#tw: implied self harm

[fox-and-the-hound]

warmth

[anti-kawaii-daily]

Today's Anti-Kawaii Character of The Day is Momoka Sakurai, better known as Menhera Pink or Menhera-Chan! She is a character famously associated with Yumekawaii and Yamikawaii Menhera visuals! She also fits the Utsudere and Kuudere archetypes (if you read the manga)! She also parodies the Magical Girl Genre!

[huffle-dork]

After almost 22 hours of work- it is done! (Click for better quality! You know the deal with tumblr lol)

Sorry it’s watermarked to all hell y’all- my last version of this got stolen and used soooo many times. But I did really wanna share my improvement with y’all!

A whole 5 years!! I’m like- blown away with what I managed to do ngl and it was so much fun to revisit this!

Oh and soon I’ll have watermarkless prints of these guys available on my Etsy! I was just like literally finished and was too excited to share it first!

And I feel this goes without saying but *ahem* DO NOT REPOST!! ICONS, BANNERS ETC. NEED TO BE CREDITED! If I see this reposted or stolen you will be dealt with and blocked.

Edit: PRINTS NOW AVAILABLE!!

[little-miss-tragedy]

I have ripped out my vocal cords in the name of comfort. I've taken every jagged edge of myself, sanded them down until there was nothing left - no threat to the sanctity of polite conversations. I have molded my shadow, ripped out the rot, packed away the remains, and hid all the unseemly, just so everyone would stop looking away.

Am I beautiful now? Am I worthy now? What else do you need to love me? I will do it. I will give you everything I have, just for a spare glance. I promise to only give you my beauty, what little there is. I promise to speak softer, be smaller. I will do anything, be anything, you want - just, please, don't leave.

dear...everyone - love, (ds)

[imaginatorcreates]

Bots

12 September 2024 — 14 September 2024

Summary: A security bot gets fed up and runs out to a forest in an attempt to relax...only to find another bot there. Dammit.

Word Count: ~2.8 words

TW:

Robotic anatomy plus talks of flesh

Implied self harm via light skin picking

Implied assault

Please take care of yourself while reading.

Author’s Note: I'm going to be honest: Most of the characterization came here while I was writing it.

I'm also going to be honest: Yes. I came up with the idea for a security bot while reading "The Murderbot Diaries" (it's a great book series). I'm trying to make my bot my own though, so give me a bit of time and brain marination.

Also on AO3

You are a simple thing. You can state your function inside and out, but only enough so that you can do your job properly. After all, having more knowledge about your function can lead to rebellion, and rebellion leads to pain if you ever get caught.

You don’t intend to get caught and face pain, so you don’t rebel.

But even the threat of pain doesn't stop you from learning more about your function and what builds you up.

You have a metal skeleton. It’s sturdy and strong, with joints that are flexible yet fixed. They don’t slip and dislocate as easily as a flesh body’s joints, yet they can be bent to extremes without losing function. You have the right amount of fluid between each joint to prevent the metal from breaking down. Everything is maintained subtly by magic, which flows through your body as liquid holding crushed magical ore.

You’ve seen the magic stream running within your systems before. It’s many colors you cannot describe to the common eye, but if someone asks you (read: forces you to), then you say it’s sparkly. How else do you describe it to someone if you cannot describe it to yourself?

The ore flows deep within your system, closer to the thicker parts of metal. It was safer there, less likely to be damaged by weapons or spells. The ore is the most costly to replace if it’s damaged, so it was best that most of the liquid stayed closer to your core. The magic gets to your extremities through high pressure, turning the liquid to gas which gets infused within your body. 

You have solid metal plates to build external structure and shape, along with strong internal cords to help move you. That was standard for all bots you’ve seen.

What wasn’t standard was that you also have flesh growing on your exterior.

The flesh mostly grows along your arms and legs, along with sparse hairs. Your face also grows flesh, though its coverage isn’t enough for your entire neck. You think it’s because of the closely shaved dark hair that grows on your scalp (it’s not entirely like that; some of it grows out into small curls that you keep short). Nonetheless, wherever the flesh grows, it’s deep enough that muscles and an adequate amount of fat have formed. It doesn’t leak fluid (thankfully), but it squishes beneath your fingers. The flesh on your face betrays your thoughts if you don’t monitor it properly.

