#wrist splints who

[dipplinduo]

Oh god... What fresh hell am I now excited for?

I am actually so stoked and I feel so touched that people would get hype with me after my hiatus. 😂

[draculeo]

that damn toyota tore my meniscus

[ratcandy]

trying to figure out when it got ingrained in me that I should apologize for being in pain

[mira--mira]

Me explaining on going wrist pain to my doctor: *please dont say carpal tunnel, please dont say carpal tunnel*

My doctor: It sounds like carpal tunnel

Me: :')

Time to learn how to write with my left hand.

[narumi-gens]

boundaries gojo satoru x f!reader

post-breakup!gojo who can't quite follow through on the breaking up. he's as present in your life after he ended things as he was when you were still dating.

he still blows up your phone at all hours with nothing important. he insists on holding your hand when you walk side-by-side. he still uses your apartment key, which you never had the heart to ask for him to return. you've ended up in more than one heated makeout session with him, although you have managed to keep them from progressing past him feeling up your tits over your bra.

and when you end up in the hospital after a mission, he shows up before even shoko can get there. you sigh when his towering form appears in the doorway of the room you've been given.

"looks worse than it is," you say and despite the way you slur your words due to the painkillers, it's true.

your concussion, while serious, isn't something that wouldn't heal on its own. your broken ribs managed to avoid puncturing any organs. even the burst blood vessel in your left eye that's colored the white of your eye a ghastly red is only really a surface-level injury.

but for once, the man who never shuts up stays silent as he pulls a chair close and sits at your bedside. he reaches for your hand but pauses when you wince at the pressure on the two fingers that are fractured and wrapped in a splint. instead, he settles for loosely holding onto your wrist.

"shoko's gonna fix it all anyways," you tell him through a yawn, your eyelids feeling heavy. "'sides, you shouldn't even be here. boundaries, satoru. 'member?"

it's a word that you've tossed in his face so many times since the breakup that it's lost all meaning. and it doesn't help that you've never managed to say it with any sort of real weight. instead, it usually comes out on the end of a resigned sigh.

you can feel his gaze on you even through his dumb sunglasses. normally, even post-breakup, you would reach out and pull them down his nose to meet those cursed eyes of his and make some joke. but with your brain working at a diminished capacity and your arm hooked up to an IV full of the best painkillers japan's doctors have to offer, all you can do is slowly blink at him in return.

"it's always boundaries this, boundaries that with you," he finally retorts with a shake of his head, but offers nothing else.

"'f you didn't want boundaries then you shouldn't've ended things, y'big dummy," you mumble, and no longer able to keep your eyes open, you finally let them close.

"I told you. I don't have room in my life for anyone else – i.e., you," he replies bluntly and you can feel the fit of giggles that you want to burst into, but all you can manage is a soft huff of laughter.

"liar," you say with a sleepy smile stretching across your lips. "can't even be honest when I'm strung out on painkillers. psh. lame."

it takes monumental effort, but you manage to crack open an eye so that you can see him sporting his own cheeky grin.

silence settles over you both and you feel yourself slowly beginning to fall into the blackness as your breathing slows. the soothing sensation of gojo's thumb rubbing circles on the skin of your wrist only aids in pushing you closer and closer to sleep.

"you were considered a suitable match." even on the edge of consciousness, the disgust in his tone at those two words reaches you. "I couldn't let them get what they wanted."

you let out a quiet hum in acknowledgment and wish you had enough strength to open your eyes, curious to see if he's surprised you weren't fully asleep yet.

"still letting 'em control you, hm? s'good we broke up. want someone who's only tied down by me," you mumble.

"baby, if you want to tie me down, all you had to do was say so," he jokingly responds, unsurprisingly choosing to sidestep the gravity of your words, no matter how slurred they were.

"boundaries, 'toru..." you trail off as you finally succumb to sleep.

