese. But I at least wanted to start the ball rolling, because I feel like this's a corner of fandom that's just _bursting with possibilities.

[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (1/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. ~43000 words total.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 1: Breaking Through

Crosshair has a rough night. 2000 words, Crosshair POV.

-

The days after Tantiss slid into one another, blurring into a strange haze.  He drifted through them one by one, feeling like a ghost.  Part of him had already died, hadn’t it?  But the others kept him going, their presence a beacon in the dark.

The first days were utterly lost to him, wiped out by exhaustion, the agony and shock of his lost hand, the massive painkillers the medical droid had him on.  No matter how he tried, they remained a mystery.  He had only flashes of memory left behind: flickers of his brothers at his bedside, Omega’s hand in his, kind close words from Echo, from Wrecker, from Hunter.  He knew he’d never get those days back, but the fragments of memory he was able to hold onto said you’re not alone.

Blurry though the days were at first, there was a strange new sense of hope in the air.  Omega radiated it like a star, and he couldn’t help but feel it infecting him, too; Tantiss was gone, Hemlock was gone, a war they’d never stopped fighting had finally ended.  A weight had vanished, a stranglehold in his chest he had never thought to be freed from.  Wrecker and Hunter were lighter than they’d been in years, all broad smiles and easy laughter, and there were days the four of them just sat in the sunlight, blinking in awe at their freedom.

They started to put down roots, a thing foreign to all of them.  As his stump, Wrecker’s wounds, Hunter’s back began to heal, they started working around the island.  There was still much cleanup to do after the Empire’s attack, and not only that; there was a house to build, down in lower Pabu.

Though something nagged at him, something dark in the back of his mind.  He could feel it when Omega fell asleep on his shoulder watching the stars, when Wrecker pulled him into a crushing hug, when Hunter caught his eye and smiled as if to say we made it.  It cast a shadow over those things, a taint over the new beginnings the others spoke of so gladly.  

He pushed it down deep.  

He was good at that, wasn’t he? 

---

Pulsing, throbbing, sparks shooting up his arm, searing into his chest, rocketing back toward imaginary fingertips --

Crosshair gasped himself into wakefulness, but the pain followed him, radiating up and down his right arm and into the hollow place beyond his wrist.  He bit back a whimper and rubbed his forearm as hard as he could with his left hand, fingers digging into his flesh, a sensation he hoped would distract from the fire.  But the pain persisted, and he lay on his bunk trembling, sweat dripping down his face and pooling beneath his arms, down his back.

Pain meds.  Where’d I --

He shakily got to his feet, lurching to the refresher in the back of their stolen shuttle, leaning against the wall with his left shoulder.  He hunched his way inside and the lights flicked on.  He glanced around the narrow storage space and spotted his medication, cursing that he hadn’t kept it closer to him.  

He reached out with his left hand, his right arm pinning the bottle against himself to hold it still, his left hand and teeth eventually getting it open.  He shook the right number of tablets carefully over the ledge in the sink that held the water and soap, but he shivered and one of the tablets rolled into the drain.  He swore and shook another out, clumsily recapped the bottle, and scooped the dose into his palm.  He tossed it back and swallowed, chasing it with a handful of water from the tap.

He leaned against the shower wall, shivering all over in his damp sleep shirt and leggings.

AZI no longer had him on the medications that had left him nearly incapacitated, passed out in bed most of the day, his thoughts barely coherent.  But sometimes the pain broke through this lighter medication, broke through like Wrecker through a line of clankers, and it left him wondering if it would ever stop.  He blinked back the excess water that had filled his eyes, taking a heaving breath.  

Some fresh air sounded good.  Maybe a walk, until the pain started to fade.  He sighed, straightening back up, rubbing his forearm again.  He slipped his boots on and headed out into the velvet dark of the colonnade.  Here the night chill felt refreshing, the breeze a soft caress.

Their new little house was still well under construction.  Materials on the island weren’t abundant, and Hunter was determined that their home use the minimum necessary to avoid imposition on the village.  It’d probably be finished within the next week or two -- people moved fast here, when they could -- but for now they still used the stolen Imperial shuttle, its signature long scrambled, as a place to sleep.

It was… He stood out on the stone, looking back at the looming long-range shuttle casting shadows in the moonlight.  His eyes roved over it.  Severe, angular lines.  A dominating silhouette.  Utilitarian, with none of the elegant sleekness of the Havoc Marauder.  Tech wouldn’t have been caught dead flying this ship.

Tech -- 

He flinched, shaking his head, taking a long breath of the night air.  He took off at a brisk pace, footsteps soft on the stone.  A new frisson of pain sparked past his wrist.  He shook his arm and  bit his lip hard enough he tasted blood.  

It’ll pass.  It’ll pass.   He tried repeating it, again and again.  Maybe it would help him believe it.  He looked around anxiously, searching for a distraction.