You don’t know if you find it odd.

You know a flesh exterior is special. It’s a means of disguise for your work, one that doesn’t require the constant casting of spells, which keeps your price down. It’s one that allows your clientele to bump into your arm or grasp your hand (fingers specifically not intertwined) and not question a thing.

You feel like flesh to your clientele.

You are like them, after all.

(You’re not. But you don’t tell them that.)

If someone asks why your torso is so hard, you stay quiet. Used to stay quiet, at least. Silence implies secrets, so the pushy ones ask you again. The extra pushy and extra touchy ones have tried to pull up your clothes so they could see with their own eyes.

To make them stop, you lie. You say that you’re wearing armor underneath your clothes.

You can lie. It wasn’t against your programming. Mostly.

Hurting your clients, however, would go against your function. It would bring about punishment to you, and your price would waver. Your creators would have to fix you, whether it was necessary or not.

Despite the threat of punishment hanging over your head, you’ve still hurt some clients. You hurt them because they have tried to hurt you before. Touchy clients, with their fingers that are too real compared to your artificial self. Sometimes, they have suspicions and they try to confirm it for themselves.

You don’t physically scar.

You don’t think you can be physically scarred.

You don’t like thinking about it too much. It makes your skin prickle and your chest starts folding inwards on itself. You start picking at the flesh on your body until the russet skin peels away into tender layers that would scab over in a different being. You don’t exactly scab. You just slowly heal again into smooth perfection. You don’t pick too badly either, just enough to take your mind off things.

You don’t like talking to others when you start thinking about it too much. They ask too many questions and give too much unsolicited advice. They repeat things that you already know, and that only adds fuel to the internal fire you keep under strict control.

So one day, after a job well done that resulted in too many questions being stabbed at you, you run out into the depths of the forest where no sane being would follow you. Your boots crunch through sticks and foliage, stray thorns and branches whipping at you and scratching at your exposed flesh. It’s not a lot actually, just your face and whatever bits of your arms that you didn’t bother to cover with your jacket.

You find a tree to lie beneath. You remove your dark tinted glasses and fold them onto your chest. You like it out here. No one to converse with. No one gives looks that have discernible thoughts behind it. You close your eyes and try to relax.

But you can’t relax.

You never, truly, learned how to.

“Hello!”

Oh for — 

“You look lost.”

“Go away.”

“I’d love to, but you’d miss out on the opportunity to get guided out of this forest.”

You open your eyes and your face flesh contorts into a look of disgust. “A bot,” you spit. Not like you’re any different, but this bot doesn’t know that.

“I am,” it proudly says. “Would you like to get out of this forest, heterochromic human?”

“Hetero– I came here with internal intent, and I’ll leave with internal intent.” You sit up and place the tinted glasses back on your face. Your eyes scan over the bot.

It’s a bit wider than you, stocky too. Its entire body is made of dark wood that was smoothened with either time or purpose, bits of lighter-colored wood accentuating some parts. Carved within its chest is a hollow opening where a green bonsai grows, and for a moment you wonder if this bot carved that space out itself. Dark solar panels strategically litter its chest (and presumably its back as well), while two small rotating things are anchored to the sides of its head. Its left side is littered with moss, and two types of mushrooms grow atop its head.

It’s asymmetrical but pleasantly so.

The flesh around one of your eyes twitches.

“Would you like to be guided out? Preferably now?” the wooden bot asks you. Its green eyes — they’re made of simple little lights, antiques perhaps — bore through your tinted glasses and repeat the question over and over without saying a word.

Antique or not, you know when to follow orders. You have no idea what this bot can do, and despite it looking decrepit and possibly half-filled with roots and leaves, you stand up and place yourself behind the bot.

The wooden bot moves onwards, head occasionally pointed down as it navigates the heavy foliage of the forest. It points out places where roots subtly poke out of the ground to avoid tripping on them, and where dense vegetation can hide small creatures. Said small creatures, all furry and skittish, sometimes scramble up the bot’s legs and arms, resting on its shoulders or within its bonsai hollow. It keeps moving, slowly. Sometimes, it reaches into the bonsai hollow and guides a small creature out, murmuring about how the bonsai wasn’t food.

