#tw for bare chest and amputation

[anonymouspuzzler]

it is time for me to subject you all here to my FUNNY NEW OCs!! meet Buck (AKA THE INVINCIBLE BULKHEAD), Davey (AKA DYNAMO), and Minerva (AKA LAST NERVE; slightly more commonly AKA Minnie). They're all part of a new comic concept I've been bouncin' around in my sweet little head!! Expect a few more posts about them coming down the queue soon...

(Detailed image descriptions under cut!!)

[Image 1: A character design sheet for Buck, one of Puzz's original characters. He is a middle-aged white man with a top-heavy, barrel-chested build, a bushy reddish mustache, and two tufts of reddish hair on an otherwise-bald head. He has a square head, a large round nose, and a heavy brow with no visible eyebrows. The design sheet shows him in three alternate outfits, posing the same in each - one arm held up near his chest, the other down at his side, facing slightly to his left and looking back towards his right shoulder. His first outfit is a beige jacket with pointy lapels and multiple pockets on the chest, over a forest-green sweater and khaki pants; he is also wearing big brown lace-up boots, matching gloves, and large round goggles with orange lenses. The second outfit is the same minus the jacket shoved up on top of his head instead of over his eyes. The final outfit is his sleepwear, an off-white t-shirt that exposes his stomach, and forest-green pajama pants with cuffed bottoms.]

[Image 2: A character design sheet for Davey, one of Puzz's original characters. He is a middle-aged Black man with long, curly dark brown hair, a thin mustache, and a lanky build. He has a diagonal scar going from the top left to bottom right of his face, and is missing his right arm at the shoulder, with a visible scar from shoulder to mid-chest. The design sheet shows him in three alternate outfits, posing the same in each - standing slightly to his left, left arm up in a wave, grinning widely. His first outfit is a pair of light-blue denim overalls with cuffed legs and an olive-green patch on the left knee, as well as pointy-toed, laced-up brown boots and a large brown glove on his left hand, a reddish-orange leather helmet with orange-lensed goggles attached, and a toolbelt around his waist; he also has a massive prosthetic right arm held on by a harness under his overalls, made up of a blender, toaster, and various car parts. The second outfit is the same but with the right strap of his overalls unbuttoned and missing his prosthetic, toolbelt and glove; a detail shot also shows how he looks with the goggles shoved up on his helmet, revealing eyes with long bottom lashes. The final outfit is his sleepwear, light-blue boxer shorts with wavy purple stripes, and blue-and-tan slippers; a detail shot also shows him with a purple quilted sleep mask over his eyes.]

[Image 3: A character design sheet for Minerva (AKA Minnie), one of Puzz's original characters. She is a short, white preteen girl with thick red hair styled in enormous twin braids, an ovular face with freckled cheeks, black painted nails, a little round nose, buck teeth, and an irritable expression. The design sheet shows her in two alternate outfits, posing the same in each, standing neutrally with her left hand in a fist on her hip and the other hanging limply, looking off to the side dismissively. The first outfit shows her in what looks like a school uniform, consisting of an off-white t-shirt with golden-yellow trim on the sleeves, a golden-yellow pleated skirt, white knee-high socks, tan mary-jane shoes, matching fingerless gloves, and a light yellow sweater tied around her neck. A detail shot shows her "rocket boots, with steel toes and bands around the ankles, toy rockets strapped to each, wires running along one side and spiked cleats. The second outfit is her sleepwear, consisting of green cross-patterned boxer shorts barely visible under an oversized purple "VILLAIN CON '97" shirt with a graphic of a skull with X-es for eyes.]

[Image 4: A sketchy design for "Golden Boy", one of Puzz's original characters. He is a stout, muscled white blonde man wearing a superhero costume, consisting of a tight sleeveless jumpsuit with an eight-pointed star on the chest, maroon briefs, a belt with a large round buckle, knee-high maroon boots with flared edges, matching gloves, and a long, flowing maroon cape with glittering golden interior held on by a large golden yellow clasp. He also has a pale orange visor over his eyes, and his hair is styled with swooping bangs. He is grinning proudly, flexing with his left arm, the other on his hip in a heroic pose.]

[Image 5: A series of sketches on notebook paper in purple ink, showing the early design process for Buck, Davey and Minerva. From top to bottom and left to right, there is: A sketch of Buck from the shoulders-up in profile; Minerva from the hips-up in profile; Davey, wearing his helmet and goggles, from the shoulders-up in profile; Davey in profile without the helmet and goggles, then a detail shot of him from the front; a rough silhouette/shape test slash height lineup of Davey, Buck, and Minerva; a sketch of Buck in his jacket from the waist up; another detail sketch of Davey's face from the front, testing a different eye style and face shape, then a test of the same face shape with helmet and goggles on; a very rough sketch of front-facing Minerva from the waist up.]

[Image 6: Early design sketches on notebook paper in pink ink, testing out outfits for Davey, Buck and Minerva. The first row shows Davey in his "standard" outfit, minus prosthetic, Buck in his "standard" outfit, and Minerva in her "standard" outfit. The second row shows them all in their sleepwear, with this version of Davey's having long pants instead of boxers and a floral print eye-mask instead of quilted.]

[Image 7: A sketch of Davey and Buck on notebook paper in blue ink. Davey is posing with one leg up on a box, his left arm resting on his knee, grinning widely with sparkles around him. His helmet and goggles are on, but his prosthetic is not. To his right is Buck, standing with his hands on his hips, glancing over his shoulder towards Davey. His goggles are shoved up on top of his head, and he is not wearing his jacket.]

[Image 8: A sketch of Minerva on notebook paper in blue ink. She is holding a polaroid camera in both hands, a photo being printed out of it, and she is looking back over her left shoulder with a petulant expression. Sitting on the ground in front of her is her pet black-and-white rat, Oreo.]

[Image 9: A sketch of Davey, Buck and Minerva in casualwear, drawn on notebook paper in blue ink. Davey has his hair in a ponytail and is not wearing his prosthetic. He is dressed in a tank top with long arm-holes, tucked into short sweatpants that end just below his knees, and wearing high-top Converse-style sneakers with socks barely peeking out above them. He is holding a large grocery bag in his left hand and looking off to his left. Buck is wearing a jacket with a fluffy collar, open over a nondescript t-shirt, long pants, and boots. He has on sunglasses and a knit beanie. He is standing with his right arm in his pocket and the left hanging at his side. Minerva is wearing a sweater over a collared shirt, and a pleated skirt with safety pins along the edges, and her usual mary-jane shoes. She stands with her arms at her sides, looking slightly left, appearing bored.]

[Image 10: A black-and-white drawing of Puzz's OCs Buck (left), Davey (top right), and Minnie (bottom right), plus Minnie's rat Oreo. Buck is a middle-aged white man with two tufts of hair and a bushy mustache, wearing goggles on top of his head and a turtleneck sweater. Davey is a middle-aged Black man with curly hair in a ponytail, a missing right arm, diagonal scar across his face, thin mustache and big ears, wearing overalls and a leather glove. Minnie is a preteen girl with massive twin braids, buck teeth and freckles, wearing a t-shirt, fingerless gloves and a sweater tied around her shoulders. Oreo is a black-and-white pet rat. Minnie and Davey are both posing with their heads in their hands and grinning smugly, looking over at Buck, who is blushing and trying to ignore them.]

[Image 11: Three colored pen drawings of Davey. In all three, he has his hair in a ponytail and is wearing overalls with the right strap undone, and no prosthetic. The leftmost drawing shows him from the waist up, looking off to his left in apparent mild confusion, right eyebrow raised and left eye slightly closed. He is lifting his left hand to bring his pointer finger near his chin, and there are a couple sweat droplets on one side of his face. The top-right drawing shows him from the shoulders off, looking off to the left with a warm smile, eyes crinkling. The bottom-right drawing shows him from the waist up, hunched over with his chin resting on the back of one hand. He looks incredulous and slightly annoyed, left eyebrow raised and eyes narrowed, grimacing very slightly, with a "..." speech bubble.]

[Image 12: Two colored ink drawings of Davey. In both, he is drawn from the shoulders-up and is wearing overalls with the right strap undone, and no prosthetic. In the first, he is looking directly into the camera with a lovestruck grin, eyes sparkling, blushing warmly. There is a speech bubble next to him with a big red heart. In the second image, his face is partially in shadow and he is staring intensely into the camera, brow slightly furrowed and with a tight, humorless grin, saying bluntly, "I'll [censored]ING kill you."]

[Image 13: Two drawings of Buck and Davey together. In the first drawing to the left, Buck, seen from behind in his sleepwear, is holding up Davey, wearing a baggy blue tank top, in his arms. Buck's face is barely visible, but Davey's is smiling warmly, looking lovingly at Buck. His right arm is around his shoulders and his legs are kicking playfully. In the second drawing to the right, the two are sitting together with Davey on the left and Buck on the right. Davey is wearing his overalls and boots, but no prosthetic or helmet; similarly, Buck is in his sweater and khakis but no goggles or jacket, and has also removed his boots to reveal ribbed black socks. Davey has his legs crossed and his arm around Bucks shoulders, kissing him gently, eyes closed. Buck has turned to lean into the kiss, eyes closed and looking happy. He is propping himself up with his left arm behind him, while the right rests on Davey's knee. There are two little heart symbols above their heads.]

[Image 14: A black and white drawing of Puzz's OC's Buck (a barrel-chested, middle-aged white man with a bushy mustache and two tufts of hair, wearing round goggles, gloves, a jacket with pointed lapels, and a turtleneck sweater) and Davey (a lanky, middle-aged Black man with a massive prosthetic right arm, thin mustache and diagonal scar across his face), wearing overalls, leather workman gloves and a leather helmet with round goggles). Buck is grimacing with his arms crossed, while Davey is behind him sticking his tongue out and posing with a V-sign. A screenshotted tumblr post by auroraanorth is above them, reading "why are my two favorite tropes 'seemingly powerful and dominating guy turns out to be kind of pathetic' and 'silly goofball of a man turns out to be terrifyingly powerful'.]

[snacobie]

I told you guys this is all I’m gonna be talking about for a while lmfao

[takami-takami]

I'm really proud of this passage in the slowburn priest keigo fic. It's like... Devoid of context it still hits I think but like ! Anyways here it is. ^-^

Tw religious trauma and deep repression. Undertones of conversion. Mention of suicide.

Chapter description: "For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live… Blows that wound cleanse away evil; strokes make clean the innermost parts." 

(Note: this should be after the near kiss scene, where you subtly reject him by turning your head in shame. Have him staring in bed at the ceiling. Subtle call back to the j/o scene.)

A few thoughts crossed Keigo’s mind that night. 

He observed the sickness that brewed in the cavity of his chest in a manner not unlike the steaming tea you prepared to pour into his empty cup that morning; only this viscous fluid was far less saccharine, less sweetened to taste with sugar. Your sweet tea kept itself neatly within the barricade of his ceramic cup— contained, if not seconds from boiling. The sickness, bless its beating heart, had already begun to leak through its ephemeral cracks.

These thoughts burned Keigo’s esophagus rather than his tongue.

These thoughts were dirty.

These thoughts were as follows:

It settles like bile spit into your stomach, and your body rejects it. Cognitively, you know you should listen to them; your bishops, your people. Your holy, unsoiled text.

They are the authority. You must be sick.

God loves you when you don't love yourself. That's true, isn't it? You love your God so dearly, you would amputate your own limb to continue to shephard in his good graces. You would gnaw it severed using your bare teeth if you must, shredded like a starved canine’s cuspids into sacrificial meat, allowing the pearly off-white to become drenched with red— the same shade of red that stains the same, damned shade of pearly off-white on Sundays; and Fridays and Tuesdays and Thursdays and Mondays and Wednesdays and Saturdays, the tirade of a Catholic parade.

It is self-love to prune your dead ends. The tips of your leaves are rather necrotic, blistering in putrid, desaturated green. They fray at the seams, and ever-diligent, you take the task upon yourself to play both gardener and executioner. You clip the infected tips, the stems, the buds; and at desperate times, you cut the petioles.

It is self-love to prune your dead ends. 

So why does it feel like suicide, instead? 

And is that offering good enough for Him? Does the mortification of the flesh— blistered knees, empty stomachs, self-scarred backs, and the dirtying of some carpenter’s hands— pave the road to salvation? 

Is this truly what it takes to save them?

It isn’t until you get out that you look down at your amputated parts and begin to weep.

The last wasn’t a thought he had at that very moment, of course. Thoughts such as those only blossom in the aftermath of a great drought, with seeds tentatively sprouting through curious tendrils that reach like babies’ hands into newly quenched soil, the fear of being struck still etched into their epigenetics. But there will come a time when Keigo, too, sprouts like trees. Not in the way that his congregation plucks the fruit of his branches for, but in a way his inner child could. 

Not sturdy as in weathered, but sturdy as in whole.

Neither savior nor saved, neither corrupted nor uncorrupted. They were never truly opposites from the start, and neither were the two of you.

Keigo loved you. It was dirty, but he loved you.

And it was good.

[thevegandarkelf]

Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Thirty-Three

Masterlist

AO3 link

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

We got a lotta fluff up in this one

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death, PTSD

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family, her bestie, Jake, and Adam (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing. I think that's it for this one!

Word count: 4.1k

In the few days after my encounter with Adam, Daryl had been extra soft with me, somehow more than he usually was. He was insistent on doing anything for me he possibly could, saying the same thing every time I gave him any sort of pushback—“I know ya can do it yaself, but I want to.” It was like real-life princess treatment.

There was a lot of talking and a lot of tears. Sometimes, it would hit me out of nowhere, and I would crumble into a sobbing mess in seconds. Trauma’s funny like that. I always felt so guilty, especially when it interrupted moments with Daryl. Every time, he assured me I didn’t need to apologize and could cry as much as I needed. He never saw it as an interruption, never made a big deal out of it. He’d ask if I wanted to talk or if there was anything I needed, or if I wanted to just cuddle and cry. It was so cathartic to just moan and groan and cry whenever I needed. Exhausting, but cathartic.

Every night, I’d cuddle up to Daryl in bed, my head resting on his chest and arms wrapped around him, with the exception of the one time he had watch late. I’d passed out before he got back, but I stirred a bit when he came in. He tiptoed over to bed and did his best to slide in without waking me. He moved up next to me and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer and kissing my face.

“Night Buttercup,” he whispered into my hair.

