#tw critical injury

[icantlose]

"Said O'Donnell, since I see that you are someone who really likes music and we are in this month, is there any song or more that disturbs you a lot?" [ @thebastardmeteocrusherpilot 💀]

"Actually yeah, there is."

Clawed thumb finds the butt of his cigarette and he flicks the end of it, shedding the spent ash collecting at the smoldering tip of his cherry.

"It's a song that's haunted me since I was a kid. It's called D.O.A., by a band called Bloodrock. The emergency sirens and the droning dirge of that electric guitar and the bass is chilling, but it's the lyrics that have always fucked with me the most. It's a song about a pilot who has suffered a horrible plane crash. He does his best to come to, to regain control of his body, but something keeps him from being able to move. He can feel the warmth of his own blood as it trickles out of him and he is in excruciating pain. He can see the body of someone he knows lying next to him and it's the distant stare in her eyes that tells him she's dead. He can see the horrified expression of the flight attendant, who he can hear whispering about how the pilot has no chance. A sheet is placed over the pilot and he can only helplessly lay there, staining the cloth with his blood as he reflects on what has happened to cause this horrible situation in the first place. He hasn't caught up with himself and realized he has died."

The glow of the cigarette's hot end brightens once he brings it to his mouth. A nervous drag of his vice to ease his nerves as his mind brings back memories of a song that has unnerved him for as long as he can remember.

"It's a really visceral song for me, the two organ notes that scale up and down in a way that imitates a siren, it's the description of his pain and experiences as he's actively dying, it's the way he does his best to reflect on just what happened to begin with... It's always made me fuckin' sick."

A bitter huff.

"Real good song for an at-risk pilot to listen to, huh? I've always known how to pick 'em."

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee hasn’t realized they’ve been rescued. They fight the hands trying to stop the bleeding, wich resulted in them also having to hold them down.

Then there’s a voice. A familiar voice that could never be mistaken. Caretaker speaks just loud enough over the shouts saying “Eyes on me, nothing else matters, don’t look at them. Eyes on me.”

They would never see the blood; or how gruesome and horrific their wound actually was. They never saw the faces of the strangers who had no other goal other than keeping them alive. 

They only saw caretaker.  

[pipinpali]

Unlike

—--

1/?? — Screwed Up

Next part ->

TW!: blood, injury, mentions of death, language, violence

Word count ~ 1000 words

—--

Randall crawled out from beneath heap of metal scraps and junk which was supposed to be the entrance of his home; evident by the old carvings on one of the pieces of cardboard from the couple of kids that liked to follow him around.

'These storms are more of a problem than I thought,' the smallfolk bristled. He sighed, deciding to get to fixing it later, and brushing away the feeling.

He was a busy man with deals to make and suckers to cheat. With his self-built confidence, he adjusted his scarf, tugged at his socks, slicked back his hair, and brushed off his coat. Content with his look, he made his way through town.

Unfortunately, travel wasn't the easiest thing in the homey town (which Randall had never learned the name of in all of his 9 years living there), in fact, it was one of the hardest.

Randall dashed towards the exit of the dark alley, stopping abruptly before he was cast in the light of the orangey last hours of sunshine. He peeked around the corners for the beast that made him believe the "man's best friend" title was bullshit. Good thing for him, all he could see was the metal rod in the ground and the thick chains that it was usually tied to. He was relived he didn't have to climb up the old downpipe today.

There was still dangers that Randall had to face, the most important being one of those big people. Despite the charismatic smallfolk's rather impressive height of 12.7 cm, amongst giants; he was thought of like a rat.

With that in mind, Randall carefully, cautiously, stayed near the towering apartment buildings, making sure he wasn't close to the middle of the sidewalk where all the foot traffic of a couple of people here and there was. Over the half hour or two he was scampering along, there were a few close calls of almost being spotted, but he prevailed and made it to his destination.

Readying himself, Randall jumped and caught his hands on the grooves of the decorated stone which acted somewhat like a ladder for the folks that visited. He climbed -- ableit with a bit of struggle -- up the massive building, one that was home to the Bright Market, the "hot-spot for money making." Heaving himself onto the back of the large, glowing sign that read something along the lines of "Pet-ee's," he was met with familiar sight of the bustling stalls.

Randall knew where he needed to be, as did the fools who accepted his offer. Little did he know, though; that it might be his last.

He walked towards the back of market, nearing the edge of the vast roof-top, where he saw the same brute of a man sitting on a makeshift bench; the one who asked for his services in the first place.

The conman leaned against a post, eyeing the client with his usual confident gaze, the phantom of an amused smile on his face. "So, you got the bits?" He inquired.

"I've heard from a friend that you have quite the reputation, Mr. Franklin," the toned man stated with his deep, gravely voice, his fingers tracing his whiskers.

Randall bristled. He didn't tell the man his last name. Things sudden felt a lot less safe. From the corner of his eye, he could spot a handful of others nearing where they were conversing. "...I see you have," he responded, attempting to keep up his charismatic demeanor, though; the change in tone made it known that he had a good idea as to what was going on.

"...They said they wanted the money back," the man said, finally making eye contact with Randall. He sat up at an intimidating height, slowly walking up to meet Randall at just a couple inches of distance. Something was definitely wrong.

The he dared to try and dart off to the side before things got messy- being gutted in the stomach, now pinned between the wall and the brutish man's arm before he could even get two steps away.

Randall struggled to get free, his legs kicking against the other's, searching for to get back to the floor as his hand scrambling to grab at his side for his dagger which had fallen onto the floor.

His eyes widend as the man drew back his arm; fist tightened.

Shit.

...

...

...

In his blurry vision, he squinted, trying to make sense of the growing lights and the loud growl that sounded louder and louder as a silhouette became more clear--

Randall had figured out it was a car before the very second he was nearly run over. 'Those assholes tossed me on the road while I was unconscious!' he realized. Before he could get too angry about it, adrenaline buzzed in his head. He needed to get somewhere safe before something killed him.

As Randall attempted to stand, a shot of pain in his legs knocked him back to the ground. He reeled, sucking in air before he let out a strangled cry. 'Don't do that again,' he noted to himself.

Pitifully and painfully, he reached out his arms and started pulling himself through the gravely pavement, his body scraping against the rough texture as all nine of his fingers grasping and a few prayers setting him on his way.

After a while, the smallfolk's sensitive ears perked up at another noise — this time not a massive car barreling towards him — but instead, it was the stirrings of rain. It didn't take long for him to pelted with the sudden downpour.

Randall idly thought about giving up, yet the illuminating, towering street light ahead, standing out admists the dark, filled him with an odd and unfamiliar sense of hope.

He was close, he could leave this okay.

With that, the now determined and drenched smallfolk trudged through the ever growing puddles, nearing the sidewalk. He thanked the gods that there weren't any big people out at this hour.

Randall was so determined, in fact, that he didn't pick up the final noise over the rain.

The most important one.

It wasn't until the light had flickered that the little conman's focus had faltered, the instinctual reminder to scan his surroundings only now ringing in his head. His mildly articulated ears perked up at the sound of something distant, almost sounding like scraping thuds...? It was rythmatic, a set pace. And like the car, it neared closer, and became louder.

Randall almost shrieked at the sight of two giant work shoes that appeared far too early and far too close, accompanied by two impossibly long legs, arms, and... -He couldn't run, he realized, nor hide. He was at the mercy of a big person of all things.

He was screwed.

Wowie kazowie lookie here!! Me? Writing?? Impossible!

—--

Im planing on making more of these but this is just here for now incase

their first meeting!! First time writing something like this,,

I made a drawing before right here of the final scene ,

[gildedoak]

SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER

But only for part of this. The other is a theory.