You feel out of place here.

You keep your mouth shut and you keep moving onwards. You avoid stepping on places where the bot tells you to, and you eventually remove your tinted glasses as it starts to get darker.

The wooden bot breaks the lengthy silence with, “We’re about halfway there, heterochromic human.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say.

“But you’re a human with heterochromia.” The bot stops its trek forwards and turns it head around like an owl. “Isn’t that true?”

You want your tinted glasses back on again.

You point to your left eye. The eye is bright blue and stands out against your general dark color scheme. “This is a fluke. It permanently looks like it’s in analysis mode. It’s supposed to match with everything.” You snap your jaw shut and look down. “Turn your head back around, it’s not normal.”

“It’s normal for owls.”

“You’re not an owl.”

“I’ve been called an owl by some. It’s one of the names I’ve picked up.”

“It’s not your name.”

“But it is.”

You look up and thankfully the bot is fully facing you now instead of just its head. It gently shakes itself, causing any creature and bird on it to scatter. “I’ve collected many names over the years. Names like Moss and Fern and Nest and Plaything and Shelter.”

“That’s too many names.”

“I recognize the failings of fleshy beings. They’re wonderful with their brains and magic, but they can’t remember the names that others give them. Names are powerful things.” The bot looks up at the canopy and lets out a little beep at a bird, which chirps back and flies away. “I have a generalized name: Dru-Bot. What about you?”

You stuff your hands into your jacket pockets and scoff. “I don’t have a name. I don’t want a name.” A name is a legally binding thing. It clings to your face, to your shape. It follows you and drags you with it. You can’t be yourself with a name parasitically attached to you.

Dru-Bot stays silent for a little bit. Then it says, “I’ll collect the names of the world for you. So you can pick one later or so one wouldn’t be given to you.”

You feel the flesh around your eyes peel back. You think you’re making your eyes wide, and the thought grosses you out so you stop. You look down and mutter, “I need to have an emotion in private.”

The two of you stand there, Dru-Bot’s attention everywhere but on you while you have your emotion. There’s a fluttery feeling in your chest, and it makes your head feel a bit light. But it’s also heavy with a burden that you think the wooden bot has taken onto itself.

“I protect things, and beings,” you eventually say as the two of you continue to trek out of the forest. “It’s my purpose.”

“I forgot my purpose,” Dru-bot says so casually that you stop and gape at it. “I was built a long, long time ago. Whatever purpose I had is obsolete.”

Your face flesh contorts. “That’s dumb.”

“It is. That’s why I gave myself a new purpose.” Dru-bot arches a hand over its head as it gestures to the darkening sky. “The stars made us. We’re from the stars as we are from the earth. I want to learn more about it. That’s my purpose.”

You look up and blink twice. You could say something witty, a quip to acknowledge that you heard Dru-Bot. But you keep silent, and Dru-Bot doesn’t comment on it. The silence builds up, broken only by the crunch of foliage underfoot and you blurt out, “I heard you.”

“I know.”

“Good, because if you say I didn’t, then I told you I did before you will. So you can’t accuse me otherwise.”

“Why would I accuse you?”

You shrug, and your fingers find the arms of your tinted glasses the most interesting thing ever. “You might. It’s a precaution.”

“Do you take precautions often?”

“Sometimes.” You place the tinted glasses on your head where they can easily be pulled over your eyes at a moment’s notice. “My clients like twisting their words.” It leaves your mouth dry when you say it. It’s not a lie, but saying it aloud makes you properly shrug your jacket onto yourself. Your dark top covers your inorganic torso where flesh doesn’t grow, but the sleeveless design makes it so under the right conditions, a glimpse of metal can be seen.

“You’re high-strung,” Dru-Bot says.

“And you’re too relaxed.”

“You hate what you can’t have.”

“I don’t. At least I’m alert.”

“If you were an animal, you would be very unhealthy.”

“Glad I’m not an animal then.”