He paused, coming to a stop, and gazed up at the stars.  It was another clear, beautiful night.  He’d asked Wrecker and Hunter and Tech long ago what they saw when they looked up at the night sky; he was very young when he learned that what he saw was unique.  They’d been disappointed when he told them of the hints of ultraviolet he could sense -- just faintly -- at the blurred edges of the flickering stars, when he mentioned the shadows of nebulae lurking deep beyond the pinpoint lights, when he pointed out shooting star after shooting star they could not detect.  

Pabu’s night sky was untouched splendor, fields of stars tinged in gold and yellow and blue and white shimmering across the black and violet.  As he gazed upward his breathing gradually began to slow, settling down even as the pain in his arm began to recede.  He gratefully, carefully let his arm rest back at his side, hissing when there was only a slight crackle of pain. 

“Trouble sleeping?” asked a familiar voice.

“Surprised you haven’t left yet,” said Crosshair, not bothering to turn around.  Echo drew himself up beside him, looking out at the stars.

“There’s a little more time before Rex needs me.  Figured I’d head out tomorrow, give Omega a proper goodbye.  Though you boys’ll be fine, I’m sure.  Your place is here, with her.”  Echo smiled slightly, then tilted his head.  “You all right?”

“All left, actually,” Crosshair said.  He shrugged as Echo gave him a skeptical look, then a dry smile.

“Arm humor, huh?  Well, whatever works for you.”

Crosshair chuckled, reaching towards his belt before remembering he’d forgotten to put it on before he left.  No toothpicks.  His hand dropped back to his side.  “Well, if you’re asking… it’s worse at night.”

“It was like that for me, too.”  Echo nodded.  “My head wasn’t exactly clear with the Separatists… but I do remember feeling my arm and legs sometimes, underneath the programming.  The pain was one of the few things that I could feel when I…”  He frowned.  “The pains still happen now and then, but it’s rare.  It should get better, Crosshair.  Eventually.”

Crosshair nodded.  He knew he’d gotten off easy.  Echo had been such a fighter, it had been rare for him to let on anything was wrong.  Even with everything the Separatists had done to him.  Echo knew what it was to feel less than whole, to be something different than what he used to be.  He knew he should listen to him.

“So you say,” Crosshair said, though he couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.

“I do.”  

“Hhm.”

Crosshair fell back into a walk, and Echo walked beside him.  Echo didn’t ask to come with, and Crosshair didn’t tell him to stop.

They walked beneath the vast weeping maya, near the looming Archium.  Crosshair led them a good berth away from it.  He knew what lay in there, shattered and stained, and he had no desire to see them.

“Don’t forget to ask for help.”

Crosshair snorted.  “I did enough of that last week on those meds.”

“I think it was good for you.”  Echo gave him a serious look, his eyes concerned.  He paused, crossing his arms.  

“I’ve got this, Echo.”  He held up his stump in a patch of moonlight; the shiny thin scar tissue glinted.  The skin was new and fragile, red-edged and taut, but it was holding.  He was still only a few days out from needing bandages.  The scar twisted his stomach to look at, but he felt a strange kind of pride, too, in knowing how far the wound had come; how the bruising and vicious swelling had faded back to his normal skin tone instead of mottled blues and violets; how the skin was now dry instead of oozing blood and serum through the bandages.  It was getting better.

“See?  It’s healing fine.”

“It’s not just physical recovery, and you know that.  You saw me, figuring out the prosthetics, the scomp.  You saw me waking up at night, remembering what they did,” Echo said in a low voice.  “It’s going to be hard.  I just want you to know, you can comm me any time.  I -- I need to be out there with Rex for myself, but you’re my brother too, and if I can help you, I will.”

Crosshair stiffened.  He didn’t want to hear this.  Didn’t want to hear that there was more ahead, that the healing he’d done so far was just the beginning.  It had already been so much.  More than he’d thought he could bear.

He couldn’t speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

“I know you, remember?” Echo continued.  A sad smile stole across his face.  “You’re probably gonna pretend you’re fine for a good while, but I’m telling you, when you’re ready not to be -- we’ll catch you.  All of us.”  He sighed.  “But you’ll do what you want, of course.”

Crosshair swallowed, turning away, staring out at the stars.  “That’s right.  I will.”

Echo clapped him on the shoulder with his left hand.  “You’ve got the time to figure it out.  Take it.  You deserve to.”

He snorted.  That was a bit much.  Like he deserved anything --

Shattered lenses, soil crusted in the rim of the camera light, a smudge of blood dried and smeared into the strap --

He pulled away, chest heaving suddenly.  He fought back the sensation.  “That’s a good one.”

Echo frowned.  “I mean it.  Believe me or don’t.  That’s up to you.”

He glanced back at Echo and softened, remembering that he was leaving in the morning.  He was going to miss him.  “It’s been good to have you around, Echo.  Omega loves having you here.”

“Sure.  Omega does,” Echo said, grinning.  “I’ll be back, don’t you worry.  Now come on.  Time to get some rest?”