Essentially, I thought too long about the "what if Orym multi-classed into a barbarian and got to release all that pent-up rage?" idea. And he asked Morrigan to make him "more capable." HOW DOES THAT MANIFEST??

YA'LL. You know if something remotely like this happens, we'll be able to hear Travis scream with delight through the fabric of space-time.

(Image description below the cut!)

[Image Description: a sketchy comic about Orym's deal with Nana Morri.

Panel 1: (Wide shot of Orym struggling to get up, using his sword to push himself up. He's bleeding from multiple wounds, and the sky above is red, Exandria a small blue dot in the sky.) Badguy (offscreen): You are just a lone, little man in a big fight. What can YOU do?

Panel 2: Fearne: ORYM! (She reaches for him)

Panel 3: Nana Morri (her voice in Orym's mind): Get up. Orym: N-Nana Morri? (his silhouette hacks up a mouthful of blood) Nana: Get up, little Ashari.

Panel 4: Orym: I... (Close up of his left eye, where a yellow-green light has started to shine. Blood trickles down his face, over his eye)

Panel 5: Orym: would like... (Close up of his right hand, clenching the sword)

Panel 6: (A ghostly red silhouette of Nana Morri hovers in the air over Orym, her fanged smile and clawed hands filling the space. Orym is standing, but a little crookedly. Yellow-green light continues to waft like smoke from his left eye.) Nana: You aren't done yet. Orym: ...to rage.

End Image Description]

[star--anon]

when they finally rescue Minho, they bring him into their makeshift hospital and-

...and immediately, Newt and Thomas are kicked out.

a whole wealth of 6 months of scars from beatings, brandings, terrifyingly methodical cuts on his back, all framed with hot and red skin, puffed up from infection -- the moment the doctors cut Minho's shirt off (which is plastered to his ruined flesh with blood and pus that dried like cement), Jorge turns and begins shoving the kids out of the room

[ying-doodles]

aftermath of today's post:

three dead (@teh-inggris, @lloydfrontera, @sunflowercider), two critically injuried-

[lucy-frostblades]

rating stair related injuries based on how embarrassing they are

falling down the stairs - 2/10 very embarrassing is only caused by you being a clumsy idiot. entirely self inflicted plus you always look dumb

falling up the stairs - 3/10 you tripped. dumb and embarrassing. bonus point because it can be funny for other people to watch

falling through stairs - 7/10 it’s the stairs fault, plus you could get cool scars and possibly discover a new room. loses points for possible rat bites

getting stuck falling through stairs - 5/10 similar situations to above but you get stuck halfway. embarrassing. your legs are dangling and you can’t do anything and risk getting more injured, so you have to wait until someone helps, likely paramedics. embarrassing.

getting pushed over a railing - 9/10 this only happens if you are a henchman in an action movie but it means you get thrown over by a conventionally attractive main character and a cool story. loses a point for possibility of breaking your neck

something gets caught on a railing - -1000/10 literally the worst thing to ever happen ever. this happens in a public space i cease to exist

let me know if i missed any and i will add to this list

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 17: you're the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest

"Leave me alone."

2809 Words; Rewired AU

TW for mentions of violence and blood, injury, mentions of death

AO3 ver

Morris leaned back with a wince.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. The ballroom was still half-frozen, melting ice spikes covering more than half the space. Slowly growing puddles were beginning to soak into the carpet. Tables and chairs had been overturned, slashed, and smashed—and then there was the detritus from the plates and silverware and glasses that had been used as makeshift ammunition. Broken glass and chunks of ice glittered across the floor.

At least Morris had been able to find his chair, and not the random chair he’d had to grab in the heat of the moment. It didn’t magically fix everything, but he’d switched it to be self-propelled instead of levball-powered, which helped his headache. Marginally.

The sirens weren’t helping, though. The sound had been cut, at some point, but between the still-functioning lights of the ballroom and the red and blue flashing outside, Morris’ headache was not getting better. Add in the EMTs frantically trying to chip through Lizzie’s ice cocoon, all of the other first responders tending to the partygoers, and every other little bit of movement and noise—

Morris liked noise. He hated silence, hated the way it spread out and suffocated a space. The world was meant to be alive and that meant being loud—

Morris rubbed at his temples. Yeah, sure, this was better than the eerie silence of just before—

Gisu going down in a blur of motion, the automaton reclaiming its face and snapping it back on.

Those glowing red eyes staring Morris down like an omen—

But it was not helping his headache. At all. And his headache was making his stomach twist and the room spin—

What a mess.

And tonight had started out so well, too. Rolling around the ballroom, making connections, the mission going off without a hitch—

The sound of shattering glass, a scream cutting across the ballroom—

Morris grimaced. What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. He just wanted it to be over, already, so he could go home to Licorice Whip and Caramel Popcorn and Lolly Pop. Yeah. He’d go home, feed his ferrets, and maybe sleep off all of this awful bullshit that had decided to come crashing in through the skylight. It’d be so nice—much nicer than all of this.

Amidst the general bustle, an EMT made their way over to him. Morris turned to her, ignoring the way the room was spinning.

“Can you tell me your name?” They asked.

“Morris Martinez.” Easy. Like Morris could ever forget his own name.

“Age?”

“...twenty one.” Okay, that one had been a little harder. But it didn’t take that long for Morris to remember that oh, yeah, he’d stopped being twenty in the spring. Just a few moments.

“Favorite color?” They raised a flashlight to Morris’ eyes. 

“Blue.” It’d been his favorite for years—it was the color of the sky, after all.

(And the color of the Dion’s eyes, but that was less important. And not something Morris wanted to think about right now.

He didn’t want to think about anything besides his ferrets, really.)

“Can you hear any ringing in your ears?”

Morris concentrated. “Yeah.” He admitted. “It’s really faint, though.” But it was still there, and probably had been since he woke up next to a wall of ice—he just hadn’t noticed it in the chaos, the faint ringing fading into background noise for him.

“You’re likely concussed.” The EMT said, lowering her flashlight. “But they’ll have to do an MRI to know for sure—you’re holding together well.”

“I kind of figured.” Morris said. Getting hit in the head with the hilt of a sword would do that. At least Gisu was able to take up keeping in contact with Hollis after the automaton left—Morris’ headache was only getting worse as the night progressed.

“Hollis says she’ll meet us at the hospital.” Gisu’s voice floated over to him, and Morris turned to face her. “The one they’re taking Lizzie to.”

Right. Morris glanced back at the ice cocoon—and there she was, being pulled out and loaded onto a stretcher. “She better not die.” He muttered. She probably wouldn’t—Lizzie was tough like that.

“Yeah.” Gisu said. Morris wondered if she was exhausted as he felt, if that was why she was barely talking. There was certainly something, in her eyes, a sort of deep resignation that Morris had long since grown to recognize. She was tired.

Gisu’s hand slipped into his. Easily, like it was always meant to be there, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any moment. It was a familiar gesture in every way, a gesture born of years of knowing each other.

It was a small comfort. But it was still a comfort.

+=+=+=+=+

The waiting room was quiet.

Oh, sure, other people were present, many of them talking in low murmurs that Morris couldn’t really discern, and there was music playing on some small tinny speaker somewhere— 

But compared to the ballroom? Compared to the sirens?

Morris could actually think.

Well, sort of. He was still concussed—he’d gotten the scan results ten minutes ago. But at least the room wasn’t swimming around him. At least there was no internal bleeding. Just a mild concussion to go with the exhaustion.

Now he was just waiting for news on Lizzie’s condition—whatever it might be. There’d been… a lot of blood.