Dru-bot stops. Its head rotates around again.

You wince.

“A bot deserves to rest too,” it says.

If you had a heart, it would’ve stopped by now. You become overly aware of the magic stream deep in your torso, of how it gets vaporized to your extremities. You can feel the boundaries of grown flesh and cold metal, how the nerves there are reduced so you aren’t in constant discomfort. You can feel that boundary, strong and there and so, so uncomfortable.

You move.

You rush forwards and use your momentum to push the wooden bot to the forest floor. It’s easier than you expect. You pin its arms behind its back and you force the flesh on your face to obey you. It’s an easy task when you’re in a high-strung situation.

“Can you not?” Dru-Bot groans. “My bonsai is fragile and wood is hard to repair.”

“How did you know?” you spit out. Your repetition comes out breathy, despite not needing to breathe. “How?”

“Intuition.” Dru-Bot tries to shrug, but you’re stronger than it. Your grip tightens and you feel the flesh of your hands against smoothened wood. You feel the spaces where the flesh stops and highlights where your finger joints are. You feel your hands shake a little.

“Elaborate.”

“It’s just a feeling. I can’t explain it more than that.” Dru-Bot doesn’t fight back, only wiggles its fingers and murmurs something. Flames spark from its hands and threaten to lick up your own hands and jacket.

You instinctively let go, then curse when you realize that the fire wasn’t hot, nor burning you. Dru-bot shoves you off in your moment of distraction and shuffles to its feet. You follow suit. “Asshole,” you curse again. “You cast spells?”

“Of course.”

“‘Of course’, as if I knew this entire time. Like you and your intuition.” You scoff and look at anything but the bot. “Not my fault that you won.”

From the corner of your eye, you see the green lights of Dru-Bot’s eye-like structures almost wink at you. “Okay,” it says, and it trundles on.

The rest of the way out of the forest, the two of you spend in silence. The silence is only broken by Dru-Bot as it beeps at some creatures and points out a few hidden things. Eventually, it stops and turns around. “This is the end of the forest.” It points behind it and adds, “Civilization should be on the path ahead. Don’t come back.”

You rapidly step around it and find your feet on a semi-worn path of grass. The trees thin around here and the foliage isn’t as thick. You open your mouth and, for the first time in your entire existence, you talk back. “You need to catch me first.”

Instinctively, you tense up. Your fingers twitch and they close into fists. You’re still facing away from the wooden bot, so you feel your flesh face contort into things that you’d rather not have it twist into. You force your face into a neutral expression and turn around to face the bot.

Dru-Bot stands with a hand on one of its hips, softly shaking its head. “Sassy,” it chuckles. “Make it worth my time.” With that, it turns around and quietly heads back into the thick of the trees, leaving you alone.

You lower your tinted glasses back over your eyes, briskly turn around on the heel of your foot, and run back to the place you were supposed to return. You throw in a little hop and skip when you think no one is looking. As you see more beings, you slow your pace to a brisk walking speed and instead flex your fingers in and out. You pull your jacket closer to yourself and you feel  the flesh around your eyes droop a little as a light feeling flits in your torso. You rub the material between your fingers and quietly let out a little beep of your own.

Within the intoxicating tumble of dopamine flowing through your systems, you still manage to find a solid point to trip upon and scrape your flesh upon.

Dammit, you were mimicking the bot now.

All because it made you happy.

[canon-divergence]

what did i do to myself,,,,

[yuri-the-boxfox]

do any of y'all remember that trend where people would make OCS inspired by songs?

I think we should bring it back because it was a cool trend, also I did this related to it

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TW: cigarettes/smoking, implied self harm, implied drug abuse, swearing

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yes I did purposefully make this last the entire song because I love the song.

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Here's her code in case you want it for whatever reason

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Tagging friends because why not :3 (if you are not tagged it's not because we aren't friends, we just aren't as super close as the people who are tagged)

@aofxxxe

@sleep-deprived-mf

@misty-sees-you

@ramencat12

@spookykittyzzz

@I44rrxx

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That's all, bye :3

[general-kalani]

"Yeah, I don't like talking feelings either. Wanna go break something instead?" [this is the most jay line but he should prob know better that joseph isnt the type to go breaking stuff]

{ Prompt from here! }

There's a furrowing of brows as he listened.