[moonstruckme]

Hiiii!I hope your doing great I saw your requests just opened and I was wondering if you would mind doing a poly emt marauders with a reader that’s in hospital and they don’t know until they’re like bringing in someone in or something and their like why didn’t you tell us and she’s like oh cause I didn’t want you to worry.Something like that if not it’s fine have a good day!!!🌊

Thanks for requesting gorgeous! Not super sure if this is accurate since I don’t think paramedics usually spend much time inside the hospital but oh well haha. Hope you have a good day too! <3

cw: hospital/emergency room, mention of broken bone

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 827 words

You’re just on your way out of A&E, feeling sore and shattered and more than a little sorry for yourself, when someone says your name. With an odd mix of relief and trepidation mingling in your chest, you turn. 

Sirius makes it to your first. He takes your face in his hands, eyes scanning it over thoroughly before starting to make their way down your body. “Baby, what’s happened?” 

“Hey,” you say, “what are you doing here?” 

“Um, no.” James gives you a funny-looking smile, amusement tangled up with worry. “It’s fairly normal for us to be here, what are you doing here?” 

“I, um—” 

“Idiots.” Remus bypasses them both, taking your injured hand gently and holding it up where your other boyfriends can see it. “What happened here, lovely?” 

“I broke my finger,” you admit. 

Sirius looks devastated, though with the splint binding your two fingers together you thought it was fairly obvious. “How?” 

“Shut it in my car door.” 

James winces and Remus tsks compassionately, turning your hand so he can see the injured digit from another angle. 

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

You shrug, not quite looking at any of them. “I had to wait a while. A few hours.” 

Remus’ look lets you know your sheepishness isn’t without good reason. “Did you drive yourself like this?” 

You nod meekly. 

“Angel!” James wraps his arms around you, tucking your head underneath his chin, and you go happily. You’ll take his mollycoddling over Remus’ reproachful stare any day. “Why didn’t you call us? I can’t believe you had to sit here all by yourself.” 

“I knew you were busy at work, and I didn’t want to worry you.” Now Sirius is glaring at you, too. You snuggle further into James’ embrace. “It wasn’t so bad.” 

“Did they have to set it?” Sirius asks. 

Your face heats. “Yeah. It was pretty weird-looking when it first happened.” 

James makes a pitiful whining sound. “Poor love.” 

“How long did they tell you it’d take to heal?” Remus’ voice sounds somewhat gentler now. He finally relinquishes your injured hand to Sirius, who starts turning it about and inspecting it in the same manner, like the doctor who splinted it for you might not have done a good enough job. 

“Six to eight weeks,” you say glumly. It already feels annoyingly constraining not being able to bend either of those fingers; you’re not sure how you’re supposed to deal with it for weeks on end. 

The boys exchange a look, and James drops the protective circle of his arms from around you. “I’m going to go find Amelia,” he says, “see if she’s on break.” 

You clutch at his shirt with your good hand. “Don’t leave me,” you whisper. 

Your boyfriend smiles, dropping a kiss on your head. “Sorry, lovie.” 

“I think we ought to feel insulted,” Sirius comments as James walks away. Remus only shrugs. 

He reaches for your face now that it’s not hidden under James’ chin, wiping frownily at something on your cheek. 

“Are you feeling alright now, dove?” he asks, and you veritably liquefy at the tenderness in his voice. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You shrug one shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, but it really wasn’t awful.” 

Sirius gives your wrist an admonishing little squeeze. “You have tear marks on your face,” he contradicts you softly. 

“Oh.” You run a finger under your eyes, feeling your face heat. 

Remus tuts and lets his hand rest against the side of your neck, thumb stroking at your jaw. “We’re only on shift for another hour,” he tells you. “James is finding our friend Amelia so you can stay in the break room with her until we can come back and get you, okay?” 

You shake your head, and his stare hardens but you say anyway, “I don’t need to be babysat. I can get home on my own.” 

“You shouldn’t be driving after having anesthetic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Wouldn’t they have told me if that were the case?” 

“We don’t want you driving with a numb hand,” Sirius clarifies. When you turn your attention to him, he gives you a stern look. “You should have called us in the first place. Just let us do what we can for you now, okay?” 