Morris really hoped that she came out okay. The hours had stretched on, the clock in the waiting room reading 11:38. The party had started at 7:00, and when Morris had first looked at the clock in this room it had read 9:52. Hollis had arrived a little over half an hour ago, though she’d been too preoccupied with coordinating with Truman over what details to give to the press to say hello. The vultures had already been at the gala, so it didn’t take long for even more of them to show up looking for a good story. Between that and his MRI, Morris hadn’t had the chance to talk to her yet.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. Morris needed to get out of this suit ASAP. He needed to see his ferrets. He needed to lie down in his bed and not wake up for the next seven years.

Morris needed a lot of things, if he was being honest.

Gisu’s footsteps padded across the waiting room carpet—so much like the ballroom carpet—and Morris looked up at her approach.

“I just talked to Hollis about Lizzie.” Gisu informed him. “They’re going to transfer her to Clay Ridge once she’s stabilized.” Her voice softened, her eyes glimmering with relief. “She’s going to live.”

Morris felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders. “That’s good.” He murmured. If Lizzie died…

Don’t think about that.

“So where are you and I going?” Morris asked. He really hoped the answer would be home. Home, with Lolly and Licorice and Caramel chasing their favorite toys around the room. Home, with his comfy bed. Home, with his radio and his favorite songs.

“You and Agent Nerumen will be coming back to the Motherlobe,” Hollis began from behind Gisu. Morris tensed at the sudden appearance, then immediately relaxed. “Since neither of you are critically injured, the medical wing there will be adequate.” Hollis’ voice remained even, cool and calm even with the worry lining her face. What Morris wouldn’t give to have that kind of suaveness under pressure.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting a full mission report?” Morris asked, even as the idea filled him with dread.

Hollis’ lips quirked. “You’ll get time to rest first, Agent Martinez.” She assured. At once, her demeanor hardened, the steady mentor morphing into the strict Second Head. “Your transport is waiting outside.” She informed them. “Debriefing will happen at 10:00 AM tomorrow.”

Morris nodded, then started to wheel his way towards the door, Gisu walking alongside him. Her mental presence was fuzzy through the haze of the concussion, but it was there, familiar buzzing at the back of Morris’ head. Her hand nudged his arm, and it took Morris a second to realize she was offering it to hold.

Morris took it. Her hand fit in his like it was meant to, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any time. Every scar and callous was familiar, as familiar as the way her pace matched his, as familiar as the ache in Morris’ chest when he thought too hard about why.

It was familiar, and that was a comfort. Morris didn’t need to think any deeper into it.

So he didn’t.

+=+=+=+=+

The ride back was quiet, the only noise the hum of the engine and the tap-tap-tap of Gisu’s finger on the door. Between Morris’ concussion and Gisu’s sprained wrist, Hollis had decided to have another agent handle the drive—Morris wasn’t sure if he didn’t know their name, or if it was just the concussion making them seem unfamiliar. Lizzie had been their ride to the gala, anyway, and she wasn’t in a state to drive at all—though Morris really didn’t want to think about that. He instead took advantage of not being the one driving and sent a text to Clara—how his phone was still intact after everything, he didn’t know, but Morris wasn’t going to question it when he had his ferrets to think about. Clara was his designated ferretsitter, though, so at least they’d be in good hands.

By the time he and Gisu had disembarked and been shuffled over to the Motherlobe’s Medical Wing—by the time they were finally left to their own devices in one of the overnight rooms, Norma bringing over a change of clothes for the both of them before leaving for Clay Ridge—Morris had had enough.

He hated silence. And something about Gisu’s silence just wasn’t sitting right with him.

“Okay, what’s eating you?” Morris broke the silence. “You’ve been acting weird since that thing punched you in the gut.” He knew Gisu, knew her well enough to know that something was up—and not just the awful night. No, this was something else—something almost contemplative, as though Gisu had been handed a new puzzle instead of thrown into an unexpected fight for her life.

Gisu stared at him. “Weird how?” She countered, kicking her legs. There might have been something playful to her remark, some teasing demand for Morris to explain himself just because she wanted him to—but they were both too tired for that. It was just a force of habit, at this point.

“Gisu, we have known each other for too long for me not to notice.” Morris grumbled. “Something’s up, and I can tell because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have asked Pooter to sneak your board in.” Raz hadn’t gotten here yet, but he was on his way—Morris had watched Gisu make the request as they got out of the car. He had been waiting there with Norma—Adam and Sam were on their own mission—and Gisu hadn’t exactly been subtle.

There was only one reason Gisu would ask for her board when she was going to be in a space too small to skate—she needed to think, which meant that she had come across a puzzle.

“Fine, fine, you got me.” Gisu shrugged. “I just…” She breathed in, “It’s about the automaton. Cyborg. Whatever. When I took his mask off…” Gisu trailed off. Her eyebrows knit together as she contemplated her words.

“Wait, his?” Morris already knew he wouldn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah,” Gisu said, “His. When I took his mask off, I saw his face.” It took a moment, for the meaning of her words to register to Morris. Then—

“Wait, are you saying… it’s not a robot?” But it was at least partially mechanical, if the metal arm and altered voice was anything to go off of. No wonder Gisu was acting weird—this was a big revelation. They knew so little about the anti-psychic weapon, so every little bit counted.

Morris started. “If you saw his face, you could get an ID!” The realization took longer than he’d like to admit—Morris was going to blame the concussion.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the issue.” Gisu said. She squeezed the air in front of her, sparks of electricity crackling along her fingers. Morris waited for her to continue—

“It was Dion under the mask.”

.

.

.

Six words. Six words that hit Morris like an uppercut, the room spinning around him.

His concussion must be worse than he thought. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” He managed, even as all the air in his lungs got caught in his throat.

“You heard me.” Gisu scowled, “It was Dion. I pried that mask off and I saw Dion.” Her next words were choked out, her voice starting to wet, “He’s alive.”

Morris couldn’t breathe. His chest was squeezed too tight, his lungs threatening to pop and his heart caught in a vice. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. He was not sitting here, listening to his on-and-off girlfriend of the past six years tell him all about how the thing that just tried to kill them hours prior was their missing ex-boyfriend.

“That’s an awful joke.” Morris said, once he found his voice again.

“It’s not a joke!” Gisu argued. “Dion’s alive and I saw his face!” Her hair was starting to fizz from the static in the air around her.

“And what makes you so sure?” Morris gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “How do you know you weren’t, I don’t know, projecting what you wanted to see?”

Gisu bristled. “You think I wanted to see Dion’s face on the thing that was trying to kill us?”

“I think you want Dion to be alive so badly that you’re ignoring the truth.” Morris shot back.

“What truth?!” Gisu leaned forwards, “I know what I saw!” The air around Morris was starting to feel greasy, now, like lightning could go off at any moment.

What a joke. What an awful joke.

This had to be a dream. Clearly, Morris had never woken up after being suckerpunched by the automaton, and everything that he remembered happening was just some alcohol-induced nightmare where the world was falling apart and threatening to crush him all in one. There was no way this was real, not when Morris had given up on ever seeing Dion again years ago—

“I know what I saw.” Gisu repeated. “You being bitter doesn’t change that.”

“Bitter?” Morris all but screeched. He threw his hands in the air, “Bitter? I’m sorry if I can’t hold onto delusion for six years!” His hands fell to his sides and he clenched them into fists. “Sorry that I don’t have the energy to keep chasing ghosts!”

Everything not bolted down slammed against the wall. Morris flinched—so did Gisu.

Morris’ head pounded. His vision swam.