So Jay was willing to back off on the whole feelings subject but breaking stuff?

"Wh- no! Absolutely not you can go right ahead but I don't do that... Sorry to disappoint. You can ask Jacob or John to go along with you but I just don't break things."

Not unless it was against his own skin anyway.

[friendball-irl]

⚡

Notes you have on jesse?

"Check in as much as possible," "build up self-worth as much as possible..."

...

..."keep an eye out for any new scars. Just in case."

...

[charliethinks]

it’s not a coping mechanism anymore, it’s an addiction.

[trickshooting]

From Galar To Paldea

Seraphina was...disappointed. So...so disappointed. Not only was she though, her family was to, not only did she not become Champion...she didn't even qualify. Not even allowed to compete, an Olania, who's family was oh so well known to be Pokemon Battling Prodigies, how could Seraphina fail to even qualify?

Thats what question was being asked of her, by her parents seated across from her in their home, a private location for these private family matters. It had been a while since she had failed to qualify in time for the tournament at Wyndon, and be unable to participate in the Champion Cup.....All because of that accursed Team Yell and damn Dark Type Gym Leader, stalling her to that point.... And of course, the horrific tragedy that was the Darkest Day, backed by Macros Cosmos and Chairman Rose, who already never respected her....but to see even this far? She wanted nothing to do with Galar at this point. But.... That mattered not to her family. "Seraphina Olania, you will not sit here and say that you were unable to complete the League because you were 'stalled'. An OIania finds a way to get through, to win. Sometimes I truly wonder if you are your mothers daughter...." Her father spoke in his angry and gruff tone, asshole....if he did his job properly, she would've not had to deal with Team Yell's shenanigans, as they and that Gym Leader would've been fired from Spikemuth ages ago... As much as she wanted to spit that out, however, she bit her tongue.

"....there isn't any proper excuse, I could've, I just...failed to, Father, Mother." She managed out, composing herself from her internal anger, and fury...she didn't even wish to compete in the League, still now even, she didn't have much of a choice still though.... Not until she became Champion, or something similar, huh? "....I've been training since the Darkest Day occurred, I visited the Crown Tundra, and have been training non stop....but I know this is a yearly event, and I-"

BANG! CRASH! Seraphina was interrupted, as her mother slammed her fist on the table, causing the teacup that rested on their side to topple over and break on the wood tile flooring below them. Oh how she wished she angered a Sinistea.... "That matters NOT, Seraphina, do you not understand the position you've put us in? The Olania family name is sacred to our family bloodline! My father, your grandfather, was a valued Elite Four Member in Unova! His sister? Gym Leader in Kanto, along with our Great Grandmother being a league official, and the history goes on, around, everyone else in our family Seraphina is showing what it means to be an Olania! Even your cousin, my sisters son, won the Lilly of the Valley Conference in Sinnoh! Do you know how that feels, to know that my younger sisters son is far more successful than my own daughter!?" Her mothers voice was angry and commanding, for good reason, she....was an Olania. She was expected to be a powerful trainer, better than the average. Better than them all. "We have the blood of champions in us, do you not understand that!? Our family has a reputation to uphold, and for you to not even qualify....its disgraceful. No daughter of mine is going dirty our name like this. What do you plan to do to rectify this?"

....how did Seraphina plan to rectify this? It was...going to be a long time until the next Champions Cup here in Galar. It didn't take her long to realize that her nails were digging into her palm so hard that she could feel a little bit of blood on her fingertips. She broke skin this time...great. Seraphina did have to think of something though, the longer she stayed quiet, the more she felt...shame, that she had experienced whenever she had such a miniscule failure. And silence? Silence was torture for her in these family meetings. She had to say something.