The following morning, I woke up to Daryl spooning me once again, the warm breath from his soft snoring blowing the baby hairs on my neck and tickling my skin. His arm was wrapped around me tight, holding me snugly against his body. The other arm was under my neck, his strong bicep supporting it like a pillow. His chest rose and fell against my back, creating a very subtle, almost rocking sensation that threatened to lull me back to sleep. But my brain was craving caffeine.

I slipped out from under Daryl’s arm and rolled over to face him. His hair had fallen on his face, and his nostrils on his cute little button nose flared ever so slightly as he snored. His lips were parted, just barely, and his breath blew strands of his deep chocolate hair around. I tucked some pieces behind his ear, careful not to disturb his beauty sleep.

I wish phones existed in the apocalypse because this photogenic human’s sleeping face would’ve been my wallpaper in a heartbeat.

There was a bit of a chill in the air, so I grabbed Daryl’s shirt off my dresser and put it on, the soft cotton still carrying his warmth. Even though he hadn’t worn it in some time, as I’d stolen it from him weeks ago and he was insistent on me holding on to it since I liked it so much, it still smelled like whiskey and tobacco. It still smelled like Daryl.

I tiptoed out of the bedroom, slowly closing the door behind me. The house was chilly, the cold hardwood floor a bit shocking to my bare feet. I stepped down the stairs and into the kitchen to start a pot. The scent of coffee flooded my system as I cracked the lid off the container of grounds, already providing some relief for my sleepy brain and body.

After it was done & I poured myself a cup, I leaned back against the island, sipping my coffee while thoughts began to swirl around in my barely-awake mind. I was certain, almost 100% certain, that Daryl was going to ask to kiss me the other day, right before Adam showed up. There had been a few occasions recently where I thought he might ask, and I knew the other day would’ve been the moment. But unfortunately, it was ruined by the man that ruined me, and now I was scared he might not ask again for a while. Sure, I could make the first move, but one, I liked it when the man made the first move, and two, Daryl was either very self-conscious or very inexperienced when it came to romance, and I wanted him to feel comfortable. I also couldn’t stop thinking about what Adam had asked and how Daryl had responded. “This your woman?” he had asked, followed by Daryl’s “and if she is?” played on repeat in my brain.

Were Daryl and I a couple? In just about every sense of the word. We clearly knew how the other person felt, it was obvious based on our behavior. It was just a matter of a first kiss and a title.

I heard the familiar creak of the bedroom door hinges, and Daryl came sauntering downstairs, his tousled bedhead flowing around his face. I gave him a smile as I set my cup down next to me, and he came over and scooped me up for a hug, lifting me off the ground just a bit before setting me back down so my feet were on top of his. He ran a hand in my hair and buried his face in the crook of my neck. Every time Daryl hugged me, he clung on to me like it’d been a lifetime since we last touched.

“Well good morning,” I gushed.

“Mornin’ gorgeous.” My cheeks began to turn pink, and I dropped my eyes to the floor for a moment as he kissed my forehead. That greeting was a new one. And oh, how sweet it sounded with his gruff voice. “How ya feelin’?”

“Worn out, but pretty good. Better than I have been recently. How’d you sleep?”

“Always sleep good when I’m next to ya,” he replied. I gave him a soft smile before dropping my eyes back to the floor and biting the inside of my lower lip. Daryl took notice that something was off, just like he always did. “Ya alright? Seems like ya got somethin’ on ya mind.”

I chomped at my lip for a moment in an attempt to soothe my rapidly-evolving anxiety. “Umm, yeah, I do. Can I talk to you?”

“Course ya can,” he assured. I stepped off of his feet and leaned back against the island again. “What’s up?”

“You said something a few days ago that I wanted to ask you about.” I scratched the side of my thumb with my index finger, anxiety creeping into my voice as I asked the question that had been plaguing my mind. “When we were…dealing…with Adam, he asked you a question.” His shoulders tensed slightly, and he dropped his eyes to the floor, looking nervous. Like he knew exactly what I was about to ask. “He asked if I was your woman, and you said “and if she is.” What did you mean by that?”

Daryl kept his eyes on the floor, shifting nervously back and forth on his feet. I craned my neck to look at him. His lips were pursed, like they always were when he was deep in thought. The silence between us seemed to stretch on for hours. My anxiety was on the verge of skyrocketing.

“Was hopin’ to do this differently,” he said in a tone just above a whisper.

“Do what differently?” I asked. I did my best to maintain my composure, as I didn’t want my anxiety to make his even worse. He shifted on his feet again and tucked his thumbs in his pockets before bringing his eyes back up, those stunning blue pools piercing into mine through loose strands of hair.

“Can I kiss you, Vec?”

This was the moment I’d been waiting weeks for.

I averted my eyes to my feet, and a gigantic, silly grin spread across my face. The poker face was gone. All the joy, excitement, and nervous energy coursing through my body was on full display. My knees were weak, and I steadied myself on the island for a moment before they gave out on me.

“Yes,” I gushed as I brought my eyes back to his, “yes, you absolutely can.” His shoulders relaxed almost immediately, and he looked relieved, like he was afraid to hear my answer but was comforted when I said yes.

Like hell I would ever say no to that.

“How do ya like to be kissed?” he wondered. I cocked my eyebrow at him slightly.

“Preferably, with your lips. On mine,” I teased, pointing at him when I said “your lips” and to my face when I said “on mine.” A boyish smile danced across his lips, and a soft, amused chuckle escaped them.

“Ain’t what I meant. What do I do with my hands?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I do with them?’”

“Been a while is all,” Daryl explained. I was sure a man like him was very well experienced in the world of physical intimacy, so while I believed it had been a while, with the experience I assumed he had, I was confused about why he wouldn’t know what to do with them.

“Well, what have you usually done with them when you kissed someone?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and propping one of my feet up behind me against the island.

“Dunno. Like I said, it’s been a while,” he reiterated.

“Well, you can put them on my hips, hold my face, put them on the back of my neck, put them in your pockets—“

“I’m askin’ what you like.” He took a couple of steps closer to me, and I dropped my eyes back to the floor to hide my blushing face.

“Umm, I like my face held,' I said, my voice cracking as that goofy, giddy smile only seemed to grow bigger. He took another couple of steps towards me, closing the space between us, and tilted my face up, taking it in both hands. I was barely able to maintain eye contact as the butterflies in my stomach catapulted up my throat and threatened to fly out of my mouth. I locked my knees to keep myself from collapsing, and I unfolded my arms and draped them around his neck.

“Like this?” Daryl asked. He looked nervous, subtly biting his lip and furrowing his brow, but my obvious joy and giddiness appeared to put him at ease a bit.

“Yeah,” I gushed in a high-pitched, excited tone.

My eyes fluttered closed, and my heart skipped a few beats as his lips finally met mine. My stomach dropped like I was on a roller coaster, and I was seeing stars. Every sweet touch, flirty comment, and longing gaze has culminated into this very moment. Into us, here and now. Nothing else mattered. The world outside of us did not exist in those blissful moments.

After a couple of seconds, my knees became so weak that they gave out, and I quickly caught myself on the island counter. Daryl’s hand swiftly moved to my waist, lifting me back to my feet. He pulled away, an amused smirk forming on his face as I giggled softly.

Only Daryl could make strong, hyper-independent me giggle and crumble like a schoolgirl.

“Ya ok?” he asked.

“Sure am,” I laughed, “you just got me weak in the knees, Dixon.” I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back, his lips crashing into mine.

His lips were softer than I anticipated, like I was being kissed with rose petals, and those familiar little electric sparks danced between our lips. He was gentle as he kissed me, like I was fine china and would break if he was too rough. His thumb delicately stroked my cheek, which was quickly turning red under his touch. The warmth that had been growing in my ribcage continued to blossom, and I was sure Daryl could feel it radiating off of my chest. His soft breath tickled my skin, and the scent of our coconut shampoo lingered in his hair, adding to the sensory experience. I was unable to keep myself from smiling into our kiss. I felt so safe in his embrace, with his hand snaking further around my waist and pulling me closer to him until we were practically one. It was like nothing could hurt me, like there was no apocalyptic world outside of this little bubble of romance.

To be kissed by him, to be cared for and protected by him, was like something out of a dream.

Adrenaline and ecstasy were pumping through my body, and it was dizzying. I pulled away first, brushing my lips against his for one more soft, quick peck before dropping my head and burying it in his chest, giggling like a middle-school girl who’d just had her first-ever kiss. It hadn’t even gotten hot and heavy, but we were both softly panting, each of us trying to catch our breath.

“Christ, I’ve been waiting ages for that,” I chuckled.

“Ages?” I pulled him by the collar until our foreheads and noses were touching, eyes locked.

"Daryl, I have had the fattest crush on you since I woke up in that dingy cell and you had your crossbow pointed at my face,” I admitted.

It felt so good to finally say that out loud.

"That long, huh?” he teased. He lightly brushed his lips against mine before kissing me again. “Always knew ya had the hots for me.”

“No you did not!” I playfully smacked him on the chest. “How would you know? Did someone spill?”

He gently picked me up by the waist and set me on the island counter, and I scooted back until my knees were at the edge and parted them to allow him to stand in between. “Ya talked ‘bout me to the others?”

“Oh, and you didn’t?” I taunted.

“No one spilled,” Daryl explained, resting his hands on the counter on either side of me and leaning in closer, that amused smirk on his lips once again, “caught ya sneakin’ looks at me all the time.”

The light pink on my cheeks was quickly darkening into a deep crimson. I hung my head in embarrassment. Yes, I’d snuck plenty of looks at Daryl from the moment I’d arrived here. However, until now, I was almost certain he didn’t know about any of them, especially the ones from early on. “But I was so subtle.”

“You ’n I got different definitions of subtle,” he joked.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I wondered, twirling my thumbs around each other, “I’m sure it bothered you."

“‘Cause it didn’t,” Daryl reassured. He placed his fingers under my chin and lifted my head, and I watched his eye dart across my face, seemingly deciding where to kiss me next. He opted for my cheek. “Anyone else’s woulda been a problem, but yours…didn’t mind your eyes on me one bit.” He kept his hand under my chin, dropping his gaze for a moment before blessing my eyes once again with his beautiful baby blues. “Think that’s when I realized there’s somethin’ different ‘bout ya. That ’n how much I liked talkin’ to ya.”

“What about you, my little Georgia peach? How long have you…” I paused, giddiness seeping into my voice, “had the hots for me?”

He looked down for a moment, that smoldering look he had when he was thinking gracing his face. He didn’t say anything, just tapped on my knee before walking away and heading upstairs. I heard a door opening and some rummaging around, and he returned a minute later with his signature angel-winged vest in his hand.

“Put it on,” he instructed, holding it out to me. I cocked an eyebrow, confused, as I took the worn leather garment in my hands.

“Umm, ok.” I’ll admit, I’d wanted to try on Daryl’s vest for quite some time now, but seeing as it was such a special piece to him, I didn’t want to push. I figured if he ever wanted me to wear it, he’d let me know. I flipped the vest around and slid my arms in, adjusting it on my shoulders so it sat just right. It was baggy on me, as it was already a little baggy on Daryl & I had a smaller frame than him, but I loved the feeling of it. He was eyeing me up and down, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was perhaps a moment he had fantasized about.

Maybe in the future, when I had worked through my own shit, I could steal his vest for more…nefarious purposes.

“Looks a hell of a lot better on you,” Daryl cooed. He took me by his vest and pulled me in for another kiss, this one a little longer than the last. “Now reach in the pocket.”

“The pocket?” I asked. Looking at his vest, it didn’t appear to have any pockets. I felt around the back and sides before feeling something on my chest. I patted the side and flipped it around to reveal an interior pocket sewn into the lining.

When I reached in, my fingers brushed against what seemed to be a folded sheet of paper. I pulled it out and unfolded it, and within a second, I recognized the writing as mine. It was the note I had left Daryl the morning after he brought me Tylenol and water on my second night here, the night after I’d drank wine with my new girlfriends and gotten a bit tipsy. The flirtatious little note thanking him for his kind gesture and wishing him luck on the hunting trip he was leaving for that day. I’d gotten up before him and left it on the counter, and seeing as it was gone when I returned later, I’d assumed he had thrown it away, though I never had the guts to check the trash to confirm.

Turns out he had kept it and was holding on to it in his vest this whole time, carrying it with him everywhere he went.

“Oh…my God,” I gasped, almost speechless. I blinked happy tears from my eyes. “H—h…have you had this on you since you found it?”

“Sure have. Nice to have it when I’m on the road. Reread it a lot,” Daryl said. The happy tears broke free, cascading down my cheeks like waterfalls. I used my sleeve to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. I’d done a lot of stress/healing/sad crying over the last couple of weeks. It felt good to be overwhelmed with happy crying.

“That’s so cute, what the fuck?” I said through broken sobs. I fanned my face with my hand in a pathetic attempt to dry my cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. Seems like Daryl had been interested in me for just about as long as I’d been interested in him, and that thought had me blushing and kicking my feet.

As I folded the paper back up and returned it to its home, I stopped. There was something else in the pocket, but this one didn’t feel like a sheet of paper. It was glossy, smooth…like a photograph.

I pulled the item out and was shocked to see one of the pictures that I kept in the back of my notebook. It was the picture of me from a Renaissance festival, with my blue ballgown, posed perfectly against a tree like the princess I dreamed of being. My jaw dropped, and my eyes grew wide. I would never have expected to find it in Daryl’s possession.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, running my fingers over the now-worn edges of the photograph, “I didn’t even realize this had gone missing.” I held it up to him. “How long have you had this?”

“How long ya think I’ve had it?” he wondered. I knew he wouldn’t have invaded my privacy and gone through my notebook to find it himself, so it wasn’t that. I thought back to when I’d initially shown the photos to Daryl, when he had overnight watch & I kept him company. I thought about showing him each of them, gathering them all and placing them back in my notebook. That was when it clicked.

“Dropping the photos in the watchtower…you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I asked, waving the picture in front of him.

“I may have,” he confessed. A flattered and amused smile graced my face, and I slid the picture back into the pocket.

“Why didn’t you just ask?” I wondered, “I can assure you I would’ve said yes.”

“Didn’t know if ya’d think it was weird,” he said, a hint of a timid and bashful smile on his face.

“I would’ve been flattered,” I promised.