His chest was heaving, his lungs struggling to draw in air like they’d been squeezed too tight. He forced his gaze off of Gisu and onto the plastic plant that had been thrown to the floor, to the shiny green leaves and fake blue petals.

(Blue, like the sky, like the stripes of the Aquatodome, like the color of Dion’s eyes—)

“Look.” Gisu said, “I know it sucks.” She pushed off of the bed and walked over, stepping over the fake plant. “How do you think I feel, seeing his face again?” Her expression softened, even as lighting continued to crackle over her knuckles. “But whatever happened, however Dion ended up like that—”

“Stop it.” Morris demanded, his voice coming out in a whisper. “Stop talking about Dion.” His voice cracked, his throat tightening no matter how much he tried to calm down—

“Morris,” Gisu growled. She reached out. Morris batted her hand away.

“It’s over.” Morris’ voice came out thicker than he wanted it to. “Dion’s dead.” Dion was gone and no amount of missing him would bring him back. Dion was gone, and there was nothing Morris could do to change that. Dion was gone, and everything that he’d represented to Morris was gone with him. Morris couldn’t continue to hold onto him. He just couldn’t.

Morris turned away. He couldn’t look at Gisu, couldn’t look at the mix of hurt and frustration and pity written on her face. He just couldn’t.

“Morris…” Gisu started. The tinge of sympathy in her voice was like acid down Morris’ back. He glared at the wall, and said nothing.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night.

The vent cover clattered to the floor. Morris turned to watch as none other than Pooter fell out, doing a flip in the air and bowing once he landed. “I got your board.” He announced, holding out Gisu’s levboard. He looked at Morris.

“What’s up with him?”

[pipinpali]

Unlike pt. 2

–--

2/?? — Fractured Fascination

<-first - next ->

TW!: Blood, Injury

Word count ~ 1100 words

—--

Jone walked home through Dalsby's damp and slush-filled streets much quicker than usual. Partially, it was from the rain that had suddenly started barreling down in the already cold weather. Partially, it was because he wanted to get his groceries home. Partially, it was a long day at the school he was training to work at, and he wanted to have a quaint evening to himself. But really, it was the slight weight in his coat pocket that made him rush.

Jone had briefly heard of tiny people before in the past, about maybe three to four years ago. "Smallfolk," the news had called them, "the newly discovered cousins of mankind!" And despite knowing of their ever present, but very ignored existence in his town, it was shocking to actually see one– let alone carrying one home.

He eventually reached his door and half-mindedly pulled out his keys...realizing he had placed the smallfolk in the same pocket. The student received a panicked yelp in response; the cloth of his jacket swaying slightly with the miniature man's sudden movement. Immediately, Jone retracted his hand with the keys, muttering a quick apology as he opened the front door.

He haphazardly dropped the groceries he had cared about just a bit ago by the front door as he walked in, as well as his scarf and ear warmers that went flying onto the floor.

Jone then walked back to his desk after he hurriedly made his way into the kitchen to grab his first-aid kit.

"Okay... I'm going to lift you up now. Please don't be scared," Jone stated carefully. He hadn't a clue if the man spoke a lick of English since he didn't say a word during their time spent, so he tried to speak slowly and gently to get the general point across.

After waiting patiently for a response that didn't come (or one he didn't exactly hear), Jone hesitantly reached into his pocket and retrieved the smallfolk. He struggled from beneath his fingers, and the experience was more than strange — not to mention fascinating for the relatively average man.

A single delicate and shakey arm pushing against his digits, the other pinned against the panicked smallfolk's side. The faint heartbeat against the base of his thumb fluttering so inhumanly fast with the concerningly thin and writhing torso surrounding it. His quick and strained breathing was the only other noise in Jone's usually quiet home aside from the rain pattering against his roof outside.

Jone realized he was staring and far longer than he– well, technically unintended. He placed his hand on his desk and opened his palm, allowing the smallfolk to roll off with a pained grunt. Jone reached for the med kit, opening it with a click that made the stranger flinch.

He watched as the man sat up hunched on his knees, watching him in return, his little sharp eyes warily tracking each and every movement. Jone made sure to do things as slowly and as quietly as he could to avoid startling him again.

"You don't have to be scared," Jone assured as he took out supplies, finally looking away, "I don't intend on harming you." The smallfolk remained silent, his narrowed eyes never leaving Jone's face.

Eventually, Jone retrieved a few alcohol pads. He took his eyes off the smallfolk for a moment to rip the paper-like packaging open. "Well– this will sort of sting... nothing too bad, though. I'll need you to stay stil– wait, stop–"

The man's head swiveled up to stare back at Jone, his sunken eyes wide. Of course, the moment Jone had looked away, the stranger managed to crawl halfway across the desk.

He yelped and recoiled as one of Jone's hands loosely cupped around him, the other hovering over with one of the alcohol pads. The larger of the two carefully slid the cold wipe beneath the blood-soaked, makeshift shirt. The smallfolk hissed at the sensation, tightly shutting his eyes as his chest heaved. It went from his side to his arm, and then his leg — which, on closer inspection, was broken.

Jone pulled his hand back, his palm shifting beneath the trembling smallfolk. With careful precision, he pressed a band-aid over the bleeding wound, grimacing at the sight of it. The cut wasn’t deep enough to hit anything vital, but the sight of blood on such a fragile body still turned his stomach.

As he rifled through the med kit, his fingers landed on a roll of bandages — much better suited for the job. He hesitated as he brought it closer, his movements slowing as the smallfolk’s sharp, fearful breaths quickened.

The task was painstaking. Jone’s fingers cumsily fumbled with trying to get the bandages around the man's miniscule limbs, the scissors shaking slightly in his grasp. Each snip of the blade made the tiny man flinch, his fragile body recoiling from the sound.

“It’s alright,” Jone murmured as he cut yet another misplaced bandage, "please stop struggling..." He received a frightened yelp and a panicked jerk away after it was removed. Luckily, he only had one last thing to patch up... but unluckily, it was the broken leg. Jone felt sick just staring at it.

He improvised a splint, breaking the wooden bit off of a cotton swab he got from the med kit. He delicately slid his forefinger beneath the smallfolk's leg, his thumb lightly brushing over top. He winced sympathetically as he heard him gasp in pain, knowing what was about to come.

Jone leaned forward in his chair as he began to very slowly, very gently, shift the broken bone into place. The stranger caught onto what he was doing, his eyes widening, darting to look up Jone. He was preparing both himself and the smallfolk, preparing for a quick and hopefully painless–

—Tug!

The man screamed in pain, reeling back against Jone’s palm. His face glistened with tears, his breath shuddered with strained sobs; almost as if he was trying to suppress the pitiful sound.

"...I'm almost done, alright...?" Jone carefully put the makeshift splint beside the smallfolk's leg and shakily, yet efficiently wrapping them both.

"There," he breathed, slowly withdrawing his hands. The guilt that churned inside of Jone wanted him to continue speaking to the smallfolk. But, with the man as he was now, questions and small-talk could wait for later.

Jone's mind roamed back to what he meant to do before this: go home, put groceries away... Dinner. It was far later than he ever had it before, and his hunger became apparent as it came to the forefront of his mind. And, from the man's gaunt form, he assumed he was hungry too.

"Try to get some rest," Jone said, placing the warm hand towel across the smallfolk's freezing body. He pushed himself to stand from his chair, moving towards the kitchen.

What a day.

—--

THIS TOOK A WHILE HUH.

Ran into,,,, many issues writing this,,,

BUT ITS HERE !,

I also made a drawing that includes a part from this chapter .