"Paldea. I plan to go to Paldea, and challenge their league there, I know its quite small, but to show that I, as an Olania, have the battling skill and prowess to take on a League like theirs at the very least...and if I recall, their League is going to open up in a couple weeks for the season correct? All other leagues are out of season this time of year, except for Paldeas.....I know I can complete it, gain Champion Rank, and be back by the time that Galars Champion Cup is back." Seraphina's voice hardly falters, as she stares into her parents eyes. Even though she was an adult now, she still felt like a child in the eyes of her parents..... "...if I recall, they have two very powerful Champion Rank Trainers, who are both considered to be Top 8 in terms of trainers in the Masters 8, so it will still be a challenge befitting an Olania."

More silence, it felt awful again, but Seraphina tried to hold strong through it....she couldn't tell if they saw, but she was biting her inner cheek during each passing second, she didn't want to shake or falter. Finally, her mother spoke up, standing up, and glaring down at her daughter. ".....if you do not become a Champion Rank trainer, and return to Galar with that title, and defeat every trainer in this Champions Cup to qualify to battle the Champion at the very least, consider yourself dead to the family, and you'd better find yourself a new last name in that time....you will not be my daughter, understood?" Her mothers words were harsh, cold, unbefitting for someone who was meant to care for Seraphina as blood. But it was expected at this point. It was who she grew up with after all. Seraphina knew her mother and her Pride was unbridled compared to anyone else. "....I won't come back a loser, Mother, I will prepare my bags and Pokemon to be transported to Paldea, as soon as I leave this room. You will not see me....until I am a Champion." Seraphina managed out, as she stood up as well, her parents not stopping her as she followed through, leaving the room, to head to her own.

As soon as she entered her bedroom, she almost collapsed against the door, taking deep shaky breaths, it had taken all of her willpower to control herself and not just break down. She....felt awful. Everything felt as if it was crashing down on her. The Olania Family Expectations....of course, she knew of relatives who were casted out of the family, she knew them well. Seraphina...never associated with them, to avoid this exact fate that was promised upon her. She knew too of course, her mother wanted to avoid that for herself...to have only one daughter, who never made a name for herself. Grandfather would come back home early just to disown them both.... Seraphina was broken out of her thoughts by a cold feeling, like ice back rubbing against her palm, making her gasp, her nails had broken skin, right... Zephir... He probably could easily sense her stress, and smell her bleeding palm. Seraphina took a moment, inhaling, exhaling, then going to her knees to hug her cold companions. The embodiment of what she was meant to be, a cold and calculating battling machine..... "....Zephir, we're...going out of region, for a while.....you're coming along, so do not worry...Paldea has some pretty strict laws, so not all of our friends can come along, alright? I promise they'll be okay....I promise." That promise was not just for her Pokemon, both of them knew that, she wanted to promise...that she would be okay too. Even if it was one that could be broken in the future.... Seraphina oh so wished for it to stay in tact.

Only time would tell though, in Paldea.

[little-whats-her-name]

Nation: I just checked on Janet in the green room. It's getting real quiet in there. She says she's thinking but... you don't think she's *dramatically mimes slitting throat*

Cosmo, barely looking up, in a manner of fact tone: No, she loves herself too much.

[i-llbehere]

[sirserpentine]

For the rest of the night, Pentious only stirs once, awoken from his unconscious state only to shuffle around slightly, barely even opening his eyelids as he falls into a proper slumber instead. Comfortably resting in the new sheets, in those fresh bandages. Not recalling what has happened for now.

He travels into a deeper into sleep in the early hours of the morning, into a scenery of dreams he has never seen before. He slithers into corners of the Earth he has never touched. He sees faces of people he doesn't recognise. He tries to talk to them, but whatever they say back isn't decipherable. They seem agitated. Scared. The feeling of entrapment engulfs Pentious as the dream shifts into another. And another, and another, until the pain stinging in his abdomen seeps into them and brings him closer to lucidity.

It's closer to noon when Pentious finally wakes up, slowly blinking in the pleasant light the bayou gives off. It would be more pleasant, if a headache wasn't thumping at his forehead. The bed is unlike his own nest, and that makes him remember that he spent the night in Alastor's room. Then he remembers what he presumes was a nightmare and feels relieved. There is no blood anywhere. The bed is perfectly clean. Everything is alright.