Crosshair lifted his right arm, realizing with relief that the pain had gone.  It just felt like his arm now, even if it was the wrong weight, even if the asymmetry with the left was obvious, even if the impulses to shift his hand ended in muscle twitches at the wrist.  “Yeah, you’re right.”  He headed back across the square towards their ships, Echo beside him, and the stars shone soft and warm against the darkness.

[so-nw]

adjusting to his body after four amputations, wearing limb liners on his asymmetric leg stumps and getting around in an electric wheelchair - it's all part of his new limbless life now

[whumperwithwings]

August of Whump Day 1: Food/Risk/Overexertion

Content: PTSD, Flashbacks, Implied kidnapping, Torture, Gore, Amputation, Implied Noncon Drugging, Needles, Cannabalism

Whumpee woke up drowsy, their nap not doing much to help their ever-deteriorating mental state as they shakily sat up in bed. It was six in the evening - dinner must have been being prepared. They rubbed their eyes, grabbed their crutches from where they leaned on the side of bed and stumbled to the door, leaning on the door frame as they looked out into the kitchen.

Whumpee's sister and father moved around the kitchen as if it were a dance in a opera, every move prepared in advance as Whumpee's sister grabbed the salt, the zucchini, and-

the meat.

Whumpee slammed their door shut, falling to the ground as images of what Whumper did to them flashed in their mind.

A basket, a knife and a box of medication inside that they debated over for a significant amount of time.

A knife, cutting into the soft flesh just below their knee, Whumpee powerless to do anything but watch as their body screamed at them to do something about the fact that a part of their own body was being separated from itself, exploding in blinding pain.

A needle, sewing up the stump of what used to to be Whumpee's leg, as the remains are butchered just out of eyesight. Whumpee could still hear every detail.

Sound of frying meat in the background as Whumpee lay limp, half-heartedly shoved in a closet, the door not fully closed. Their leg was nowhere to be found.

[osakanone]

Would you amputate my limbs while I screamed for you to stop and shove me in a mech pilot “training” pod

Technically, no. Obviously, yes...?

I don't operate in an SEZ, so I don't get to waive your rights:

That's your job.

Your limbs in question would be cuffed, removed, carted off to be bio-supported for the duration of any such training in prep for restoration post-removal.

This is of course in conjunction with a formal contract drawn up, which defaults to you getting the limbs back or equivalent compensation if you don't present me with enthusiastic consent within three months or less.

That said...

Given the sheer amount of stuff you've signed to let us pump your nervous-system with...

The pattern/depattern training of your nervous-system retraining all of your associative responses... What makes you turn your head... What gets you excited, what gets your blood pumping...

The cultured augmentation of your default mode network... The kinds of things you dream about... The way you feel about fear on a fundamental level... (death-fetishization isn't uncommon, but this kind of reward-hacking is undesirable for obvious reasons).

This of course usually requires a traumatic event for maximum effect.

Essentially, that you start calling your concept of body into question keeps the mind nimble and flowing, which is why you're not out for the detachment procedure.

The affected areas are:

intraperital region (back of your head),

basal ganglia (right in the middle through the ear),

presupplementary motor area (up top toward the front),

premotor cortex (Same again),

and cerebellum connecting them together.

I've heard the recovery of the procedure described as that pleasant drunken feeling during high altitude, with a deep dread knowing something is wrong as all your bits are doggie-bagged up, sprayed down and then put in the preservation tank for later.

A paralytic agent is obviously helpful here, but in theory, we do kind of need you awake for some elements of the keyhole micro-craniotomy and follow-up cell conditioning so you're wide awake and physical for the whole procedure.

I genuinely don't think you're capable of not giving enthusiastic consent, and the numbers back that up.

What you won't see in the brochure is that the contract is largely a formality, which I'm not really supposed to tell you but you did ask nicely.

Technically you power of attorney returns to you after the first 90 days of intrasystem training, and you get the final say.

So many have insisted they have the willpower to know if they do or not.

That they'd be different, or special or beat the training some how.

Some are excited they can get a few free adaptations, or think they're setup for a future career as a freelancer with a full kitout.

A few even bet their debts on it.

In theory, you absoloutely have the opportunity to say no...

But reality doesn't work out that way.

This is of course assuming you weren't sold to us, or that you aren't being recycled as part of population management of a colony somewhere.

So, I'm guessing you have questions about the procedure or the pod?

The pod and attachment is pretty bog standard stuff.

Zygomatic projector (a fancy laser which draws pictures on your retina, attached to your cheekbones).

DARYL-cuff-stump attachment model

Infared braincell attachment for read

Writeback with bio-radio cellular response for cognitive monitoring

A nice tight shock harness suit with vacuum seal, and G-force compression.

Any further specialization tends based on whatever role you're spec'd for.

For the record, no I don't have any long-term bio-storage for anything we'd remove from you. We did for a long time, but it sat unused, so we just increased our uptake rate to make use of them.

Look forward to hearing from you.