[anannua]

someone get that boy a plaster. maybe 2

sad obito doodle 💔

[hxney-lemcn]

SOS — Overblots x gn! reader

summery: The one time you try to be proactive its like the world has it out for you; or, you get hurt while cleaning Ramshackle dorm and the overblot boys are the one who helps you.

tw: mentions of blood, injury, Malleus is a bit overdramatic...so is Grim.

wc: 1.8k (~230 each character)

Master List

No phone, no tv, not even a book. Not wanting to leave the comfort of your dorm, you decide to start something you’ve been putting off for quite some time now. Cleaning. You started with the living quarters, then the kitchen, then the closet. When you finished with the first floor you decided you’d clean your room and be done. Fate seemed to not be on your side, as when you climbed up the creaky steps, one step was a bit too creaky. When you put your full weight on it, you let out a gasp as the wood gave out from under you. Yes, that's right, your dorm was so run down that the stairs gave out on you. And there you lay in pain, no way to contact anyone. Thankfully, Grim came back from whatever he was doing to avoid helping you clean, you had never seen him look so horrified when he found you among the rubble of wood, splinters galore with bruises and scratches covering your skin. You also never saw Grim run so fast for something that wasn’t his premium cans of tuna. You could only hope he could find help quickly, it felt like something was wrong with your ankle and you wanted to get help asap.

❥ Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle watched the panicked Grim wearily. He was always with the Aduece duo so he thought Grim was panicked from their troubling shenanigans. Instead, he felt his heart drop when Grim sputtered your name among the words fallen and hurt. Riddle rushed to the Ramshackle dorm with Cater and Trey in tow. When he found you, battered and bruised he felt his blood boil. He knew your dorm was run down, that it needed repair, but he didn’t think that Crowley would be so neglectful to the point of it harming someone. He would have to have a stern talking to the headmaster after he knew you were treated properly. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to carry you as he…was small for the average man…but he made sure Trey held you gently, constantly asking how you feel and if there’s anything he can get you to help. As soon as you were in the infirmary being treated, he marched his way straight to the headmasters office. No way was he going to allow this to continue, Crowley must renovate your dorm this instant and he won’t settle for less. In the meantime, he’ll take care of you in his dorm, you were basically a Heartslabyul student already, so it made sense. Don’t worry, prefect, he’ll help you while you're injured, although the extra attention you get from everyone makes him a little jealous.

❥ Leona Kingscholar

He was trying to get some rest when your little pest of a rat came bothering him. He opened one eye to glare, confused as to why Grim would be crying. Leona could barely make out what the creature was blubbering about, snapping at him to speak clearly. So when Grim finally managed to shout that you're critically injured and you're going to die and you need help, Leona didn’t hesitate, grabbing the rat by his scruff and stalking towards your dorm. He’ll be damned if you're hurt, what did you even do to get into that state? He swears you are such a headache. His green eyes scanned your dorm, finally falling upon your form in a heap of wood, your weak cry of his name making his ear twitch. So many emotions pooled into him as he noted every little scratch. Although he grumbled, ears twitching and tail swaying angrily, he held you softly, making sure not to hurt you anymore than you already were. And no, clearly your dorm was falling apart, no way in hell was he letting you go back. You were treated much better that time you both shared his room, so what’s the problem? You’re stuck with him now, herbivore. Don’t worry that silly little head of yours, he’ll make sure he clears things up with Crowley.

❥ Azul Ashengrotto

Poor, poor Grim. As he ran out, tears blurring his vision, he cried out for help to the first shadowy figure he could. Unfortunately that was Floyd and Jade. The two eels grinned toothily, Grim once again being perfect prey…though they paused as Grim mentioned your name. Floyd asked what was wrong with shrimpy, and that’s when Grim cried out about how you're a bloody heap of a mess, dying alone as they speak. Jade quickly pulls his phone out, alerting Azul of the current circumstance as his brother is already making his way towards your dorm. Although the Leech twins can be cruel, you were not only their friend, but their boss’s love, and so when they found you, not in as dire of a situation as Grim made it be (you were clearly hurt, but not dying), they gently pried the wood off of you and carried you to the infirmary. Azul was already there, waiting anxiously, his heart dropping when he saw your state. You gave him a strained smile, and his heart broke, even with your terrible injuries, you’re still trying to comfort him. Don’t worry prefect, he and the twins will watch over you until the last scratch seals and the last bruise fades. Oh, and your dorm? Don’t worry about that, Azul will make sure Crowley pays the price for his negligence towards you. He has his ways, after all.

❥ Jamil Viper

When Jamil spots Grim running towards him, he feels his headache growing worse. Kalim had been worse than usual with his spending, and now he’ll have to deal with another problem. That headache grows ten times worse when Grim manages to sputter about how you’re hurt and need help. Without a second thought, Jamil drops his current task, rushing to your dorm. His heart was pounding, scared of just how hurt you could be, why that was, and if he was too late. You’ve been the only thing keeping him sane lately, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do without you. When he found you dazed with wood surrounding you he dropped to your side, assessing the damage done before doing his best to pick you up. Once you were safe and sound in the infirmary, he tried to stay by your side for as long as he could. He didn’t mind the idea of tending to you, especially not with you in this state. But his duty lied elsewhere, and eventually he had to wrench himself away, but only when you fell asleep peacefully and that it was confirmed that you’d recover well. What surprised him was when Kalim told him to take care of you, that he could take care of himself for the time being (he couldn’t and Jamil knew that)...and now you were a Scarabia student, both Kalim and Jamil refused to allow you back into that decrepit dorm and hurt yourself any further.

❥ Vil Schoenheit

Rook and Vil were actually on their way to see you when they stumbled upon a sniveling, sobbing, Grim. They watched him as he mumbled and muttered, spewing incoherent sentences. Vil stared at him with a sharp look, telling him to get to the point. He felt his heart drop when your name was spouted along with hurt and dying. Without a second thought, Rook took off towards your dorm, Vil not far behind. He cared for you far too much to just sit around when you needed his help. He hadn’t even managed to enter your dorm, Rook already carrying you out. Vil rushed to your side, moving your hair out of your face and inspecting you for anything that was death threatening. His heart continued to break as you complained about the pain on the way to the infirmary. He did his best to comfort you, promising to treat you to whatever you wish once you were fully healed. By the end of the day, he’s already finished giving an ultimatum to Crowley. If he doesn’t repair Ramshackle, then not only will he expose him, but he’ll make sure you're taken into Pomefiore and treated properly. He won’t let such an offense be taken lightly. 

❥ Idia Shroud

Grim was lucky he ran into Ortho. The humanoid android may look small, but he’s got strength. Grim was sobbing to the point of hysteria, unable to properly communicate the dire situation. Thankfully, Ortho doesn’t need any convincing, only following the poor creature scrambling back to Ramshackle dorm. When Ortho saw you collapsed in a heap of rubble his inner alarms blared. An emergency signal was sent to Idia, and when Ortho sent the message of bringing you to the infirmary he felt a rush of panic hit him. Scrambling, he turned on the security camera footage, watching with wide eyes at you in Ortho’s arms. You had blood and bruising, dear seven what happened? His fear of your well being overpowered his fear of everything else, and he quickly ran…walked to the infirmary. He awkwardly stayed by your side as Ortho fetched whatever you needed, his eyes tracing over every scratch and cut. He felt like it was his fault somehow. You looked better with the blood wiped off though, and you weren’t in critical condition. When you jokingly mentioned that even stairs were your enemy here Idia frowned. He anonymously messages Crowley while you sleep, sending clips that could ruin his career. He won’t release them, as long as Crowley rebuilds Ramshackle to be as spick and span as any other dormitory. 