“Liked having it when I’m out on the road.” Daryl put his hands on my hips and fiddled with the edges of his vest, “like bein’ able to look at ya when I’m gone.”

Every time Daryl went off on an excursion, he was like a soldier going off to war with a photo of his lady love tucked in his uniform to hold him over until he could see her again. It was endearing to think back about all of the trips he had gone on in my time here and know that he had a little piece of me with him. And to know that he wanted to be able to look at my face so badly while he was gone that he concocted a clever little plan to make it happen.

“Keep it,” I said, patting the spot on the vest where the pocket was, “it just sits in the back of my notebook otherwise. You’ll at least get some use out of it.”

Get some use out of it? Christ Vec, get your mind out of the gutter, I thought.

My mind jumped to the thought of the day Jake punched me in the nose and I ended up topless in the infirmary, using my torn shirt to stop my nosebleed. I snickered under my breath at the memory.

“What’s got ya laughin’ like that, sunshine?” he wondered.

“Just thinking how it’s funny that you saw me in my bra before we kissed,” I chuckled.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t see anything. Not on purpose at least,” he assured. Not that I would’ve minded if he had. I often wore sports bras as shirts. Realistically, there wasn’t much difference between him seeing me dressed like that versus a typical underwire bra.

That wasn’t the only thing on my mind. “Thinking about something else too.”

“What’s that?” he wondered, interlocking his fingers at the nape of my neck, his thumbs pressing against the back of my ears. I brought my eyes to his again, putting my hands on his torso and nervously pulling at and twirling the soft cloth of his shirt around in my fingers.

“You can call me Lydia, if you want. I don’t totally hate how it sounds when you say it. Maybe I like it a tiny bit.” I bit at the inside of my lower lip, blushing and kicking my feet once again, before my voice became a little more serious. “But only when it’s just the two of us. Everyone else only knows me as Vector, and I’d like to keep it that way for now.”

“Well, Lydia, I’m honored,” Daryl practically cooed, drawing my name out as he said it. He tenderly pulled me forward, just a little, before giving me another soft, sweet kiss. Now that the floodgates had opened and the first kiss had happened, he was hardly able to keep his lips off mine. He was obsessed. “Ya got a middle name?”

“Rae.”

His eyes rolled so hard, I thought they’d fall out of his head, and an amused chuckle escaped his lips. “Like a goddamn ray o’ sunshine.”

“Guess my mom knew what she was doing when she picked it,” I laughed, “when I was in trouble, she used to call me Lydia Rae. That one’s off the table.”

“Unless ya in trouble,” he joked.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded, tugging gently at his shirt.

“What question?”

“About what Adam asked you?”

“Right,” he acknowledged. He stroked the back of my neck with his thumbs before running them along the back of my ears, slowly, like how he did when he tucked my hair behind my ears. A soft and subtle smirk appeared on his face. He had an idea. “Well I got watch all day, and I know you’re busy too. I’ll answer ya question tonight. Just don’t be too early gettin’ back.”

“Too early?” I asked. He brought his forehead to mine, doing that thing with his eyes again where he looked deep into my soul.

“Can’t have ya beatin’ me home ’n ruinin’ the surprise.”

Taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley

Divider found on Google via searching for stock images

[purgatory-is-life]

Mechtober day 4/prompt 4, mechanization

ohhh boy this is a long one fkaldjkf

@mechtober-2024 - - - How They All Came To Be - Reality666Rift999 - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

tw roughly in order; heart issues, heart failure (i am no doctor so this might not be super accurate), gun mentions, blood, blood loss, memory issues, alcohol mentions, fire mentions, implied/mention death via fire, loss of autonomy, i just had a lot of thoughts abt brians morality switch ig, minor character death (bertie), unethical science(? doc turning tim into a mechanism at jonnys request but w/out tims permission), loss of limbs/loss of wings, infection, exhaustion, a bit more minor character death (mostly unnamed characters), impromptu amputation, probably more, feel free to ask to tag something

------

Jonny wasn’t sure how to feel. He was free, finally, from that hellscape that haunted him and dragged him down, kept him sunken and afraid and obedient. He was free.

All thanks to the Doc. (He didn’t even know vampires were real before meeting her.)

He was ecstatic, his shoulders felt lighter than they had in years, he was afraid, he didn’t know what he was doing and a part of him wished he had the familiarity and certainty of that damned place, and he was so confused as to why he missed that hellmouth.

But he was at least mostly happy, so he managed to push his fear and sadness and even maybe regret to the back of his mind. Focus on the present, focus on the overwhelming joy and excitement of being free.

He had to return the favor to her somehow, had to help her in some way like she did to him. To show her how much her provided escape meant to him.

So he helped her around her–their, because it was his home now too, because she insisted it was theirs and they were in this together (she actually wanted him around)–space shuttle, small and maybe a little cramped with the two of them living on it almost constantly, one of the three bedrooms converted to a lab that the Doctor never allowed him in. He cleaned, he did the repairs he could do with his little knowledge of mechanics, he sewed and patched up their clothes when they went long stretches between planets, he did whatever he could to show the Doctor how much the escape meant to him.

  Though he never truly outright said anything. Growing up in that hellhole, he knew any sign of weakness could make everything flip on a dime and he wasn’t risking the best thing he’d had in years. He was going to savor every moment, every moment and every drop of kindness from the Doctor, before it sours. The Doctor promised she’d never do anything to him that could hurt him, promised that she’d love him until eternity ran dry.

And for once, he believed her. He trusted her, he knew she wasn’t lying. But that didn’t change that he couldn’t show weakness, it didn’t change the beliefs and fears ingrained in him from years growing up in the hell house that was his childhood home and planet. But he still knew that she was being honest.

She was someone he could trust.

So he wasn’t exactly sure why he didn’t tell her before it got this bad.

His heart felt like it was going to explode, like he could barely breathe. Everything hurt but his chest hurt the most. He could feel his heart, beating fast-too-fast, and he needed help.

It happened sometimes, where if he walked around too much or ran around a lot, he had to lay down as the world spun and his heart tried to beat itself out of his chest. But it usually passed, he was usually back to running around like normal within a few hours–a day at most, and on bad days his heart being all weird made it so that he was bedridden for a few days even if he generally felt fine. But this time it wasn’t going away, something was wrong.

Something was wrong and he was terrified.

So he stumbled off to find the Doctor, collapsing as soon as he did.

“D-Doc,” he wheezed out, as the vampire rushed over to him, “D-Doc there’s s-something wr-wrong with my heart…”

Tears pricked at his eyes, even though he was trying really hard to be strong. The Doctor grabbed his shoulders, gently, bracing him up.

“S-somethin’s wrong…”

“Jonny-”

He tried to keep the tears at bay, but they started flowing the moment his name left her lips, her voice thick with gentle care and concern. “S-something’s w-wrong a-and I’m sc-scared… M-mom I-I’m scared,” Jonny struggled to get out a wheeze through his sobs, the difficulty breathing making him sob harder. With as much strength as he could he grabbed Doctor Carmilla’s arm and held on like she was his lifeline. “M-mom, I- I don’t- don’t want to- to die,” he sobbed. He was so tired. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision as his tears blurred the image of the Doctor in front of him, the Doc holding onto him just as tightly as he held onto her. Everything hurt and his chest hurt so much, like someone was ripping him open and squeezing the frail organ beating wildly. If he listened to it, he could hear it skipping more and more beats and with each beat missed the more afraid he grew and the faster his heart beat.

Something in her demeanor changed, though. The Doc squeezed him and pulled him in for a hug. “I’m not going to let you die, Jonny,” She said, words comforting and cutting through the fog of sobs and darkness lingering around Jonny. “Never, okay? You’ll be fine. I promise.”

And he believed her.

And he trusted her.

And he woke up who knows how long later without a heart, but a steady tick-tick-tick replacing it and a cold, metal plate over where his heart should be.

—--

The first few years were hard to get used to. To the ever present tick-tick-tick where his heart should be, to having to ask the Doctor to perform maintenance on it at least once a year when the ticking got too irregular and painful, to the knowledge that he couldn't die. But the Doctor was there for him, there with a warm drink and a shoulder to lean on when everything became too much.

And sometimes he needed to step away from her for a little while, hence why he volunteered to hijack them a bigger, better ship while they were passing through Cyberia. For some reason the Doc had her eyes set on a specific one, but Jonny wasn’t going to question her. And so he went and found the starship, earning the ship in probably the most unhinged game of roulette the soldiers had ever seen or experienced, while the Doc went off to do her own things.

He got to know the star ship he’d won from the Cyberian soldiers. She was the Aurora, and once upon a time she was not a starship. The Cyberians stripped her of her body and her life, but she was free now, with Jonny and the Doctor. Jonny was happy to be that freedom for her, like the Doc was to him. And so their little crew grew that day from two to three.

And soon they grew from three to four.

Jonny protested, at first. He didn’t wish this undying life on anyone, it was painful, it was long, and there were only a few people who could truly relate. But the Doctor insisted it was the only way to save her life, she was too far gone. And so she proceeded, and their crew grew again, from three to four.

Anastasia Nikolaevna Rasputina was not happy about being mechanized, at first. Jonny wasn’t happy either, so he really couldn’t blame her for that. She disappeared into one of the rooms of the Aurora. And she didn’t emerge for longer than a few minutes at a time for at least a year or two. That was fine, Jonny would give her all the space she needed. It was a rough adjustment, and everyone had different ways to cope.

But eventually she started coming out of her room more, opening up to Jonny and Aurora and the Doc. And their crew grew from two to three to four. Jonny’s family wasn’t perfect or normal, not by any means, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

—--

Ivy didn’t remember being mechanized. Ivy didn’t remember if she asked to or if she was brought into the Aurora without her permission.

She was scared to find out. She didn’t know if she’d like the answer.

But knowledge was power and power was valuable no matter where she was.

Ivy didn’t know anything about her past, just gasps as she woke up and rebooted for the day, just gasping and fear pulsing through her body as she tried to remember what her nightmare was about, tried to remember why she was so afraid.

She made up for it with the ability mechanization had given her, her ability to remember anything and everything even if she was detached from those memories. But still, she sought knowledge and information and anything she could about her past. Anything that she could grab on to, even if it wasn’t anything concrete or certain.

Ivy didn’t remember what caused her to be mechanized, didn’t remember if she asked or if the Doctor revived her against her will. She didn’t know if she wanted to know, didn’t know if she would like the answer.

There was a 22.1% chance that she wouldn’t like the answer. There was a 24.65% chance she would. And a 53.25% chance that she wouldn’t have a strong leaning either way, that she wouldn’t know how she felt.

When she asked Jonny, he didn’t want to tell her.

But she pushed and pushed until he agreed to tell her a bit.

They found her in a large library, a large library that was burning and burning quickly. She was dying, choking on the smoke and from injuries Jonny didn’t dare specify or describe. Jonny and Nastya protested, when the Doctor brought her unconscious body onto the Aurora. But the Doctor continued anyway. Aurora was the main aid to her the first few weeks as she was adjusting to her new mechanism, when she couldn’t retain anything for longer than a day and couldn’t recognize anyone. It wasn’t pretty.

“Knowing the Doc, your brain might be around here somewhere,” Jonny said, giving her a shit-eating grin, “might find it next time you go in for maintenance.”

Ivy rolled her eyes and left him to his whiskey and misery. She had an answer, mostly.

She didn’t know how she felt about the answer.

—--

Ashes O’Reilly was filled with a burning fire, that’s why the Doc picked them, Jonny guessed. She seemed drawn to people with an inner chaos, and inner violence. Jonny wasn’t fully sure what exactly it was that the Doctor looked for whenever she got the itch to take someone, but he guessed it was probably something similar to that fire Ashes was full of.

Out of everyone so far, Ashes had taken their mechanization the best. They rolled with it, finding joy and a new spark in a pile of dry kindling with their newfound immortality. Often literally, taking advantage in order to burn as much as they desired. They didn’t care too much if they got caught in the crosshairs of their own fires, so long as it got the job done and left whatever it was they were burning a charred pile of soot. They seemed to roll with the punches easily, keeping up with the chaos by not letting it smother their fire but instead letting their fire change directions with the wind.

Jonny wasn’t sure how he liked them. But he definitely didn’t hate them. They were fun, if confusing. They carried themself with a confidence, a gravity that seemed to draw everything around them into orbit. They were fascinating. Jonny thought himself lucky, being able to watch as their story unfurled. He supposed that’s what their gravitational pull tends to do. Makes you believe that you’re lucky to know them. Still.

Ashes was filled with a brilliant, burning fire, and Jonny couldn’t wait to watch it consume whatever they desired.

—--

Brian was the one everyone rioted against. There were a number of reasons why everyone didn’t want the Doctor to make him a Mechanism, but most of them agreed that it just seemed… Cruel. Whatever left him floating out in space was cruel, but not letting him rest seemed almost crueler, somehow. But she was insistent.

Brian wasn’t sure how he, personally, felt about his mechanization. It changed from day to day. From mode to mode.

He did hate his morality switch, he knew that for certain. No matter which mode he was on; what ends justified giving him something that could completely rewrite the way he approached things? Something that could completely rewrite how he viewed himself and how he viewed the world? It was wrong to try and control how another views the world, how another experiences the world and its many ups and downs, it does not justify any possible ends.

The switch was always jarring, too. Not that the others seemed to notice, switching it back and forth constantly like a game or just because they didn’t like how he approached a situation. Apparently he only ever stalled for a minute or two at most whenever his morality switch was flipped. It never felt that short, it always seemed to take hours and hours as his body screamed and his mind changed and everything about him was rewritten and recorded over and changed.

Sometimes he tried to justify the morality switch to himself.

He was a very complicated– thing. The technology needed to mechanize him was very complicated and the Doctor didn’t have everything, saying that she had to use some of the technology that they’d found with him to revive him, to keep his heart pumping. Brian didn’t truly remember making any of the machinery or technology that they’d shown him, that they had found with him, but somehow he knew that it was his before they told him. He wasn’t sure any of the machinery he’d made was any more complex than the beautiful works of art that the Doc had ever made, but she used it for his revival so it must’ve been something masterful. And because the mechanics of his brass body were so complicated, then maybe the morality switch was because the remaking of his brain was just as complicated, if not more so because of how confusing and finicky the mind can be. Maybe it was just a necessary evil.