You sigh in resignation just as James comes up behind you again. Seeing as no one has taken over hug duty, he wraps both arms around your waist, setting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you tell Sirius. 

“Oh, excellent. All on the same page, are we?” James turns his head to smooch your cheek. “Knew you’d come around, angel. Amelia’s ready for you, so you can hang in the break room until we get back.” 

“Is she going to baby me too?” you joke, letting him steer you towards the hallway. 

“Probably not,” Sirius says, “but don’t you worry, sweetness. We’ll make up for that when we get you home.” 

[coco-loco-nut]

Broken Bones

pairing: george russell x reader

summary: George gets in a wreck and you happen to be the surgeon on-call.

a/n: i loved this prompt, i hope you love it ❤️

masterlist

————————

George was enjoying his home race, he was holding P3 with a comfortable lead due to some great defending earlier in the race. Unfortunately for him, mother nature decided to put her hand into the race and have a pop up rain shower come through.

“It should clear through shortly, let’s keep with the softs,” his engineer says, hoping to outsmart those pitting for inters. George says a quick response and continues focusing on the track, especially the dry line. With the rain pouring, he catches a wet line in turn 4, sending the car spinning and into a barrier.

You rush down a couple floors to where you have been paged. Being the only orthopedic trauma surgeon in the hospital and on-call, you have to make haste.

“Is there really no one else to take this?” you ask, looking at the chart that has initial images and the patient information.

“Big fan?” the nurse beside you asks as you mentally plan the procedure. Most of Britain is basically a fan of the racing driver.

“Yeah. It’s not ethical, but I took an oath,” you tightly smile, beginning the process of scrubbing in.

“You are a great surgeon, you will have no problem keeping the fan part of you out of your mind,” the nurse reassures you. You take a couple deep breaths before heading to surgery.

The procedure goes well, you repair the broken wrist and fix the damage as best you can. Of course, time will finish healing it, but you do your best.

Afterwards you scrub out, finish paperwork, and go home. You won’t need to check in until anesthesia wears off, and that can take a while. You return later in the day, dressed in business casual and your lab coat.

“Mr. Russell, how are you feeling?” you ask, needing to check on your work. You close the door behind you when you enter the room.

“You are so pretty,” George says, still a little out of it.

“Thank you. Mind if I check your arm?” you ignore your blush.

“You look like my wife. She’s a doctor too, soooo pretty,” George babbles.

“I know, love, let me see your arm,” you say gently, sitting beside him.

“What happened?” George asks with a confused look.

“You spun out and crashed into a barrier. It was raining, you were on slicks, and caught a wet line,” you explain, carefully examining the surgical site, removing the splint immobilizing the wrist.

“I know that much. Injuries?” he asks, eyes trained on your wound examination.

“Broken wrist. We are going to brace it rather than cast it,” you check his chart for other injuries noted.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, I love you,” George says, moving his non-injured hand to grab yours.

“I love you too, Georgie,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb over his hand as he processes everything. You note things in his chart, making sure your observations and updates are written down.

“I’m glad you did my surgery, I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” he smiles, you can’t help but smile back. It’s not illegal, but it certainly is borderline unethical to treat your husband.

“I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t I go and see if your family is out in the waiting room?”you hum, needing to stay inconspicuous. Of course, those close to you know who your husband is, but since you don’t share his last name it isn’t obvious.

“One kiss before you leave,” George pouts and you hesitate. “Please, I was just in a crash and your kisses make me feel better,” he pouts. You playfully roll your eyes and lean in, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you, I’ll be right back,” you reassure him. You find his family and Toto waiting outside in the waiting room.

“Family of Mr. Russell,” you say, calling them to you.

“Y/n, dear, did you do his surgery?” George’s mom asks, a little hopeful.

“I did, I was the only one here and on call. Thankfully nothing too major, he can probably get back into a car in a month if we rehab him correctly. Want to see him?” you ask, knowing the answer. You lead them to his room, but stop Toto before he walks in.