❥ Malleus Draconia

The second Grim stumbles upon Malleus and snaps out of his hysteria. The fear of the powerful being overwhelms him for a second before he pitifully mutters that you need help. Malleus only tilts his head at the tiny creature before nodding, silently asking him to lead the way. At first Malleus didn’t think much of it, only happy that you needed his help. That was until he heard your weak whimper, then saw your frail body mutilated by debris…yeah he’s the most dramatic one. Although you were hurt you definitely weren’t mutilated. He’s also the most gentle, carefully cupping your face as the wood that surrounded you was instantly incinerated. Every wince or whimper as he lifted you up was met with profound apologies, like he was the one who hurt you instead of rotting infrastructure. Instead of taking you to the infirmary, he takes you to his room where he brings only the best healers. Please don’t try to stop him, this is for your well being, and he won’t settle for mediocre. Lilia only encourages him, and his retainers are no help. So you're stuck in the biggest bed with the silkiest sheets…actually it's dangerous that you were brought here because you're not sure you could go back to the itchy thin cotton sheets you’ve been stuck using as blankets. Though, you won’t really have to worry about that because Malleus has already made the decision to keep you with him in his room…well if you’re not comfortable with that then he’ll give you your own room and he’ll make sure it has the best amenities. Just don’t mind that it's right next to his room.

[ranma0]

Notes from a concerned medical professional who reads too much hurt/comfort:

(These are all things I've seen in Hazbin/Helluva fanfics)

(Tw: for injury, illness, gore, drug use, overdose, a lot of other things)

You cannot drug someone to sleep by overdosing them on melatonin. It will not work

Don't submerge an open wound or stitches in a bathtub/pool/etc it will introduce bacteria to the wound (taking a shower is usually fine, just skip the romantic bath)

On that note, stitches do not immediately stop a wound from bleeding and should not be used to solve every problem (never give yourself stitches unless you have absolutely no other choice they can trap infection inside the body when done incorrectly)

And, if the wound is extremely deep, a person may need several layers of stitches to piece together the skin, muscle, and viscera

You absolutely cannot get high on tylenol or ibuprofen even if you mix it with alcohol.

If you do mix tylenol or ibuprofen with alcohol it can cause internal bleeding/kidney damage/liver failure, so please don't do that

If someone is shivering from a high fever, don't cover them in blankets it will raise their body temperature even more (please try correctly dosed tylenol or ibuprofen for this)

Don't submerge someone with a high fever in ice water, they might go into shock (they also might panic and hurt themselves) in a pinch lukewarm water will do

Don't put ice on burns, run them under lukewarm or cool water instead

If someone overdoses on an opoid (heroin, morphine, various pain medications), there is a medicine called nalaxone (Narcan) that can reverse the effects of opioids (edit: thank you to @queerlybehooved)

If someone is bleeding profusely, don't just hold their head and whisper sweet nothings, put pressure on the wound!!!

If a bullet remains in a person’s body after being shot it most likely should not be dug out unless it's blocking something vital, the bullet is not the problem the damage it made in it's path is

This isn't a criticism of authors who have written things like this. A lot of it isn't common knowledge, and DIY healthcare is absolutely steeped in myth and misinformation. I just worry about disinformation being perpetuated (and I really enjoy accurate hurt/comfort)

If I got anything wrong, please let me know, and I'll edit the post. I'm far from perfect and appreciate good advice

Let me know if you guys want a fic rec list of my favorite Hazbin Hotel whump fics

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc (3/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : as charles fights for his life, his wife faces the hardest decision: let go or fight for him. a small miracle gives hope for recovery.

୨ৎ : genre : emotional fiction, very... very... emotional, again ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1676

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say that the hardest part of love is knowing when to let go. The decision to hold on is easy—it’s the decision to release, to trust that the other person will be okay without you, that’s the hard part.

You’ve been sitting in the sterile, white hospital room for hours, each minute feeling like a year. Charles’s body is hooked up to so many machines, monitors flashing with numbers that seem foreign to you. His face, once so full of life, now looks pale, bruised, and still. They told you to prepare yourself for the worst, but you haven’t let yourself believe it. Not yet.

Not while there's still hope.

You’re not even sure what you're hoping for anymore. Some miracle, maybe. But deep down, you know the odds. They’ve been giving you the numbers—stats you can’t quite process, numbers you can’t make sense of. His condition is critical, and they’ve told you, over and over again, that his survival chances are slim. His organs are struggling, his internal injuries severe. The brain scans were grim at first, showing little to no activity.

But you can’t let yourself fall into that darkness. Not yet.

The room feels too cold, too empty.

"How are his stats?" you ask quietly, though you already know the answer.

The nurse glances at you, her face trying to remain neutral. "Not good. His heart rate’s been fluctuating. His oxygen levels aren’t improving, either. We’re doing what we can, but his body’s fighting against us." She hesitates, looking back at the monitors. "We’re not sure how much longer we can keep him stable."

You nod, feeling the weight of every word, but you can’t give up. Not yet.

Minutes turn into hours. You stay by his side, holding his hand, whispering to him. Every time you speak, you tell him how much you love him, how much you need him to come back. You’re not sure if he can hear you, but it doesn’t matter. You need him to know.

And then, just as you’re beginning to feel the overwhelming weight of your decision, something unexpected happens.

The steady beep of the heart monitor suddenly begins to accelerate, growing faster and faster. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. Something’s wrong.

The nurse rushes over, her face pale as she watches the monitor. "His heart rate’s spiking," she mutters. "It’s too fast. His blood pressure’s dropping."

The room erupts into action as doctors rush in, all moving in synchronized chaos. You’re shoved aside as they begin adjusting the equipment, calling out orders, but your mind goes blank. You try to focus, but it feels like everything is spinning.

"His stats are crashing," one doctor says, his voice tense. "We need to stabilize him now."

"Is it time?" you ask, barely able to speak over the noise. "Should we—"

But before you can finish, a loud, sharp sound cuts through the room—the unmistakable alarm of a failing heartbeat. The doctor turns toward you, his eyes filled with grim determination. "I’m afraid we’ve reached the point where his body might not be able to hold on much longer."

Your breath hitches in your throat. Everything feels like it’s slipping away. You squeeze Charles’s hand tighter, as if willing him to come back to you.

But then, as if the universe is playing some cruel game, the chaos calms, just for a moment.

The alarms start to fade into silence, and the doctor presses his fingers to the side of Charles’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Your heart lurches, praying for any sign of life. The seconds feel like hours.

Suddenly, the doctor looks up, his eyes widening. "Wait… there’s something." He leans in, checking the monitors again. "His blood pressure’s stabilizing. His heart rate’s slowing down to a more normal rhythm."

You barely dare to breathe, your eyes never leaving Charles’s face.

The nurse who’s been working on him moves closer, shaking her head in disbelief. "It’s like he’s coming back."

You don’t know what to think. The last few minutes have felt like an eternity, and now, you’re afraid to believe it. "What’s happening?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

The doctor looks up at you, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. "It seems like he’s fighting. His body’s responding… it’s too early to say for sure, but this is a good sign."

You stare at Charles, trying to process the sudden shift. Is this the miracle you’ve been waiting for, or just another false hope?

The minutes stretch on, and then, just as you begin to allow yourself a small breath of relief, the monitor lets out another shrill, jagged alarm—the unmistakable sound of a fatal arrhythmia. A shocking wave of panic shoots through you as the machine flashes with an erratic, spiking rhythm.

"V-fib!" The doctor shouts, his voice urgent. "We’re losing him. Get the defibrillator ready."

The nurse scrambles to prepare the machine, and you feel your stomach drop out. This can't be happening. Not now.

"Charles!" you whisper, gripping his hand harder, your eyes welling up. "Please."