Although Ivy had a similarly mechanical brain to him, and she didn’t have anything equivalent to his switch. She may not be able to emotionally connect to her memories, and she may have terrible nightmares, but she didn’t have a morality switch. Brian had horrible nightmares, too, he’s had them for his entire life (he thinks. He can’t be fully certain, but something in him knows that the nightmares that are always just a bit too real and a bit too close to events that happen or have happened have followed him since long before his second first death. That the nightmares and the songs that follow them are the one sure thing he has from the past he barely remembers).

But she had to have added it for a reason. Because there had to have been a reason she added the dreaded thing when she revived him, reconstructed his body with brass and iron and copper.

He had to believe she wasn’t just being cruel to him for cruelty's sake.

She gave him this new body of brass and iron and copper, this body that always felt just slightly off and slightly wrong and didn’t always register as his when he saw it; she saw whatever his mangled corpse looked like and decided to pity him and give him a third second chance. So she couldn’t have just been… It couldn’t have just been a decision on a whim. It had to have been for a reason.

Though, if he was being honest, as it’s wrong to lie, he was scared of the reason. He was scared that whatever her reason was cruel or to keep him in line–he saw how the other Mechanisms acted often, they didn’t respect authority half the time and they didn’t often like to listen to her. Compared to them, he was like an obedient little pet, because he often kept his issues with everything going on behind tightly closed lips. If asked, he would be honest about how he felt, but everyone very quickly learned not to ask. He hardly ever had any tact in his honesty, after all. At least on Means Justify Ends.

Of course, he truly didn’t think that was the reason for the switch. He truly didn��t believe that her reason for adding it was as malicious or as heartless as the reasons his own mind presented. But it didn’t mean that he wasn’t full of dread at the thought of asking her. And so he didn’t, because he simply didn’t want to know the answer. Perhaps he would, if someone asked and he was on the right mode, but he didn’t want to know. She gave him a gift, something that he should be grateful for. A new chance at life after whatever happened that led to him getting launched into space. He wasn’t going to ask about the caveat that came with it.

—--

The Toy Soldier was odd.

The crew picked it up while Jonny was in jail for Crimes (thanks, Ashes), and it seemed to seek them out all solely to help them. To do things for them and please whoever was nearest.

Jonny thought it was annoying. It was so helpful, it changed its opinion at the drop of a hat, and it just wouldn’t leave. It was always around, even if he tossed it out of the air lock or into deep space.

Jonny thought it was so terribly annoying.

It’s voice, too, it’s voice was awful. It was haunting.

But the story attached to how a wooden thing got such a beautiful, haunting voice was alluring. It was the one reason he was allowing it to be aboard. Even though everyone would get it back if it didn’t come back on its own.

The Toy Soldier was annoying, and odd, and had a hauntingly beautiful voice that was not its own once upon a time. Perhaps that’s why it fit in so well with the Mechanisms and the Doctor.

—--

Tim was the best thing that ever happened to Jonny. In the tunnels, dark and muddy and reeking of blood constantly. He was having an amazing time, deep in the darkness and free to cause unthinkable violence and no one ever once questioned his ‘luck’ during the battles because there wasn’t really any way to see in the deep, vantablack dark of the moon tunnels. And Tim was his light in that darkness, kind to a fault and caring and stuck in a war he should not be in. He had a violent streak of his own, he could be ruthless and merciless and thoughtlessly reckless. And that’s why Jonny was–fascinated? Yes, fascinated–by Tim. Because he was kind and considerate despite everything, he tried so hard to take care of those he considered friends, and yet he could be bloodthirsty and vicious in battle. He showed Jonny unrelenting care and kindness between bouts of misery and bloodshed.

Tim was the best thing that ever happened to Jonny.

And really, Jonny could say the same to Bertie, too, because Bertie had that same endless well of kindness and compassion as Tim, because Bertie was Tim’s unmoving and unchanging anchor. Bertie was the anchor to Tim’s ship weathering the violent storm of war, and Jonny was just a passerby, a viewer. A stowaway, perhaps.

They were probably the best things that ever happened to Jonny.

But then Bertie died.

And something in Tim snapped, something changed. His reckless abandon became even more reckless, his bloodthirsty ways leaving no one spared when he went charging into battle.

It was the most horrific, beautiful scenes of violence and agony and grief Jonny had seen in a while. But it was going to get Tim killed, sooner or later. Tim would not be able to last like this. No mortal could ever last like that; Tim’s beautiful bonfire had turned into a raging forest fire, one that would smother itself out sooner or later.

And smother itself it did, when he was too busy maiming one soldier to notice another lenny lining up their plasma rifle. Of course, by this point Jonny himself had been captured, and had only heard about it second hand, but he could’ve seen something like that coming a mile away.

Of course, what happened next when Tim had been taken into the Kaiser’s throne room, forced to kneel before the man, Jonny admittedly did not foresee. It’s not like he’s Brian, with his weirdly accurate dreams (how does a robot even dream?), he just has a bit of a sense for how things tend to go. And besides, anyone with eyes or ears could tell how this story in particular would end. The set up wasn’t exactly one for that with a happy ending.

But that didn’t mean Jonny expected Tim to blow the moon up.

It reminded him of Ashes, funny enough. Being full of such rage and devastation that it had to go somewhere, and so they light something up and watch it burn. And watch it burn he did, for when Jonny went frantically searching he found Tim with his eyes melted from his skull.

Jonny couldn’t lose him, couldn’t lose the best thing that had happened to him.

He was going to hate him, Jonny knew, but he couldn’t lose him. So he made probably the most rash decision of his immortal life. And so he begged, he begged the Doctor to save him, despite everyone’s distaste at the idea. Despite everyone’s anger, despite Brian’s disappointment, despite Ashes’s ire, despite Ivy’s confusion and Nastya’s dismay. Even Aurora tried to protest against his request. The Toy Soldier didn’t care, it never seemed to have strong opinions. Everyone protested, everyone raged like they had with Brian.

But the Doctor never could pass up a chance to practice her science, could never pass up a chance to try and make her kids happy. Especially with how strained everything had gotten recently. With how the distance seemed to only continue growing no matter how much the Doctor tried to close the gap.

Jonny didn’t care if Tim hated him. He refused to lose the best thing that happened to him.

—--

Raphaella was bleeding, everything around her was covered in blood.

They had taken her wings.

They had taken her wings.

What crime did she commit to deserve that? She hadn’t– she hadn’t done anything, she thought. She was just curious. She just needed to know. That wasn’t a crime, was it?

Of course it was. Why else would they steal her wings.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dark red blood. She didn’t have a lot of time. She’d bleed out sooner or later, with nothing and no one to properly help her patch up the gaping open wounds. But she could delay it, hopefully, just long enough. Just long enough. And so she did.

She wrapped bandages around her torso as tightly as she could, hoping to stop the bleeding as much as possible, and got to work. She had scattered notes, half finished tests, a stolen prototype and half finished prosthetics to work with, she could do this. She didn’t want to die. So… She wasn’t going to die. Hopefully.

She worked tirelessly, and quickly, because she could feel the blood loss catching up to her and infection setting in from her bound but not cleaned wounds. But she did manage to finish her work, nearly two days after her wings were stolen. She was sluggish and tired and everything was too hot-too cold and the world was spinning. She couldn’t tell if her fatigue was exhaustion or if she really was just her lack of sleep or if it was the infection. She could hear death’s crooning calls, telling her to close her eyes and rest. But she was always a coward.

And the prosthetics, the most advanced piece of technology she’d ever made, were finished, and hopefully they would stave off death for long enough for her to finish her work, would stave it off for her to live a long and fulfilling life.

But first she had to attach the metallic wings to her body before the infection took her.

She didn’t exactly have the right materials to graft the metal wings onto her body properly, but the infection wouldn’t wait for her to get them, and she wouldn’t wait. Couldn’t, she couldn’t wait. She didn’t want to die, and she refused to die.

The process was a blur, and probably took longer than she thought, but her vision was swimming and she was fading in and out of consciousness. When she was finished, she collapsed and everything went dark.

Eventually she woke up, to find the infection cleared from her body, and the wings on her back integrated into her spine a lot better than she was expecting. As she sat up, she tested her wings. She wanted them to move, to open and close, and they did. She could feel, though slightly delayed, but she could feel it and they did what she wanted them to do.

She managed to escape death. Death hasn’t taken her yet.

She grinned, watching as her new prosthetic wings followed the commands she sent through her brain.

She had some science to do, with these new wings of hers.

—--

Byron sobbed, choking as he cried. The rain poured, acid burning his skin as he tried to drag himself to somewhere more covered.

He wanted Thea. He wanted Zeze. Anyone. Anyone. Everything hurt and his skin burned to the touch and his arm– gods his arm… He didn’t want this. This wasn’t ever what he wanted. This wasn’t ever what was supposed to happen.

The Music was so loud.

The Music almost drowned out the pounding and hissing of the rain, drowning out his thoughts of pain and sadness and grief. But by now Byron was skilled at ignoring the Music, keeping it confined to the back of his head.

Dorothea was always so much better at drowning out the Music for him, though. She and Zeze would sing or play an instrument, and their songs were always so much easier to use to drown out the Sounds of the Music that always haunted him, ever since he was young and small. Sometimes he could drown it out himself but his arm was– but he couldn’t play his violin like this. How would he even get it here? In the middle of a battlefield, long since destroyed and abandoned because everyone was supposed to be dead.

Gods, everyone was dead.

Byron dry heaved, his stomach long since emptied of any of its minimal contents. Everyone’s dead and it was all his fault, everything was all his fault.

His arm was crushed and he was going to die just like everyone else and he’d deserve it because this was all his fault. He was the one who planned their attack, he was the one who led the charge despite what everyone else told him. Charging first– with the Music, his impulsivity grasping him in its claws yet again, his hubris guiding his actions.

But by the gods, was he selfish.

He had to cut off his arm, his mangled, infected, crushed arm. He’d die if he left it there. He’d die if he cut it off. He doesn’t know how to make a proper tourniquet. He doesn’t know how to perform an amputation. The Music would tell him, whisper sweet nothings in whistles and flutes and harps, but the Music lies. It has before. Either way, he’d die here, with his guilt and the memories of his family, and his hubris, and the consequences of his own actions.

It’s what he deserved.

But he was selfish. He was afraid and he didn’t want to die.

He didn’t want to die.

But the Music was loud, and it was playing a song he’d heard many times before. He heard it with Zeze, he heard it with Dorothea, he’d heard it before the battle shifted ties.

He was going to die here.

He didn’t want to die. The wind blew, and acid rain sprayed into the wounds of his horrid and dangling arm, causing him to screech in pain. Or, well, almost screech in pain. Nothing more than a wheezey gasp escaped his mouth as pain raced through his body. The Music was so, so loud.

Byron finally dragged himself under one of the trees that was resistant to the rain pouring from the sky. A smaller mech was damaged and destroyed, but safe from the corrosive nature of the rain, under the same tree as him.

The Music was so loud and Byron didn’t want to die.

He had a choice to make.

The mecha’s arm was about the right size, it wasn’t horribly damaged, and it would be able to respond to his nervous system. It would be good enough for now.

Byron’s vision swam as he crawled closer to the mecha, tugging its arm free from its own mutilated body. The Music was so loud. He wasn’t fully present as he grabbed one of the mechas weapons, a sword that was long and sharp and the best he could use in this instance. With the sword accessible, Byron tore up his uniform jacket, and used the tears to tie off his arm to hopefully prevent himself from bleeding out.

The Music swelled, screaming and overlapping as if rushing to be the first to witness his selfishness and stupidity.

Byron grabbed the sword and leveled it to where his damaged arm was less damaged, and as the Music screeched and yelled and shouted, and as his vision blurred and everything started blurring into nothing but emptiness, Byron cut off his arm.

He dropped the sword, biting his tongue so hard he could taste blood as he reached for the mech’s arm. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die.

He wasn’t going to die today.

And the Music began to change.

And Byron collapsed as he grasped onto the arm of the mecha.

And Byron von Raum died there on that rainy, blood-spattered day.

And Marius von Raum awoke from the carnage of that rainy, blood-spattered day.

[thebuginyourwalls]

The Homunculus Kills its Creator

Heya guys! This is a bit of prequel content to a personal horror project I've been developing. The main project isn't gt centric, but the backstory of this character in particular is, so I thought I'd just share some bits and pieces now and again since I'm feeling inspired.

Heads up though, this part contains gore. TW for; Mild Bodyhorror, Poison, Surgical Torture, Vivisection (or Dissection, depending), Suicidal Ideation, Blood, and brief vomiting mention near the start.

It had done it. It had finally killed him.

For the first time in centuries, the homunculus smiled. 

An intimidating drop from the bedroom nightstand stretched down before it, ending in that hideous mold-green carpet that was quickly becoming soaked through with blood. The Alchemist was crawling around on the floor, retching, trying to make it to the door. No doubt to attempt to concoct an antidote to the poison in his laboratory, but the homunculus knew he would never make it.

Perhaps the Alchemist thought it a stupid creature, but it had been planning this for a very long time.

"That poison was years in the making," it stated simply, swinging its legs over the edge of the drawers as it watched him fruitlessly fumble with the closed door, "Even if you get to your equipment, you won't be able to counter it before it renders you immobile."

The Alchemist visibly tensed at the unfamiliar voice. His head turned to scan the room, wild eyes finally settling on its minute form when it gave a little wave to direct his attention.

"You?"

His mouth dribbled more blood as he spoke. Voice shaking and watery as if every breath threatened to drown him. The homunculus smiled again, flashing its eerily uniform teeth.

"Yes, me."

"How...When did you-"

"Learn to speak? Three iterations ago," It tilted its head, "Learn to think? Well, that I could do from the start."

Pushing itself from the edge of the drawers, it landed with a barely audible thump on the carpet. It had no bones to break, after all, for its body was merely enchanted alchemist's clay. Something which had proven useful in the hiding of needles and small vials of chemicals needed for this plan.

As it stood, it pushed its hand into its chest cavity, just under where the ribs would be if it were a real person, to retrieve the last essential piece. It did not grimace as it pulled the scalpel head from its skin, though the sensation brought back all-too-familiar memories of vivisections and amputations.

This time, though, it was itself who held the blade. It saw its master's gaze fixate on the gleaming metal as it approached. Its feet staining with blood up to the ankles. 

"You're a fool," the Alchemist warned, though his words were laced with poorly hidden fear. The homunculus could see his muscles twitching, trying to move him away, but the paralysis was already taking hold.