“Y/n-“ Toto starts but you don’t hesitate to cut him off.

“You got very lucky that the broken wrist was the worst of it. Keeping him out on slicks? Are you stupid, a win is not worth more than a life,” you fume.

“I know, I gave his engineers and strategists a talking to. I just wanted to check in on him, but knowing he is in your care is all I needed. I check in tomorrow then,” Toto stays calm, knowing you had to since George was brought in and you needed to yell at someone.

“I, um, thank you. He should only be here another day for observation. I’ll keep you updated,” you recompose yourself and watch as Toto leaves.

“She’s just the best doctor ever. So pretty too, and smart, and really good at surgery,” you overhear George tell his parents, he likely just got another dose of pain meds.

“Thank you, Georgie. You are a pretty good patient,” you smile from the doorway.

“Can you believe that doctor loves me? And she married me?” George asks his mom who laughs.

“You chose a wonderful wife. Why don’t you let her get back to work?” his mom asks, catching your amused gaze.

“Yes, I have another surgery scheduled. I will check on you in a few hours,” you walk over to your husband, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you so much, I want to have babies with you,” George blurts, causing your face to flame bright red.

“Okay, let’s talk about that later,” you awkwardly say, stepping out of the room.

You are quick to return after your scheduled surgery. You know the nurses rotations and know that they won’t check in for another hour.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” George grins as you walk in. “You look so sexy post-surgery,” he eyes you up.

“Really? I don’t feel like it,” you slide onto the bed beside him, careful to avoid hurting him. You relax in silence for a minute before you address the feeling eating at the pit of your stomach. “Please try not to crash again. I know it’s unavoidable, but the feeling I got when I saw your name and didn’t know how serious the crash was. It… I don’t think I can describe the panic,” you take a deep breath, closing your eyes and focusing on the sound of his heartbeat under you. The cool hospital air is a stark contrast to his warmth.

“I’m sorry, it’s the one part of racing I hate too,” George is unsure how to respond. He looks at the blank hospital wall, as if it’ll give him the answer. “I’ll always come home to you, and I have a badass surgeon to take care of me,” he laughs a little, trying to lighten the mood.

“I can only do so much, like brain surgery? You are on your own,” you grin, happy to let the vibe change.

“You could do it, you can do anything,” George says, he always gets gushy when he’s tired.

“Okay, baby, you should get some sleep. I’ll go home and get you clothes. I will be back tomorrow morning to check on you,” you yawn, also needing sleep. George knows you can’t stay in the room too long, and he wouldn’t want you to stay up in an uncomfortable chair.

“I love you. Drive safe,” he mumbles, tiredness washing over him in waves. You fix his sheets and make sure he is okay before kissing him goodnight and leaving. It feels weird, to go home and not have him there. You burn the rest of your anxious energy by reaching out to some good physical therapists that you know to help with George’s recovery.

Under your watchful eye, he makes a recovery similar to Lance’s, even with you fussing the first few races post-injury. You framed one of his x-rays. George had to listen to you talk about how beautiful it was, you claimed it to be your best work. It allows for a good story when having friends over, and it reminds George to not let it happen again.

[rememberwren]

Dichotomy of Thought || 11

Past and further chapters here.

Simon and Johnny make up.

|| Chapter warnings: Anal fingering, anal sex, baby-trapping, medication tampering, medication control.

-

Your boyfriend manages your medications, a one-man pharmacy. 

Every morning the pills are waiting for you on the table in the foyer beside where you deposit your keys in the evening. There are two of them. 

The first is oblong, tan. Your boyfriend hoards and hides the bottle, but you’d fished the information pamphlet that came from the pharmacy out of the trash, and you know everything there is to know about it from that page jam-packed with text. Sertraline, 50mg. Otherwise known as Zoloft. Just swallowing the tasteless pill makes you remember the even darker days than the ones you’re living now, the ones that had led you to that waiting room with your boyfriend in the seat beside you waiting for a doctor to see you. How do I know if I’m depressed, you had asked the doctor, bold as anything even with your boyfriend’s hand on your knee, or if my life just isn’t worth living? 