But as he slightly turns his head to try and find Alastor lying by his side, to smile and snuggle into him and tell him about his terrifying night terrors, anxiety strikes again. Alastor is not sleeping next to him. There is pain in his stomach. The headache thumps from a clear wound he can feel sting in his forehead. The borrowed shirt is gone. Pentious can feel the added weight of bandages over his abdomen, and his hand carefully trails over it, as if confirming that it's really there.

It is. It all is. It had happened. Something terrible had come over Alastor, and he... And they...

Where is he? Is Alastor alright?

"Al...?" Pentious softly calls out, voice laboured and weak from his earlier fright. From a slight fever in his overworked system. He tries to scoot up slightly, but decides against it after a moment.

"...Alastor?"

Alastor had never been witness to such a rapid and sudden transferring of souls before. Though he is not sure what there was to expect. The change in their appearance; their color is about the only thing that is expected. And absently, he wonders, what Pentious will choose to do with them.

He supposes it does not matter. Especially not in the moment.

Keenly aware that Pentious is only maintaining consciousness for a few more lingering moments, Alastor does not protest when it seems as though he loses it entirely, though he does hold his own breath for the briefest of moments to listen for the other's. To make sure that he has not actually died despite all of the radio demon's efforts. And he is only marginally relieved when he hears the steady breathing that reassures.

Into the bathroom, Alastor is hesitant to rest Pentious down into the tub, but he does. There is still blood - covering his midsection and his head. Both wounds, though no longer fatal, still are not exactly pretty. And it will take him some time to clean them, moving to first remove the shirt that Pentious wears to ensure that there is nothing keeping him from finding and addressing all that he has done.

So he works, taking advantage of the other's unconscious state to get the wounds cleaned - water and soap, though luckily it will not sting so long as the other is out. Enough to clean away the blood to reveal the torn flesh beneath. That is what he needs to stitch. Gathering materials to do so and doing so with as much possible care as he can muster. Much more than he ever bothers to offer himself. And so it takes time.

His emotions are shut off as he works, expression blank, save for the permanently scored smile on his face that cannot fade no matter what he does. But he cannot allow himself to feel while he does this. It is medical. It is necessary. It is factual. And even when things are cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, he is still not done.

The shirt is tossed - burned in the eldritch glow that illuminates the main room near the entry way. His own too is launched into the light and he watches with blank stare as it evaporates into flame. The sheets of his bed are next. Burned, just like the others. Any pillows too that have suffered his carnage suffer the same fate. And his bed is quickly adorned with newly manifested fixings. Like nothing has happened at all.

It is only then that Pentious is returned to it. Steadily and gently. Rested there, though unclothed, covered in a new blanket that shows no evidence of what he's done.

And Alastor retreats once he is sure that the other is safe and sound, to the bathroom to find the razors that he keeps handy. He knows they are old; rusted, even, in some places. But it does not matter.

The door is shut for the time being. So that he can repeat the old routine.

Of making her scars into his own.

[ronmanmob]

🚪 / from Zach!

Scars Meme

Though he'd earned a myriad throughout his life, Ron's scars had certain places upon him they liked to cluster. Some ran across his scalp beneath his hair - the legacy of glassings past, like the dusting of hack-marks above his left ear. Fist fights earned those that lived on his knuckles; working with his hands those that'd come more innocently along his fingers, near his wrists, on his forearms. These were boxes that'd slipped, a misadventure with a box cutting knife, barrels that'd been caught wrong. They weren't intentional. They'd just occurred.

The ones that lived higher up on his left arm though, right in the crook of his elbow and up and down from there...Those he'd meant when he'd made 'em. Those...he didn't like seen. Which was why, when Zach's sudden appearance caught Ron with rolled up sleeves and bare, pockmarked skin in that rare-seen place, he half turned away with a huff-come-growl of protest; yanked his sleeves down; buttoned his cuffs; snarled--

"Th'fuck y'starin' at?"

--heatedly but that heat...It wasn't anger. Not really. It just had its sound to it. Ron never had shocked well, least of all when something he didn't want exposed was.

[canon-divergence]

are you ok? should we get 257 to check on you?

no,,,

no its fine,,,,,

i just,,,

need to get smth sharp,,,,