"Your life is ti-tied to mine...If I die, you will cease to be, homunculus. There is...no afterlife for your kind."

That hurt it a little. It had long dreamed of the world outside its flask, outside this house. Of green trees and blue skies and new air that did not smell of ancient dust.

But this was always how it would end. Either that, or when the Alchemist grew bored of his pet project and finally resolved not to revive it again.

It much preferred the ending where the Alchemist felt as much pain as possible.

"I know," the homunculus answered finally, "But there is an afterlife for you, no?"

It took another few steps forward, its grip on the scalpel head tightening. 

"Your soul shall live on. So why fear death as you do? All these years you have spent trying to extend your material life..."

More steps forward. The Alchemist's face had gone slack like melting putty, but his eyes still gleamed with awareness. There was anger, as it had anticipated, but also desperation and terror.

All this time, this had been the man it was so afraid of? It seemed laughable now, that such cruelty could come from someone so pathetic. 

The Homunculus leant forward, so close that it could see its own reflection in his eyes. A pale, sexless thing. Too uncanny to have ever passed as human, even if it had been the right size.

Imperfect. Unfinished. Soulless.

"I would wager that you fear what's waiting for you on the other side more than I fear nonexistence," it continued, "I will be glad to be the one to send you there."

With that, it stood straight again and began to walk down the length of the man's body until it reached his thigh. Then it clambered up and sat itself in the dip at the back of his knee. 

Its whole life, the Alchemist had impressed upon it the superiority of the human form. Something that it had always failed to achieve, even if it had made considerable progress since its early days as a shapeless mass. 

Now, as it cut through the man's trouser leg to the warm skin, beneath which nestled the vulnerable femoral artery,  it could not understand what was superior about it at all. 

It pressed the blade to the skin, blood immediately beading as it cut an X shape along the inside of the knee. The Alchemist made alarmed noises that could have almost been words, but his body remained still even as the homunculus pulled up the corners of skin, exposing the shining red flesh to the air. 

He continued protesting incoherently as it pressed its hand to the bare muscle, feeling for a pulse. Then, slowly, it made a second incision and pushed its hand under the flesh, delighting in the choked gagging it earnt from him.

"Funny. For so long, I thought you were untouchable," it grinned, deliberately moving its arm so as to agitate the wound further, "If only I had known before how easy it is to hurt you."

It took some time to bask in the whimpering of its old master as it searched for the artery, not caring for the viscera that coated its front as it did so. None of that would matter, soon enough. Everything would finally be over.

Suddenly, the Alchemist erupted in a shriek of agony that even made the homunculus flinch. It paused, listening to his labored breathing for a second before moving its hand again, this time clearly feeling the ropelike vein its fingers had only brushed against before. 

"Ah," it hummed, "The sciatic nerve. I had almost forgotten..."

The Alchemist screamed again as it took hold of it gently, pulling it up closer to the incision to see it in the light. The homunculus could feel the man's muscles spasming, which ironically only  caused it to jostle the nerve more in an attempt to keep it from slipping from its fingers.

It pressed the edge of its blade under the nerve, marveling at how the Alchemist's screaming devolved into a small, strangled noise.

"Before I cut this...and leave you in too much pain to comprehend anything else, let me say a final thing," it spoke slowly, clearly. It had to ensure it was heard, for after tonight it would never speak again.

"I hate you. Hate you. It was this that helped me to realize your ignorance, you know. For as much as you insisted I was incapable of feeling…My hatred is real. So is my pleasure at the knowledge that you will spend eternity in Hell, as I have since the day you created me."

It allowed him only a moment of reprieve so that the words could sink in before it mercilessly severed the nerve. 

It had never imagined its master could have made the sounds that followed. His hysterical sobbing was like music to its ears, and part of it was tempted to simply leave him like this now that the pain would leave him paralyzed even after the poison wore off.

But no, it needed something final. It had made its peace with dying, and to deny itself that fate could lead to self-doubt if it was not careful.

It reached its hand back into the wound and felt around for the femoral artery, cutting it quickly before any second-thoughts could take root in its mind. Immediately warm, crimson blood gushed out, coating almost every inch of the Homunculus' body as it slipped down off its dying master's leg. The carpet was soaked. The spongy fabric squelched with each tiny step it took back towards the Alchemist's face.

He was still crying, groaning with agony as his life drained away. He would be dead in a matter of minutes, and the Homunculus intended to savor every second. 

It sat itself down near the bedside cabinet it had jumped from, leaning against the antique wooden frame. Had it possessed lungs, it might have been compelled to sigh.

These are my last remaining moments, it thought to itself, I wish I had thought more about what I wanted to do before I was gone...

It cast its gaze up to one of the many shuttered windows. The room was dark, and so it was able to see the slightest sliver of moonlight through the cracks. But the sight only made its heart ache with regret. Or perhaps longing. It could not regret never having seen the sky, of course, for it had never been given a choice in the matter. 

It was all too late now, anyway. As it turned its attention back to the dying man again, it was surprised to feel very little about his ending. Gone was the terrifying master who had tormented it all these years, and in his place was simply a sad old man. His eyes were too clouded with pain and exhaustion to even register his own creation sitting across from him. It was…disconcertingly dull as far as revenge went.

The Homunculus closed its eyes and leant its head back against the wood. There was no good in having the last thing it saw be the exact same as the first thing it saw, so it imagined the night sky instead. Beyond the shallow breaths of the Alchemist, beyond the creaking walls of the house, he could hear it; The rushing of soft wind and the chirping of crickets. 

It imagined that the sky was clear and full of brilliant stars like the astronomy maps on the walls. It could pick out all of the constellations, and name all the planets visible with the naked eye. It smiled again, and pictured the moon last. Full and beautiful, illuminating its path through the winding forests of silver trees.

The Homunculus sat with this image and waited to die.

And it waited.

And waited.

....

It listened. The shallow breathing had stopped.

Yet the minutes ticked on far beyond its calculations. When it finally cracked an eye open, the Alchemist was still and silent, his own eyes glassy and unseeing. 

The Homunculus simply stared at him for a while longer, counting down the seconds. Then those seconds turned to minutes and those minutes turned to hours, and that all too familiar terror laced its way back into its chest.

This wasn't meant to be happening. It was meant to be over.

Slowly, the homunculus got to its feet and padded back over, straining to hear even the slightest indication of life. When it was sure that it heard no breath, it moved to his neck and placed a hand there, searching for a pulse. When it found none, it went back and forth between these two actions until it was going dizzy with anxiety.

Had it gotten the ratios wrong? Had it cut something non-essential instead of the artery it was aiming for?

What if...this was something he had planned for? He was an Alchemist, after all. One that had lived for hundreds of years already, no less. How could it have been so stupid as to think it could be the first to catch him off guard?

It began to pace across the floor, frantically muttering the steps of its plan back to itself. There had to be a mistake somewhere. Some reason as to why it had failed to properly kill him. Perhaps he had backed up his soul in some way? 

It made a mental note of everything in the lab. It had been confined to that room for so long that it could take stock of everything in there with its eyes closed. If something had changed, or if the Alchemist had constructed such a vessel, it would have seen it.

The Homunculus glared at the man's corpse with sudden suspicion. What if he had not actually bled out, but passed out? 

The image of him awakening at any moment, with righteous fury in his eyes and absolutely no way of appealing to him, was enough to make the homunculus seize the scalpel again and scramble up onto his back, tearing through the fabric of his shirt with animal desperation.

It had to be quick. Which was going to be an issue given that he was lying on his front. It put a thick layer of muscles between the homunculus and his vital organs.

But what else could it do? It had to be sure that he was dead for good. 

With a determined grimace, it cut open a strip of skin along his back and began to hack away the flesh beneath in chunks. It was far less elegant than its earlier attempt, but it did not care. It just had to get in.

At some point, it abandoned the scalpel and resolved to pull apart the meat with its hands, burrowing like some awful parasite until the tough muscle finally gave way to the soft organ tissues. It did not stop to prioritize as it tore through them one by one. If the Alchemist had indeed found a way to bind his soul to his body, then it had to make the body unusable.

The process took what felt like forever, yet finally it emerged from the ragged wound with blood in its teeth and under its nails, and it knew that no amount of scrubbing would ever truly get the stains out. 

But. He was dead. Or as close to death as someone who dealt in obscene magics could be. Yet the homunculus was still alive.

It stood in the marvelous silence of the house that had so long been its prison, and for the first time in centuries, it cried.

[kamyru]

The blood on my hands scares me to death (Toshiki Kasumi, Munechika Takado & Sentaro Kyogoku) (Shorts)

This is for @voltagefandomproject

TW: Mention of death, losing patients and suicide

Toshiki Kasumi

Words counting: 300

Dr. Kasumi closed the door of his office and put away his jacket. He wanted to relax but couldn't. So, he walked in circles in his office, trying to be as discrete as possible and not make enough noise to be heard by his colleagues from ICU. He sat on his seat, then stood up the next second. Dr. Kasumi didn't remember checking if he closed to door with the key. He had to go and do it.

The moment the cardiologist's hands touched the knob, he froze. The metal didn't feel cold. It was warm, nearly as warm as a living human. No, no, no! Toshiki Kasumi couldn't stand it. Minutes ago, he met his best friend's parents at his grave. "If it's not the Angel of Death," they said to him. Kasumi couldn't see it, but he could feel it: the blood on his hands. He had to do something about it. Where was the sink? WHERE WAS THE DAMN SINK?

The head of EICU tried to open the door, but it was locked. The beautiful man nearly broke down the door while trying to escape his asphyxiating room. He could swear that the blood of his dead patients hit his face but couldn't do anything about it when his hands were dirty.

"It's today," Dr. Takado whispered when he saw his boss rushing from his office to the bathroom in the on-call room. He froze with his eyes on the door. His lips got as thin as a needle. One, two, five, ten minutes passed, and Dr. Kasumi returned. The orthopedist's eyes traveled from his face to his hands. They were red and with a rash. The same happened the last year and the year before the last. And would probably happen the next one too.

Munechika Takado

Words counting: 370

Dr. Takado opened his eyes and threw aside the blanket he messily put over himself two hours ago. Why did he go home when his entire life was in the hospital? He didn't do enough yet again. Where did he leave his car keys? At least he was smart enough not to get in his home clothes. Dr. Takado didn't have a home. He had no right to own one after all he did. His money was made out of blood, flesh, and tears. He didn't have the right to use them.

The head of the EICU let out a sigh when he heard the door of the headquarters opening and closing loudly, followed by heavy steps. He didn't need to leave his office to know that the doctor who had left less than three hours ago was back. However, he stopped writing when he heard a barely audible mumble from the other room. When he got closer to the door, the words became clear enough to be understood.

"Where did I put the patient's file."

After another minute, Takado planted himself in one of the multitudes of empty seats, surrounded by textbooks, papers from the file, and a running computer. He had to know if there was a way to save the patient's diabetic foot attacked by gangrene. What if, a few hours before the surgery, someone discovered a way to save them? What if he missed a "Nota Bene" from his textbooks that said the recovery without the amputation was higher than he had thought?

But no, it was just like Dr. Takado knew. The amputation was imminent. He left the office and walked away while looking at his hands. The orthopedist was thought to be one of the best in Japan, and even in the world. However, the number of limbs he cut off was too high to make him proud. Why his bloody hands were still on their places while kids had to learn to walk with no legs?

"The safety nets on the roof aren't put there only for the patients," Dr. Ekuni wrote on his board, covered his face with his arm, and tried to get enough sleep for both him and Dr. Takado.

Sentaro Kyogoku

Words counting: 271

CPR on kids is made with only one hand pressed in the middle of their chest. The frequency of the compresses has to be around 100-120 and their depth between 4-5 cm.

Dr. Sen was used to performing CPR so much that he could last around ten minutes without being replaced by someone else. He was more than sure that he could last twice that time. Though, he couldn't confirm it, being surrounded by empathetic and well-taught colleagues.

But there was one thing about CPR Dr. Sentaro Kyogoku couldn't get used to - stopping it for declaring the moment of death.

It was ten minutes since the pediatrician fell on his knees in front of the child he had tried his best to save from cancer for more than a year. Ten minutes since he tried to convince the God he didn't believe in, to give their soul back. Dr. Sen failed this time, like many others. He wouldn't hear the kid complaining about chest pain in the morning. However, he would hear the sound of their ribs contracting while trying to fall asleep for two hours.

People had told Sentaro Kyogoku that he looked like an angel, and unlike Kasumi, they didn't add "of death" afterward. But of what use were their words if he couldn't save every child in the world from suffering? Of what use was his face when he was losing five patients a day?

The latex on Dr. Sen's hands stopped him from feeling the warmth living in the kid's body. And now that it was gone, it was no use because the warmth also disappeared.

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril:16. "YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO" - evil au

TW: NON CONSENSUAL AMPUTATION

@whumpril- 16. Guilt | Shock | "I'm so sorry." (Yes it fit all three)

@chaos-company

Binders coupled with a magnetic field held me upward, while various bounds ensured I could barely shift. Force-suppressing restraints kept me away from my gift, the Dark far away from my reach. Pat circled my chained body, making some last minute adjustments to—

No. It won’t happen.

I lunged at him, to no avail. Held as I was, I could barely shift. I snarled instead, but it did nothing more than make Pat brush my captive mind in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, Master. You won’t feel anything.”

That was the issue, wasn’t it? Not feeling what I should feel.

“You’ll regret this,” I growled between gritted teeth.

I flapped my wings, but they were too bound to move. They strained against the chains, doing little more than gathering a headache-inducing cacophony of clinks. I tensed and relaxed the muscle nevertheless, testing the leeway the restraints allowed them. It was too tight, too little- not even enough to throw the Togorian near me away, but it was something.

Soon, I wouldn’t even have that.

A long needle appeared in Pat’s hand.

Local anesthesia, my brain provided.

A strange kind of emptiness filled my chest. I struggled more, uncaring of the irritated skin that threatened to tear apart under the striction. It was negligible, compared to what my so-called Flock threatened to do.

Pain meant power.

None of the restraints gave, however, and I stayed trapped. A beautiful bird held in a golden cage, cared for but deprived of its most basic right.

Do you know what happens to little house birds? the Dark whispered in my ears.

I shuddered and pulled on the binders, wings shaking.  No matter how strongly I bid it, the Force remained silent to my calls. Despair dimmed my vision, until only a vague blur remained.