The doctors are already on him, paddles in hand, but it feels like time is standing still. Your eyes dart from the monitors to Charles’s face, feeling as if your heart has stopped with his. Then, the shock.

The force of the defibrillator sends a jolt through his chest, and the monitor flickers. Nothing.

You close your eyes briefly, bracing for the worst.

"Again," the doctor orders, and another round of defibrillation. This time, there’s a slight blip, a change. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The doctor presses the paddles down once more, adjusting the settings. "One more time. We need him back."

The seconds stretch as they try again, and then finally, the heart monitor begins to beat again—slowly, but steadily.

"Heartbeat stable," the nurse breathes.

Your breath escapes your lips in a shaky exhale. You look at Charles again, feeling a rush of relief flood through you as the panic of the past few minutes settles into a wary calm. But it’s still not over. His fight isn’t done.

Just as you think the worst is behind you, Charles’s mother bursts into the room, her eyes frantic as she surveys the scene. Her voice cracks as she calls out his name, "Charles!"

You feel a flash of guilt. You should’ve called her sooner, but there had been no time. The doctors had been focused, and you’d been too overwhelmed to think clearly.

You step aside, giving her space, but you can’t look away from the man you love, still unconscious, his body fighting to survive.

The doctor steps over to you both. "We’re stabilizing him, but we’re not out of the woods yet. We need to make some decisions."

Charles’s mother looks at you, her face pale with concern. She reaches for your hand. "Whatever it is… I trust you. You’re his wife, and you know him better than anyone. What do you think we should do?"

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "I… I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. He’s… he’s still fighting. But we’ve been here for so long, and I don’t know how much longer we can wait."

Her gaze softens. "You don’t have to do this alone. I trust you. We’re a family. We make these decisions together." She squeezes your hand tightly. "But if you think there’s still a chance for him, then we have to keep fighting too."

You look back at Charles, uncertainty and fear clouding your judgment. How do you even begin to make this decision? His body is failing him, but his heart—his spirit—is still trying.

"Let’s give him more time," you decide, your voice shaking with fear but firm with resolve. "But if his chances are too slim… if we’re just keeping him alive on machines, then we need to think about letting him go."

The doctor nods solemnly. "We’ll run more tests. But if things don’t improve soon, we may need to consider other options."

As the minutes pass, the machines continue to monitor Charles’s every movement, every breath, and the room remains tense, every decision weighed in silence. But then, something begins to shift.

"His blood pressure’s coming back up," the nurse announces quietly. "And… there’s more brain activity. His oxygen levels are improving too."

You feel like you might be dreaming. "Is this really happening?"

The doctor steps forward, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’ve never seen anything like this. His vitals are stabilizing. I think… I think he’s fighting."

"Fighting?" you ask, still not quite believing what you’re hearing.

The nurse, who’s been checking his monitors, speaks softly, her voice a little hopeful. "He knows you’re here. I think he’s holding on for you."

And in that moment, you realize: you’re not alone in this fight. Charles is fighting for you too.

The room fills with a cautious optimism, but the road ahead is still uncertain. Will he wake up? Will his organs continue to improve?

Only time will tell.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

"His breathing," the nurse says, voice shaky, "it’s improving. He’s trying to breathe on his own. We can extubate him. He doesn't need the tube anymore."

You stare, wide-eyed, as they carefully begin the process of removing the intubation tube, your heart in your throat.

Everything changes in a moment.

There’s still a long way to go, but for the first time in hours, you feel a flicker of hope.

He’s still here. And he’s fighting.

But you know deep down that the next few days will be critical.

You stand there, feeling like you’ve crossed a line between despair and hope. But Charles has always been a fighter. And if he’s fighting, so will you.

For him. For the life you built together. For love.

You look down at him, and the smallest of smiles begins to tug at your lips.

Maybe… just maybe… he’ll make it through.

And for now, that's enough.

taglist: @emryb , @htpssgavi , @aleatorio1234 , @ayap4paya , @prttylight , @meadhbhcavanagh , @iluvnewtie , @hiireadstuff , @armystay89 , comment to be added

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[ofsupernovcs]

Transition to part 2

Juri was livid, furious, the tears of hurt and anger streaming down his face. Riley didn't deserve any of that. Riley is the one with the most spirit of the gay trio. He can remember drinking wine coolers asking Riley about asking Asher out again. There was a chuckle and easy going grin. That's what led him to this.

But now that same person was dead. And he didn't know why. His eyes gravitated towards Asher around the same time Briggs did. Unlike Briggs who was focused on everyone, he was focused on Asher.

It was easier to turn your heartbreak into anger. He thought to himself as he began to use knife and ignited the knife Asher gave him. He sneered as they fell to the ground. He didn't want the OEA to die, that would be too merficul in his eyes. No they had to suffer, just like he was right now.

After the several minutes, his one nice shirt practically open and ripped to shreds he found Asher. He pulled the hunter into the bathroom once this time with a pure anger in him.

"You know when i said kick ass I didn't mean kill one of the few people I care about." Juri signed. "Before you ask I have no clue what Briggs is doing but I hope he burns this shit down."

There was a bitter laugh before pinning Asher against the wall, a scowl replaced the laugher. He stopped signing.

"I'm going to ask one more time Asher Simmons. What is the truth." He said raising his hands with the magic energy glowing in his hand.

"Or do I have to force it out of you?

Asher's heart contorted in his chest, his features threatening to reveal his anguish; but he couldn’t. Not with so much at stake. He couldn’t let Juri see his weakness. His vulnerabilities. That was exactly what had put him into danger in the first place. Asher was weak and it affected everything that he touched. Everybody he loved. 

It was taking all of his strength to hold Juri’s gaze. He wanted to look away, or even to run away so that he didn’t have to deal with the fallout, but staying was the least that he could do.

Asher had always felt as though he suffocated the life out of the things he loved. He was so terrified of everything unravelling, that he held on too tight. He wondered if that's why Aliyah had left. She couldn't bear the weight of his weakness upon her. The damage that it held over her reputation.

He'd done the same to Juri and he was probably gonna do the same to Briggs, too. Asher was so fiercely deprived of a good thing, then when he had it; he didn't know how to keep it alive. Instead he latched on and he crushed, until it no longer breathed.

That was exactly what he saw as he looked at Juri now. Panicked, enraged, devasted. Asher had snuffed the light out of his eyes with a few simple words, but it had to be done. The hatred had to come between them. It was the only real way to keep him safe.

"He'll help you." Fighting the tremble that threatened his hands and the tears that swelled within his eyes, he pushed through "you have to go. Now. Find him." He was grateful that he didn't have to talk; knowing that his voice would only betray him. In having to break Juri's heart, he was breaking his own in the process, but perhaps that was exactly what he deserved. A burned child loves the fire, right?

"I'm sorry" his words were a whisper as they came paired with a sign, he couldn't leave without this, at least "i'm so sorry for everything. You always did deserve more than me."

[cooliofango]

SEBASTIAN SOLACE FLUFF you walk into his shop looking like death, at first he acts snarky as usual, but he feels bad. you were never flashing him with flash beacons or pissing him off. he gives you a med kit for free, and lets you stay to rest. he lets you sleep cradled against his tail, and doesnt want to admit it but he enjoys it.

Not So Expendable

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Synopsis: Reader has had a bad run and needs to catch a break.

A/N: NERVOUS!!! 😂 I want this to be a good start to the Pressure fandom so I hope I did well! Thank you for requesting to help me get started! (And so quickly too!) I hope I’ve portrayed Sebastian well! If anyone who reads this has any positive constructive criticism feel free to share!

TW: Mention of injury, slightly graphic but nothing incredibly gory!

The familiar sound of someone pulling themselves through the vents pulled Sebastian’s attention towards it, the soft light blue glow of his three eyes settling on the rather ragged figure of the expendable making their runs for today. They breathed heavily through parted lips, a bloodied hand returning to their side to return to applying pressure to the deep red soaked material of their suit-- the right side, he noted.

“Oh my!” A baiting tone left his lips, sharp, pearly white teeth visible as he smirked down at them. “Aren’t you a sight to see?” A deep chuckle filled the air that quickly began to fill with the thick smell of iron. He’s seen wounds similar to the ones this expendable had on numerous occasions. This early in the run, they usually stem from a very specific monster here in the Hadal Blacksite. “I thought you would be smart enough to avoid such simple trickery. They’re only Good People, after all.” The emphasis on the monster’s name was spoken condescendingly, humming in amusement at his own play of words.

There was no response from the expendable. Their hand only pressed more firmly on their wound, limping towards him without so much as a glance in his direction. They only seemed focused on the items draped along the length of his tail. Sebastian frowned in slight annoyance, an emotion that showed vibrantly in his tone, “Fine, fine! Straight to business are we? And here I thought we had something special.”

That line was said tauntingly, though his frown softened. The expendable before him was definitely different from the others he has come across- special is quite the stretch, though, no? The first time you came with a group was a memory that stood out to him in that moment of reminiscence. A large and rowdy group of eight came in to purchase what they wished, with a rather infuriating kid thinking it was a good idea to use the flash beacon right there in the room with him. The sudden bright light stung his eyes harshly. He was about to lash out at the kid, a hand raised to rub the stinging sensation away. But a certain expendable’s voice beat him to it.

“Come on! Is that really necessary? You’re wasting the uses on it anyways!”

While it wasn’t necessarily a direct defense for him, there have been many other occasions where you would put your little group in line whenever you went out as a team. Likewise, you would remain courteous when interacting with him when you would make runs alone as well- no matter how much he would try to tease and annoy you.

A slight tug against his tail brought him back to reality, watching as your face went from relief as you placed a hand on the medkit settled dead center of all of the wares he had up for offer, to a heavy sense of worry as your hand moved to grab the price tag set above it. “Something not to your liking?” Though his tone still held a bit of mockery, it waned into something a little softer.

The expendable quickly shrugged off their bag, struggling for a moment to pull the zipper open with their free hand before digging through its contents frantically. Their face grew paler as an empty flashlight and old keycards toppled out the sides of the open bag. A few files were tossed onto the ground, as well as a couple of DNA samples- but they weren’t even half of what the medkit cost.

Sebastian cringed at the sight, an unpleasant feeling bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Sympathy? His jaw locked in place at the thought. No way. Sympathy for an expendable who will only be sent back once again when they’re on the brink of death, only to be healed to be good as new for the sole purpose of doing all again until the people of UrbanShade were satisfied? Absolutely not, was what he decided. It was nothing more than a slightly sick sense of pity.

The expendable in question dropped onto the ground, seemingly too weak to keep themselves up anymore. Their chest rose and fell with each heavy and shaken breath they took, leaning against an empty spot on his tail.

God, they looked pathetic..

Sebastian scoffed irritably, that same awful feeling that started within the pit of his stomach now crawling up his spine. They looked pathetic. He ripped the medkit off of its hook, tossing it in the expendable’s direction. It clattered loudly when the plastic box made contact with the stone floors, only stopping when it had hit the expendable’s leg and bounced off of it, landing it a few inches away from them.

Tired eyes moved quickly to the box and then to him, leaving only a second to wonder before it was hastily scooped up into their hands. Their hands shook from how weak their body was, and their hands slipped from how bloodied they were- but they managed to open it with an audible pop. The gauze wrap was in their hands in mere minutes, struggling to unzip the scuba suit they wore in order to make their most life threatening wound more accessible.

It was then that Sebastian was able to get a clearer view of the wound you so desperately were trying to keep from draining the expendable completely of their energy. He’s unable to tell if the wound was as deep as it looked, or if the wound was just large, causing the blood loss to make it appear deeper than it really was. It was definitely way worse than the smaller cuts littering their arms- most of which have already healed on their own- as well as the large bruise on the left side of their jaw.

Relief caused Sebastian’s shoulders to relax momentarily, his shoulders dropping with each second he watched the expendable patch themselves up to the best of their abilities. He scoffed at himself upon realization. He shouldn’t be feeling that way towards an expendable. He shouldn’t have helped them to begin with! He keeps telling himself this. And yet, here the both of you are.

The gentle pressure against his tail pulled him from his thoughts once more. The expendable rested against his tail again, eyes fallen shut and breathing more evened out than before. They looked far more relaxed than they were mere moments ago. They appeared almost too relaxed.

“Hey, now! Who said you could get some shut eye?” He initially began to tease, moving his tail to start wrapping around the expendable’s body with the intent on lifting them up to wake them. But he stops himself. His tail is wrapped completely around them, but it hadn’t tightened enough to safely lift them up without the risk of dropping them. The relaxed state, in comparison to moments earlier, eased his nerves. Much to his own dismay. A feeling of defeat washed over him, sighing to himself in slight annoyance as he crossed two of his three arms across his chest.

“Very well..” His voice was soft as to not awaken them, watching over them carefully as the room rumbled with the passing of an Angler just outside the room.

[forsaken-x-you]

ELLIOT X HEALER READER PLEAASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEAAAASEEEEEE ALso nice to know ur doing ok ^_^ ur phightingxreader blog inspired my roblox one so im happy to know ur fine and well :3c

TYSM!! I'm happy I've inspired you to make your own blog, it's really neat!! ♡

Elliot x Healer! Reader ❤🍕 (Tw: blood/injuries)

Stumbling through the woods, Elliot clung to his arm, wincing. His health was critically low, blood leaking from his wounds.

By some miracle, he had managed to escape the grasp of 1X1X1X1, though it hadn't been easy. The killer had sliced a massive gash within Elliot's side, weakening the worker.

Resting against a tree, Elliot slid down until he was on his knees, gasping and shivering from his wound. He needed to be treated right away.

"Elliot..?" A soft voice caused the pizza worker to look up, shakily looking for the source of the voice. His eyes softened with relief when he saw it was only you. Immediately, you began tending to his wounds, cleaning the blood and dressing his arm in gauze.

"There, that should do it..." you spoke, gently pulling Elliot up. As soon as he was on his feet, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly. With a small smile, you returned the gesture.

"C'mon, there's only one generator left. We can make it, okay? Just stay with me." You say, clasping his hand. Elliot smiles, you were so optimistic.

A healer for a healer, it's a perfect match!

Outside of rounds, Elliot loves to spend all his time with you! Holding your hand wherever you go and cuddling you at any given moment.

Of course, Elliot heals you, too!

"It's okay, Y/N, just breathe." Two Time murmurs. Escaping from Jason hadn't been easy, he was about to kill you before Two Time intervened. From the distance, footsteps of other survivors could be heard.

It was Chance and Elliot! Two Time signalled towards them, beckoning them over. Elliot's face turned to pale worry when he saw the damage done to you. "Y/N, sweetheart!" He cried out, holding onto you. "Here, have this." Quickly, he handed you a pizza, which you ate appreciatively. As soon as you finished it, Elliot grabbed onto your hands, refusing to let go. "Chance and I just finished the last generator, we just have to survive until the time runs out." He explained. All four of you decided to remain in a group. Chance began explaining his near-death when he encountered Jason to Two Time. You and Elliot, on the other hand, just held onto eachother. Neither of you wanted to let go, finding comfort in eachother's hold.