“You have to let me go,” I pleaded to Pat.

Perhaps the bond we once shared would appeal to him?

"I'm so sorry, but it must be done." His face was mournful, but determined. My stomach flopped.

I heard the words, but they felt empty, meaningless.

I should have known. Hope had always only held me back

I clenched my fist, hooks sinking deep into skin. Drops of blood fell on the well polished floor. For once, no one would scold me for dirtying it. A glance at Pat taught me he hadn’t noticed, and I reveled in this small rebellion. Not that it mattered. Soon, the whole room would be painted crimson.

I couldn’t stop it.

Pat stepped closer, and my panic increased tenfold.

“Let’s begin the surgery.”

The long needle edge was sank into my spine, and I screamed. I screamed as tough leather was placed into my mouth, and I screamed as my whole backside was rendered numb. I screamed until my throat gave out and I could scream no more, because I knew that, were I too stop, everything would become real.

The noise stopped.

I sagged in the restraints, mind rendered dizzy by the drugs now running through my system. Pat was behind me, touching the appendages I couldn’t feel anymore, and I couldn’t help but wonder… Were they still there? Were they gone?

It didn’t matter anyway.

No matter how much they removed in the surgery… They had warned me enough that the remnants would never allow me to fly again.

I turned away from the thought, folding my sense of self deep within my mind. Without the Force, it was harder. My core was lost amidst wild instinctual fear, and even my Siegrind memories remained closed to me. But I pushed further and further, sinking into lives I lived and lives others did. Sometimes, fear pushed my mind to bubble back, but I resisted. Again and again, helped by whatever cursed meditations poisoned me, I coralled my self further away from reality. I didn’t want to be here. 

Here had nothing to give me. 

Nothing but weakness I would drown in, pain I couldn’t use, and chains I had proved unable to break down. 

What a joke of a Darksider I was, I mocked, in between the sound of scalpel cleanly cutting skin and the mournful cry of a broken bone.

What use was living, when none of your life was your own?

Back in the room I refused to be in, held down by those it should have never feared from… a single tear rolled down a Siegrind’s cheek.

It was fun while it lasted.

[luxarcher]

Another Goretober commission~ This time featuring Jem!

I’m doing a Goretober special on my commissions - starting from £10! [Patreon] [Commission me] [Redbubble] [Ko-Fi]

[anonymouspuzzler]

hey, it's a couple comics with the new blorbos!! I've been trying to make little one-off comics to practice drawing 'em, plus test out writing and characterization and such. it's been a lot of fun and I have more I want to do soon..!!!

bonus, a little one that, unfortunately for us all, really does sum up the dynamics:

(detailed image descriptions slash transcripts under the readmore!)

COMIC 1: BUCK MAKES COFFEE Panel 1 shows Buck (a middle-aged, barrel-chested white man with a bushy reddish mustache and two tufts of hair on an otherwise-bald square head), wearing his sleepwear (an off-white t-shirt that exposes his stomach, and forest green pajama pants), standing in a kitchen with orange wallpaper, staring at a 60's-style coffee-maker on top of a teal counter. He has an expression like he's just woken up and is reaching back to scratch his ass. Buck (thinking): ...hm. Wonder if Dynamo likes coffee...?

Panel 2 cuts in closer on Buck, who is looking thoughtful and reaching up with his other hand to scratch his mustache. Buck (thinking): Guess I could ask once he's awake...? But I dunno if he should even have any while he's still busted up-- Davey (off-screen): Oh!! Hey, good! You are still here!

Panel 3 cuts to Davey (a middle-aged, lanky Black man with long curly brown hair, a thin mustache, a diagonal scar from the top-left to bottom-right of his face, and right arm amputated at the shoulder) walking in a doorway. He is wearing blue boxer shorts and still has the amputated stump of his arm and some of his chest wrapped in bandages. There are also band-aids on his torso, elbow and ring finger. He is pointing up at the scar on his face, smiling and winking, with shoujo-style sparkles all around him. Davey: You were gone when I woke up, so I thought maybe you went out or something. Anyway, I'm feeling way better!! Got up and walked around without any vertigo, even! And look how well the stitches you did are healing!!

Panel 4 cuts back to Buck, who has turned slightly to look at Davey. His eyes are wide and he is blushing furiously, looking flustered. Buck (thinking, each sentence in a scattered thought bubble across the panel): OH NO HE'S HOT. okay calm down play it cool. say something clever already. BE NORMAL. quit staring at him oh my GOD. you have your whole rivals thing to maintain say something snarky. or just offer him coffee I don't know you gotta say SOMETHING

Panel 5 shows Davey from behind, looking at Buck with a mildly confused smile. Buck, still visibly blushing and flustered, leans back against the counter with one arm, the other on his hip, trying and failing to look casual. Davey: ...uh. Can I help with anything-- Buck (speech bubble overlapping Davey's and breaking out of frame slightly) DO YOU COFFEE

Panel 6 (the last panel) cuts to the other side as Buck, looking mortified, hunches over the counter facing away from Davey. Behind him, Davey stands with his arm stiff at his side, visibly holding back laughter and beginning to blush furiously. Buck (thinking, represented by faded words behind him, cut off in sections by Buck, the coffee maker and/or the edge of the frame): OH GOD O[cut off] NO WHAT TH[cut off]L IS WRON[cut off]TH YOU HE'[cut off]NG TO THINK YOU'RE A TOTAL ASOCIAL FREAK LIKE GOD DAMN BUCK [cut off] IS YO[cut off]FU[cut off] TALKIN[cut off] PEOPL[cut off]OW DO[cut off] SCREW [cut off]P THIS [cut off]ADLY Davey (thinking): HAHA OH NO An arrow pointing at Davey: instantly in love

COMIC 2: THE COMPUTER IS BROKEN Panel 1 shows a concerned Davey (hair in a ponytail and wearing a red leather helmet with built-in orange-lensed round goggles over his eyes, a light-blue pair of overalls, a brown leather glove on his left hand, and a prosthetic right arm made of various kitchen appliances and car parts) holding an old beige laptop that is emitting dark clouds of smoke. Behind him, looking on in concern, is Buck (wearing goggles on top of his head, a forest-green turtleneck sweater, brown gloves, and khaki pants), and Minerva AKA Minnie, a prepubescent white girl with freckles and red hair in giant twin braids. Minnie is wearing a white school uniform shirt with golden-yellow stripes on the sleeves, a light yellow sweater tied around her shoulders, and beige fingerless gloves, with her nails painted black. All three of them are totally silent, with a speech bubble with three ellipses coming from Davey.

Panel 2 cuts closer to Buck, on the left, glaring incredulously down at Minnie, who is shouting back indignantly and throwing her hands in the air. In the background, Davey is cradling the still-smoking laptop as if trying to reassure it. Buck: What did you DO? Minnie: NOTHING!! It's not my fault your ancient laptop barely works! Davey (in a tiny speech bubble as if under his breath): She doesn't mean it, baby.

Panel 3 shows Buck leaning over with one hand on his hip, the other shoving away a furious-looking Minnie by the top of her head. He is looking with mild concern over at Davey, who is clutching the laptop protectively to his chest, grimacing. Buck: Anyway... What's the diagnosis? Need me to steal a newer model? Davey: And deal with a planned-obsolescence brick of pure bloatware? Absolutely not. Trust me, I'll replace any parts that got fried and she'll be better than new.

Panel 4 shows Davey sitting down at a table, placing the laptop down. Minnie launches herself into a seat on the left side, stretching her arms out across the table, with a mischievously delighted grin. Minnie: Wait-- so you can swap out any parts? Could you add, like - a missile launcher code? Or hacking software? Or an infinite gil generator?

Panel 5 shows Davey turning to look directly at Minnie, who looks back with a neutral expression. Panel 6 then shows Davey leaning down towards her with a wide, knowing grin, while Minnie, grimacing, looks away guiltily. Davey: Minnie, did you brick the laptop playing the critically acclaimed MMORPG Final Fantasy XIV, [the rest of the meme text is in a word balloon that fades into the background behind him and Minnie] Minnie: you can't prove anything

Panel 7 cuts to Buck scratching his head, looking off to the side in confusion. Minnie is in the far foreground to the right, rolling her eyes. Buck: Final Fantasy...? Like... the thing on Playstation? Minnie: UGH YOU'RE SO OLD Buck: Is Barrett still in it? He was always my favorite.

Panel 8 shows Davey, to the left, and Minnie, in front, both sitting at the table, with Buck seen from behind in the foreground, facing Davey. Minnie has her arms folded on the table and is resting her chin on her forehead, looking up at Davey, looking slightly fed up. Davey is sitting with his legs crossed, prosthetic arm folded over his knee, left elbow resting on one knee so he can pose flirtatiously with his hand on his chest and a smug, playful grin, with sparkles and hearts coming off of him. Davey: Your favorite was the Black guy with a big metal arm, fighting against a corrupt system, with a heart of gold under it all...? Buck (visibly blushing): Shut up and fix the laptop, Davey

[Bonus, inline comic description: Minnie, left, and Buck, right, sitting in a car. Buck is in the drivers seat wearing a beige jacket over his turtleneck and round, orange-lensed goggles over his eyes, staring straight ahead, expression hidden by the goggles and his mustache. He has his right hand on the steering wheel while his left arm leans against the window. Minnie is sitting in the passenger seat with both hands resting on a rat cage in her lap, in which Oreo, a black and white rat, can be seen peeking out. She is looking over at Buck with eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised. Minnie: why does Davey call you babygirl Buck: how about we stop talking for a little while.]

[painsandconfusion]

No Anesthesia

Febuwhump Eighth

(tw: fear of death, gangrene (flesh rotting), amputation, crush injuries, broken bones (hammer 1, foot 0), long term captivity, dungeon cell, shackle restraints, tons of pain or whatever)

[Febuwhump Masterpost]

.

“Well, that didn’t heal right.”

Whumpee gagged down a scream as Whumper poked at their broken foot.

It was wrong. So wrong already. Black creeping in along the edges. They couldn’t describe the pain - it was just…wrong.

“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to run.”

As if that made any difference.

As if that justified taking a hammer to Whumpee’s foot - snapping all the little bones that ran across its top.

As if that made this better.

Whumpee twitched, trying not to wince away as Whumper’s fingers brushed along the edge of the spreading blackness.

“I’m going to have to take it off.”

Whumpee’s brain frizzled out. Froze up. Flipped a switch and turned off.

“W…wha-what?”

Whumper chuckled lightly at that. “Just what I said - it needs to come off.”

Whumpee stared, eyes wide. “M-my…my foot??”

Whumper nodded, standing. They crossed the room, digging through their ‘little cabinet of toys’. Whumpee was sure they were kidding.

Almost.

Almost sure right up until Whumper turned around, holding a saw, a knife, and a length of rope.

Whumpee immediately kicked back against the ground, scuttling backward until the chain around their wrist caught, snugging them against the wall. They clawed against it, struggling away. They almost yelped when Whumper stepped closer.

“N-no no please! No Whumper please!”

Whumper laughed at them, kneeling down next to Whumpee. “What? You’d rather die from gangrene?” They pulled out the key to the shackle at Whumpee’s wrist, and undid the latch.

Whumpee immediately skittered back further, until they backed themself into the corner of the cell. “No! No no no don’t touch me!”

Whumper sighed, gripping Whumpee by the ankle on the blackening foot. Whumpee screamed as sour, acidic agony ripped up their leg, clutching at their chest until their breath came in quick, shallow gasps though clenched teeth.

Whumpee didn’t stop. They drug Whumpee to the center of the room, locking their ankle into one of the floor’s shackles.

Whumpee squirmed, rolling up to claw at the shackle that pressed against their burning foot. “Y-you’re kidding - please - you’re kidding. You - you can’t just…you can’t just do-”

Whumper gripped one of their hands, jerking them back so they splat against the floor. Whumpee screamed against as their mangled foot pulled against the shackle. The vibrating echoes bounced off the bare walls, ricocheting the room in a never-ending shrill.

Whumper locked that wrist down into a shackle as well, stretching them flat across the cold stone floor. Then they locked down Whumpee’s other leg.

“No - no no no no no no no no no come on - you - you can’t be serious. Please please stop!” The words kept tumbling uselessly form Whumpee’s lips, but Whumper never slowed. They picked up the tools, settling down next to Whumpee’s leg.

“This is for your own good.”

Tears streamed down Whumpee’s temples, tickling against their ears as they thrashed and pulled uselessly at the iron. The metal dug into their skin, rubbing and burning against the already-raw flesh there.

They continued whimpering pathetically “Pl-please no - no please don’t -do-don’t touch me!”

Whumper brought the knife to their ankle. “Sorry, I don’t have any anesthetic. But you’re tough, right?”

Whumpee screamed as the metal ripped through them.

It didn’t take long.

They barely felt the jarring, rugged vibrations of the saw on bone before their world swam into darkness.

.

[Febuwhump Masterpost]

Thanks @febuwhump for putting together this event!!!

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @jadeocean46910 @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @cryptidhongo @rainbows-and-whumperflies @bookish-anon @whumpy-catfish @whumpworld )

I never know who to tag at the beginning of challenges like this, so lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[fandom-monium]

fuck shit i loved unrivaled but can we please get jealous reader? like maybe everyones on a mission and spencer has to flirt with someone?? the target??? thank you keep doing what you do!! <3

Established Relationship Rivalry

Summary: In which you really don't like Spencer talking to other girls... or assassins. "Shut your mouth, before I do it for you."

WC: 1.8k

TW: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, Jealous!Reader, companion piece to Unrivaled but not a sequel, pining (?), fluff and angst(?), established relationships RIVALRY, more reader-centric sorry, ft. Entropy Cat Adams that bitch (derogatory), a darker side of Mysterious!Reader comes to light

⏤

You sit at the bar a few seats down from JJ, watching Spencer at the corner of your eye as he puts on a show of settling into the velvet booth. 

The restaurant is fancy, the kind you take your significant other, or in this case, invite your ‘high end’ date to gain their trust, lure them in. Your vision swims at its dark red scheme and slightly dim lights, but it’s not too much that you don’t notice how good Spencer looks in his new suit, something he’s recently taken up. The blazer’s dark against his light skin, his purple tie is in a lopsided knot, and he even combed his hair a little. 

You sigh. If only you weren’t on the job, you’d stare as much as you’d want. It seems you’re not the only one who’s noticed either, surrounding patrons stealing glances at Spencer despite most of them with company.

You decide suits might be your favorite on him. It’s definitely up there.

But as the wine glass threatens to crack between your fingers, you weigh the possibility that maybe⏤just maybe⏤you should reel in your emotions, because you might actually get yourself kicked off the operation.

Now, you’re not jealous. Seriously.

This isn’t jealousy. Spencer and you aren’t even like that. Like, yeah you care about each other (more than what would be considered platonic), but you’re not together together, and there’s certainly not this weird, unspoken agreement that neither of you are to be ‘involved’ with others. Because that would imply you have feelings. More specifically, non-platonic feelings for someone you’re just not ready to admit to.

Then Catherine Adams enters the arena.

Her strides are short, almost dainty, and if you were a less experienced profiler you’d think that she was a normal woman, shy and awkward as any first date would be.

But you know each footstep is calculated, controlled. A perfected facade built on years of practice.

Other than respecting her abilities, you don’t know how to feel about her. From what little you guys could gather from her file, she is little… psycho.

So no, you’re not jealous. 

You’re not jealous when she exchanges shy smiles with Spencer. 

You’re not jealous when she invades his personal bubble. Or when she gropes him for his gun.

No, this isn’t jealousy that burns in your stomach. Oh no no no.

This is fury, your eyes stinging with barely contained rage. And as you imagine the eight different ways you could amputate Adam’s hands with a butterknife (there’s plenty within arms length, you could reach it), it takes Hotch’s stern voice for you to lower it to a simmer.

“(Your Name), calm down,” he crackles into your earpiece.

Hoping to dissuade from yourself, you cover a sickly sweet smile behind your glass, your canines glinting in the light. “Hotch, please, I’m the epitome of calm and collected.”

“We can literally see your teeth grinding on cams, and if we can see it, Cat Adam’s will too⏤”

You huff.

“Now calm down. You look more like a disgruntled divorcee than a satisfied customer.”

Okay, harsh. You almost reply indignantly before you catch JJ’s gaze, her blue eyes warm with enough understanding that it makes your shoulders relax. As much as you appreciate her, you’re supposed to be strangers in this restaurant. She can’t even mouth to you without giving you both away, blowing your covers⏤

“...tell Blondie McBlonderson over there at the bar to disappear.”

⏤cover. Welp. There goes that plan.

Immediately you lower your gaze to the rim of your glass, keeping the bitch in your peripheral as JJ clenches her jaw and slides off her stool, trudging off to the kitchen. It’s a chess match; Cat picks each of you off as if you’re pawns, sacrificial pieces, bait, until the restaurant is clear and Morgan, Lewis, and you remain. Gun raised, you try not to sneer as Lewis cuffs the Bomber’s hands behind her back, leading her and the civilians outside. 

“Guess we’re right back where we started. You and me with a gun,” Adams huffs, her tone betraying nothing. Your anger spikes as she grips Reid like a human shield. “Although, I didn’t think I’d get the chance to see you.” She stares across the room at Morgan…and you.

She’s looking directly at you.

You frown. “Do I know you?”

Adams snorts, adjusting Reid in front of her, “No, I guess not. Last time we met was years ago, and you were a whole other person at the time. I barely even recognized you.” Her eyes trail over your figure, and your skin crawls as her lips stretch into a cruel smile. A threat. “But you never forget your first, right?”

Oh. Oh.

Oh no.

In the blink of an eye, you pull the hammer of your firearm, its click echoing through the empty restaurant louder than it should have. Your lips pull back in a snarl, “Shut your mouth, before I do it for you.” 

Her response: a cheshire grin in return.

Huh. You hadn’t used that tone in what feels like forever, your voice laced with the promise of silence and death. It doesn’t feel as foreign as you hoped, and the realization wrenches your gut as you pretend not to notice Reid and Morgan’s scrutinizing gaze, eyes full of questions. Questions you really don’t want to answer. Not now.

Preferably not ever.

So you redirect everyone’s attention back to the situation at hand. It takes little prompting, considering Adams is holding a gun to Reid’s face, and it’s not long when Morgan convinces her to surrender. Like a shadow, you trail behind Morgan as Reid hauls her to the prison transport, your eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.

As Reid steps away, as he quietly settles next to you, before Morgan shuts the truck’s double doors Adams catches your eye. Her eyes glisten as her body shudders from hiccups. But she grins at you, wide enough to make your stomach squirm.

You flip her the bird in return.  

For the rest of the night you act natural, keeping your head down. You don’t leave right away, because nothing screams ‘something’s wrong’ than ditching everyone, so you passively agree to check on Garcia despite your grim mood. But at the sight of her, inebriated as she aggressively tells everyone how she loves them⏤loves you⏤you can’t help the tiny smile that spreads across your face (mostly because she’s pinching your cheeks). 

Even if she doesn’t mean to, Garcia manages to brighten your day, and you love her more for that.

After bidding your farewells (swallowing when Morgan shoots you a look that says, ‘this isn’t over’), you walk side by side with Reid, trudging through the tense atmosphere until you realize with a tight chest: he escorted you to your car. For a moment, you both stand at the driver’s side door, a beat of silence passing as you shakily pull out your keys. 

His hands, stuffed in his pockets, clench and unclench as his jaw sets. He’s yet to look you in the eye but you know, and for once you pray⏤to the universe, to whatever deities are out there, to Karma⏤that he’ll let this go, drop the subject. Hopefully never bring it up.

But this is Spencer we’re talking about. He’s your… friend. He’s confused and concerned and he wants to help some way, somehow.

So as you unlock your car, as his lips part, you don’t give him the chance, shoving away your dread. 

“You wanna get dinner?” It comes rushed, fear trickling into your voice. You hope he doesn’t notice. (He does.)

Spencer blinks at you, his mouth agape. “What?”

“It’s just,” You lick your lips, tugging thick air into your lungs as your body screams to run. Your eyes dart from his, looking at the ground, your car, the scuffs on your shoes, and you hate yourself, knowing Spencer notices all of it. “It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to eat at that expensive restaurant, ya know? It was paid for too.”

Please, don’t ask. Please, don’t ask. 

“...That’s true.” His tone is scarily neutral. 

Looking up, you’re taken aback as he turns away to round the hood of your car to the passenger side door. “What do you think of thai for tonight?” 

You stammer a response, something along the lines of ‘uh⏤yeah, sounds good’ as you clamber into the car after him, fumbling to insert your key into the ignition. Your nerves only worsen by the second as you drive off into the dark, the only sounds coming from the rev of the engine and your heart thundering in your ears. Up ahead the traffic light changes, slowing you to a stop. You glance at Spencer, his purple tie red from the light, his side profile softly outlined in its harsh glow. He remains deathly quiet.

The silent treatment, huh. If he thinks reverse psychology is going to work on you...

He’d be absolutely right. His silence is deafening.

You turn to him, “Spencer⏤”

“You don’t have to.” Your breath catches in your throat, his lips parting and closing as he stumbles for the right words, “I mean, not right now. I-I know this isn’t the best time, but at some point we’re going to have to talk about it. So whenever you’re ready, I⏤” He clears his throat, twisting in his seat and meeting your eyes. His eyes gleam, earnest even in the dark. 

“We’ll be here for you.”

You can’t help gawking at him. Because Spencer’s eyes are inquisitive and kind⏤always have been⏤but right now they’re trained on you, and your face burns as your heart swells. You’re suffocating.

Because you want to tell him⏤all of them.

But fear clutches your heart.

White-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, you face the road again, blinking through unshed tears. “Thank you.”

Spencer nods, relaxing back into his seat. You’re relieved your answer’s enough for now.

The light turns green and you speed off. The grim night turns a little brighter as you fall back into routine with Spencer, the tension slowly lifting, your stomach, once filled with lead, now stuffed with thai food.

You’ll deal with Cat Adams later. She’s behind bars, so you doubt it’ll be anytime soon. You laugh as Spencer curses, soiling another pair of chopsticks when they hit the floor. Yes, you’ll deal with her when you’re ready.

That is, until you’re stopped by another red light.

⏤

AN: no cap i hesitated posting this because i realized after finishing its less of a Spencer Reid x Reader and more a reader-centric. i wanted to establish that reader has a whole backstory sorryyyy i hope yall like it anyway :)))

if you didnt notice, unless stated otherwise almost all my oneshots and FtH are tied together by Mysterious!Reader. yall dont have to but if you read them it helps understand reader better??

[ex0rin]

@febuwhump Day 8: No Anesthesia Bucky Barnes, Hydra Scientists - 585 words tw: forced amputation, tw: violence, tw: gore, medical experimentation

Read the rest of the prompts on AO3 at: FebuWhump 2022 (HTP Edition)

(gif found from here)

They take his arm piece by piece as he fades in and out of consciousness.

The first time Bucky opens his eyes his vision swims and black creeps in around the edges, blurring out everything aside from the sharp, strange feeling of something digging into his forearm - he can feel the vibrations of it reverberating all the way up to his shoulder; it carries up, up, up his arm in dull and throbbing waves.

He doesn’t realize that he’s looking down, tracking over his bared chest with his eyes glancing over towards the point of contact until he finds that the stabbing, prodding ache is from the rapid spinning blades of a bone saw spiraling down into already bloody wet and messy flesh - the background noise becomes nothing but the violent turn of the saw as the pain becomes agonizing.

He can feel the uneven spatter of blood and gore against the curve of his waist.

Bucky chokes on the sound of his scream as it builds up behind his throat, his body jerking and twitching and instinctively trying to get away from the sharp, sharp, sharp pain - he feels the edges of restraints cutting into his legs and right arm in an attempt to keep him still.

It hurts so much more now that Bucky knows it’s happening.

His brain brings him back to the bunker, blocking out the bright lights above him and cascading his vision back to gray concrete and dust, back to the needles and loud whir of the machines in that prison before Steve had found him and had wrapped an arm around his back to carry him out of there.

Out of here?

This must be a dream.

Steve had already saved him.

— — —

“Doctor!” a man’s voice shouts, panicked and close as Bucky comes to a second time; he struggles to remember where he is and what’s happening to him - he can feel the body-warmed iron of a shackle around his right wrist and nothing at all of his left arm, “He is waking again.”

There’s a cool flood of liquid that crawls along the inside of his veins, his newly awakened fingertips buzzing and itching before going numb entirely - that smooth flow of fluid inches upwards, slowly shutting down his responses as it goes.

“The serum is keeping him conscious.” someone says - they don’t sound frustrated or annoyed, they sound awed by whatever that might mean for him, for them; Bucky hears the bone saw start again, suddenly loud and so close to his ear that his heart stutters into a rabbit-quick beat, “Do you think he can feel this happening to him.”

Bucky’s breath comes fast, desperate and wild panting that makes him dizzy as the blades touch down, spinning into his shoulder and severing flesh from cartilage from bone; he tries to shout again, wants to beg and barter and plead for them to stop but all he can hear is the wet, damp squelch and crunch of the saw digging down, down, down.

He only has another moment of thought, another brief flashing memory before he manages to force his body into its own kind of shut down, not from the drugs and not from the excruciating pain; Bucky keeps his breath back, he tangles it up behind his wordless screams and refuses to give in from the weak, desperate noise of his brain crying out for oxygen - he desperately claws his own way back to the comfort of darkness.

Bucky.

Hang on.

Grab my hand.

[mxvladdy]

After the Fall

TW: Brief mentions of blood, amputation, gore, dealing with loss

A/N: A little character study between Lucifer and Mammon that I’ve had bounced around in a notebook for a while. It takes place right after they fall into the Devildom.

Mammon had never seen Lucifer like this before. He mentor- no brother was supposed to be the strongest of them. Yet, Mammon didn’t recognize the man in front of him. Lucifer’s once regal posture was now hunched and broken. The brilliant armor he took so much pride in lay cracked and stained underneath his swaying feet. The luster surrounding their father’s most cherished son was gone. He radiated a bitterness now that had been so unlike him. Mammon wasn’t sure what to do with this new Lucifer in front of him, or the new him.

For the first time in all of his existence, Mammon knew fear. Not just for his brother’s but for himself. New disgusting emotions were swirling deep within, a cesspool of things he was taught to fight against all cementing deep in his gut. “The others,” Lucifer croaks out not even acknowledging Mammon’s presence. His back still to his charge. “How are they?”

Mammon sighs, scratching at the large swatch of bandages wrapped tightly across his bare chest. He felt dampness under his callous fingers. Pulling back he glances at the black sheen coating his fingers. Damn it. They needed to be changed already. He ignores it for now stepping into the room. “That demon bloke got some healers lookin’ after them all. Asmo is still unconscious, an’ there is still no sign of Levi. But that demon’s little lapdog said he will help search- once we are stable.” He looks over Lucifer’s battered back. “Speaking of-” To a casual observer, Lucifer looked collected. The myriad of open wounds and magical burns could have meant nothing to him. It was as if he had just finished a particularly grueling training session. But Mammon knew better than that. Better than anyone. He could see how his brother was slowly unraveling. His knuckles were bone white with the tension they were holding. The blood running down his broken nose and across his trembling lips was in stark contrast to the slowly paling complexion of his skin. His muscles underneath the waxy skin spasm sporadically, writhing in a pain Lucifer could not hide. “Want me to get help?” Mammon asked.

Lucifer clicks his tongue dismissably. He drops heavily to the plush bed of his new gilded cage. He takes special delight in soiling it with his blood and grime. “I don’t need one- leave me.”  

Mammon scoffs and ignores his brother’s chilly demand. Swiping up the abandoned tray of medical supply left at the door Mammon takes stock. The tray held some pretty standard gear, not nearly enough to get his elder brother up and running, but it was enough to keep him from bleeding out like the stubborn fool he was. Mammon looks at the tray and stops, something was missing. He glances around, there should have been a set of hemostats here…“Fuck Luci! Were you pulling them out yourself?” He snatches up the tool in horror. The silver tips were caked with dried blood and clumps of feathers rotting feathers.

“What else would I be doing?” Lucifer hisses.

“Dumbass!” Mammon snaps. “Let me patch you up.” Kneeling behind his brother he helps him gently peel off the rest of Lucifer’s tattered gambeson, careful around the open nerves of his coracoid bones. He feels sick looking at the damage. If the fall hadn’t been enough to deal with, the self-inflected wounds were worse. Mammon works in quickly, powering through the sounds of his brother’s shots of pain. He loses track of how many times he apologies while working on his back. He removes bone after bone cooing and clicking in a vain attempt to comfort his elder, afraid he was one wrong move from Lucifer pulling away. But he doesn’t. Lucifer just buries his face in his hands to suffer through it.

Mammon finishes hastily and steps away. It wasn’t a perfect job, but a proper healer could work with it. If Asmo was up he could fix it up in no time. He checks his work carefully, ensuring the soaked packing gauze hadn’t shifted out of the craters left by Lucifers amputated limbs. “There.” Mammon rubs a bandaged shoulder comfortingly. “Let’s get you over to that Barbato’s clown. He should be done with Beel.”

Lucifer stirs at these words. Roused from his stupor slowly turns to his brother. “Look at what I have done,” He finally meets Mammon’s eyes, hands open and bloody. The fresh cuts and burns struggling to heal. “I doomed us all.” His voice cracks dangerously, tears dripping down his beaky nose. “Look at what my pride has wrought.”

Mammon looks on lost and angry. This was wrong, all so so wrong. Lucifer was the level-headed one. Lucifer was the strong, humble elder. So why was he- Mammon. The goof, the failed protege the one wiping at Beel’s tears and keeping Belphie inline while his big brother was holed up in his room? Lucifer was supposed to be their anchor. “What are the rest of us then? Clowns? Mindless little cherubs clutchin’ at your skirt tails?” Mammon asks angrily getting down on the floor to sit beside him.

“I never thought that of you.”

Mammon pats his brother’s knee. “Well, the way you are talkin’ makes it seem like we had no choice in the matter. We all joined you willing...and we all knew the risks.” Mammon trails off looking down at his own slowly leaking wounds. “I can’t speak for the rest of them-” He continues. “But I’d do it again, and I know Lilith would do too.”

Lucifer makes a wounded sound at the mention of their fallen sibling. His jaw clenching alarmingly.  He had something to say, but the words didn’t come. Mammon sighed. Even in the celestial realm, Lucifer kept his cards close to his chest. “Right-” Mammon gets to his feet with a groan. “we can’t wallow just yet. Levi is still out there and Asmo needs us.”

Lucifer chuckles. “For once you might have a point.”

“Of course I do! Learned from the best, didn’t I?” Mammon huffs reaching out to help Lucifer off the bed. “Now, think you can listen to me a little bit more and go to a healer? You’ve already bled through my handy work.” Taking the offered hand Lucifer rises, a renewed vigor in his gaze. Mammon was right, scarily enough. There was work to be done and deals to make. Damned or not he was still the head of the family.

[morganaspendragonss]

angst week masterlist!

many thanks to the mods of @911lonestarangstweek - it’s been an absolute blast, and i’ve had so much fun filling the prompts for this week!

full series here

Day 1: Emotional whump + “How do we fix this?”

an open book with a torn out page | 2.1k | tarlos, tk & andrea

Of all the people TK might have expected to show up at the house when Carlos is on shift, Andrea Reyes is not one of them.

Unfortunately, however, she has, and TK is now painfully aware that he’s barefoot, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweats in front of his boyfriend’s mother, who he has only officially met once.

*

andrea is worried about carlos. naturally, she goes to tk for help.

Day 2: Physical whump + “Does it hurt badly?”

if something’s wrong you can count on me | 3.5k | tarlos

He doesn’t know how it happens.

Just that, one second he’s facing down a suspect; the next, he’s flat on his back, a searing pain tearing through his side. Carlos sucks in a ragged breath, a harsh cough ripping from his throat. Mitchell is above him, her eyes wide and panicked as she speaks into her radio, but Carlos can’t hear what she’s saying, which would probably be more concerning if he could put thoughts together right now.

*

five times carlos takes care of tk when he's injured, and one time tk takes care of carlos

Day 3: Coda / fix-it fic

information upon my skin | 872 words | tarlos

“TK.”

TK jumps and looks up to see Carlos standing in the bathroom doorway. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, hadn’t noticed him approaching, but if the look on Carlos’s face is anything to go by, it’s been a while.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asks, and there’s that look again. Worry, so obvious it makes TK’s whole chest ache, and the feeling only intensifies as Carlos scans his face, noticeably sticking on the scar.

My eyes are down here, TK wants to joke. Instead, he says, “I’m fine,” and ignores the way his voice shakes as he does so.

Day 4: Sickfic + “You need to rest.”

i will defend your every breath | 2.2k | owen & tk, tarlos

The thing is, Owen knows that TK probably thinks he is fine. TK’s always had a tendency to downplay his own illnesses and injuries, to the point where he’s even doing it to himself, which has resulted in more ER visits and emergency doctors’ appointments than Owen cares to remember.

So, much as he would love to believe his son, all the evidence points to him being very much not okay. Owen’s about two seconds away from calling Tommy over when TK’s face changes, his breathing suddenly becoming very carefully measured.

“Son?” he asks, reaching across the table to lay a hand on TK’s arm. The second he makes contact, however, TK violently shoves away from the table, chair legs scraping noisily on the linoleum.

“Bathroom,” is all the explanation he gives before rushing off, very obviously unsteady on his feet.

Day 5: Mental health + “I’m so tired of feeling like this.”

be done with this now | 1.9k | tarlos

Once upon a time, Carlos had thought that watching as his almost-boyfriend was whisked off in an ambulance, bullet wound in his chest, would be the worst moment of his life. Then TK had been kidnapped, and Carlos had spent hours not knowing where he was, if he was alive or dead, and he thought - this is it. Nothing can top this.

But, having to perform CPR on his husband, having to hold him as he slipped away in his arms?

That was worse than even his nightmares.

*tw: suicide attempt, drug abuse, dark themes, depression*

Day 6: Off the job injury + “You’ve got to be more careful.”

i promise you (i’ll keep you safe) | 1.3k | tarlos

It’s been a week since their home was broken into.

TK has spent that entire time going over the events of that night in his head, trying to work out what he could have done better. He knows it’s a stupid thing to be doing - he’s sure his therapist will have a field day with it when all this is over - but he’s going stir crazy stuck in this room all day, waiting for a sign that his world isn’t about to collapse around him.

Day 7: Free choice!

a hole where your memory goes | 4.9k | tarlos, carlos & grace

Grace reaches out across the table, taking Carlos's hands in hers. “Carlos, we miss you,” she says softly. “I know it’s tough, but you’ve barely spoken to any of us since it happened. We’re worried. You know TK wouldn't want you to be doing this to yourself.”

Carlos doesn't look up at her, continuing to pick listlessly at his sandwich. "You say that like he's dead."

*

two months ago, tk vanished, snatched while out on his evening run. carlos will do anything to get him back, even if that includes running himself into the ground.

*tw: kidnapping, depictions of violence, injury and death, forced amputation*

[alyss-spazz-penedo]

@w1lmutt unedited v!Wind fic part 4 I repeAT ~PART 4~!

(Fair warning yall, be prepared for all the Wind Waker and eventual Phantom Hourglass spoilers from here on in. ...Also I haven’t played either game in a very long time, so uh, the order of events mentioned might be off.)

EDIT: tw for non-descriptive talk of serious wounds and amputation

<<First Next>>

This is a convo I forgot to include at the end of Part 3:

“Sky what the fuck-“

“Fi chose him, there must be a reason-“

“If he has two pieces of the Triforce and that,” a nod at the statue in the corner, “really is Princess Zelda, I don’t think we have a choice here. I think we need to hear him out.”

~o0o~

When they’ve all gathered outside, buoyed up by the magic of the fountain, they find Link kicking his heels on a nearby log. He’s fiddling with one of his freshly-caught fairies, crushing it between hands and hungry tentacles.  

“She called you the heroes of the past and future,” Link says. He seems calmer now, the Great Fairy’s magic having taken the edge off his irrational rage. He won’t look at them. “Tell me what she meant. How are you alive? Why are you here?”

They tell him their story, properly this time. Their shared name, the portals, how they suspect their meeting is the doing of the goddesses. The black-blooded monsters. The barest bones of their tale, information offered up in good faith.

Link listens to their whole story. Slots the orb he’d made from the fairy into that time-stopping device of his. Looks at them all like he can’t decide if they’re crazy. 

“Are you guys crazy?” He finally asks outright.

“Maybe, yeah, but not about this,” Legend mutters.

Link shoots Legend a funny look for that response, but eventually turns the full weight of his skepticism on Time. He cranes his neck around as he studies the man’s face, going so far as to lift one hand to block out the sight of those scars and facial markings. His mouth twists. Finally, he stabs his sword in the ground, peeling his fingers off it for the first time in the heroes’ presence, and very deliberately picks his way closer to their leader.

His approach reminds Time of a curious bird of prey, wings tucked back, head cocked to one side, mindful of its talons as it steps forward. Dangerous but unthreatening.

“You definitely look like the hero Ganon remembers. But...”

The boy grabs at his hand. Time lets him turn it over, pushing up the sleeve to examine his wrist and forearm, and it’s only when the boy traces a wound lost to time that he realizes what Link is looking for.

“No,” he says, disturbed but unwilling to show it. “There’s no scar there.”

“There should be. He nearly cut the sword from your hand.” Link’s eyes are hazy, lost in recollection he should not have. “Why isn’t there?”

“I…” Time shakes, faintly. He forces himself to stop, to speak. “When I defeated Ganondorf for the first time, there was precious little left of Hyrule to salvage. The Princess sent me back in time, to my childhood, where Hyrule flourished unravaged by Ganon’s hand. I stopped him again there, before he could begin his reign of destruction. The time that I left behind…” He looks down. The top of Link’s head barely reaches his chest. He’s so young, Time thinks regretfully. “I had believed it undone. I never dreamed that it might have continued after I left.”

Link’s hands tighten on his arm. “Your Hyrule was spared the Great Flood? It’s not an ocean?”

“No. Nothing… Nothing like that happened in my time.”

“So that’s why no one ever found you,” Link utters, and his eyes burn with malice and bitter memories. “You really did abandon this kingdom.”

"...Yes. So it would seem.” Time’s words serve to break the boy out of the trance he’d fallen into. Link blinks up at the man’s utterly impassive face, and finally seems to note the unease of the group around him. He backs off.

“I am still very angry at you,” Link informs his predecessor, “but I shouldn’t have attacked you before I heard your side of the story. I apologize.” He bows, very politely.

“...Apology accepted. Now then," Time seizes the boy's wrist in turn. "I believe I've entertained enough questions about something that is, actually, rather unpleasant for me to talk about. Your turn."

He flips Link's hand over. There, on the back of it, two triangles of the goddess mark are gilded in—Courage and Power. Time taps a finger on the latter meaningfully.

"Why do you have this, Link?"

Link frowns down at Time’s hand, looking almost perplexed by the simple grip, before ripping himself away. He rubs at the point of contact like it burns. “Yeah, ok,” he murmurs. “I believe you guys now. It’s just… a long story.”

“Start from the beginning,” Four says, managing to make it sound like an encouragement instead of an order.

So the boy plops himself back on the log, fingers seeking out the hilt of his blade like a child clutching a stuffed toy, and he tells them about the time his sister was mistaken for a pirate captain and kidnapped by a giant bird.

It’s a fantastical tale. The assorted heroes accept it with the easy aplomb of people who have heard and lived stranger (though Warriors goes the extra step of occasionally nodding along like the boy’s haphazard descriptions make sense to him). It’s obvious that he’s glossing over some parts where his animated storytelling stutters, but it’s only when he speaks of returning to the Forsaken Fortress with Master Sword in hand that Link grows somber.

“The Helmaroc King was probably the strongest creature that Ganondorf took control of,” Link tells them, fingers playing over the mask he’d set in his lap. “He had stronger monsters, yeah, but he made those. Kangarocs already existed on the seas before he woke up and ensorcelled their leader. So the Helmaroc King… it’s… proud, I guess you could say. And sure, it was mad at me for stabbing it in the head and taking its mask as a spoils of battle, but it was even madder at Ganondorf for treating it like a servant for so long. I hadn’t known it was possible for something to get that angry before I put the mask on.”

Link shakes his head, rueful and amused at his past self’s naivety. 

“It wasn’t enough to hurt Ganondorf, of course, not with the Master Sword still asleep. I don’t really remember it, but apparently Tetra and my Rito friends came to the rescue before Valoo—ah, he’s a giant dragon spirit deity—set the whole place alight. They tell me I had to be dragged away kicking and screaming bloody murder, though, and Tetra chewed me out about it after.” He shrugs, like this was all no big deal. “I figured out how to control the mask better later on.”

“But anyways, because of all that, Tetra was revealed as Princess Zelda, and she had to go into hiding while I woke up the Master Sword. By the time I’d done that and collected all the scattered pieces of the Triforce of Courage, Ganondorf had found her. He kept her asleep in the ruins of Hyrule, which was sealed in this giant bubble under the sea. We fought down there. The mask,” he taps the item in question thoughtfully, “probably saved my life then, honestly. But Tetra finally woke up halfway through our battle, and together we managed to beat him.”

Link shakes the memories away, and props the Helmaroc Mask back on his forehead. His next words are a careful monotone. “I stabbed him in the head with the Sword. We could see the sealing take hold; he started turning to stone, inch by inch. But… when it reached his hand, the Triforce of Power started glowing, and the stone started receding. It made him too strong; the seal just… wouldn't take.”

“So I picked up one of his swords and lopped his hand off.”

“I know,” he agrees to the looks on their faces, neutral mask shattering into a disgusted grimace. He shudders. “It was gross. But I was wearing the Helmaroc Mask at the time, and that makes stuff like that… easier, I guess.”

A few of their number, Time most notably, nod like that makes any sense. The rest collectively look at them askance.

Link shrugs them all off. “It doesn’t really matter; it worked in the end. We won, Ganondorf turned to stone, and the King... he took the Wind Waker back and had us return to the ocean above. He said the future was ours now, and we should live free from the sins of the past. We promised him we’d find a new land and rebuild a new Hyrule in memory of the old, and he looked happy, but...”

“He said he would be right behind us.” Link shakes his head. “He- I- I don’t know the song he conducted; it’s not one I ever learned on my journey. The sky... opened up, I guess. Like the Great Flood all over again, except this time it washed away what little the first one left behind. For a while, we were afraid we would drown in it. There was nothing left when the King-” He cuts himself off. Fingers his blade. Huffs.

“And that,” he pronounces, “is the final tale of the Hyrule of old.”