You’d learned. By God, you’d learned. 

The other pill is your birth control. Round, sometimes blue, sometimes white, depending on where you are in your cycle. Today it is white and—

It looks—different. 

He wouldn’t, you think to yourself, thumb nudging at the pill in your palm, like seeing it from a different angle might jog your memory of it. He wouldn’t do that. A kid is the last thing he wants. He wouldn’t sacrifice his own freedom just to keep you trapped underneath his thumb. 

Except—wouldn’t he? 

“Hurry it up,” he says, yawning, like you kept him up late last night. “I want to go back to bed.” 

You try to take a picture of the pill in your mind before you drop it onto your tongue, taking a swig from your water tumbler, but your brain feels so scrambled that you forget it right away. You can’t even remember the color—had it truly been white, or had it been the pale sky blue of  robin’s egg?

It goes down like a lump of chalk. He makes you show him your empty mouth before he’s satisfied that you aren’t cheeking the pills, and then he kisses you and tells you to have a good day at work, honey. 

-

“Rooster wants you in his office,” Jackie says under her breath, helping you hurriedly clear one of your tables. You’re slow with the splint on your smallest finger, the throb of pain lancing all the way up your wrist each time you use the damaged hand. Jackie has been an angel in khakis picking up your slack. 

You wish that you had one of the pills that they’d given you in the emergency department. It hadn’t taken away all of the pain, but it’d made your head feel light and floaty and like you could care less if all your fingers were broken. Or maybe you wanted one of Johnny’s pills—the ones that put him in a peaceful sleep. You haven’t had such a thing in so long that you can’t remember when, even your moments of relaxation tainted until ‘rest’ is just waiting for the next act of violence. 

“What does he want?” you ask. 

“Probably to tell you about the raise,” she says. She rolls her eyes and twirls a fingers, mouth set in a grim smile of comradery. “Fifty cents. Writing home about it as we speak. Or maybe he wants to grill you about who keeps stealing from the registers—like we all don’t know it’s Ruth.” 

Fifty cents. You can’t even turn up your nose at it. Every penny is one that brings you closer to that apartment across town. With a promise that you’ll return as quickly as you can, you step off the floor (avoiding making eye contact with any customers who would happily sideway you for refills or to complain) and into the back of the house. It’s quiet back here, cooler. Rapping your knuckles against Rooster’s door, you wait. 

There’s no response, and no sign of him in the hallway. Some of the line cooks are coming in, filtering toward the break room to start their shift. You feel their eyes on you as you stand impotently outside the door. One of them says something to the other, and there is laughter, too loud and boisterous for the enclosed space. Your heart has begun to pound, sweat breaking out at the nape of your neck. 

“Hey,” one of them says to you. 

“Hi,” you mutter, forcing a smile, unable to make eye contact. 

Still there is no sign of Rooster from either end of the hallway—never would you have considered the short man your savior. Heart racing, you crack the door open and see that the office is empty. You slip inside, shutting the door safely behind you. 

The room is as self-important as you might imagine: a desk that seems too large for the space, filing cabinets in the corner. There’s a corkboard pockmarked with holes after years of use, and you drift over to it, too anxious to take a seat in the chair on the other side of Rooster’s desk. A calendar is posted there, Rooster’s neat handwriting here and there. 

Something catches your eye: LOCKER CLEANOUT marked for two weeks from now. 

It seemed like the last locker cleanout had just happened. You had only collected five hundred dollars back then, but it was far too much to want to explain to Rooster, and you had nowhere else to stash it that was safe. In the end, it had sat in an envelope under the driver’s seat of your car while Rooster took the week and went through each of the lockers to ensure compliance with the restaurant’s rules (all because someone used to have a penchant for leaving snack cakes in their locker leading to a bad case of ants that almost led to the restaurant being shut down). It had been the longest week of your life, like driving around with a live bomb underneath the front seat. 

Now you have nearly two thousand dollars. Where the hell were you going to put it? 

The door opens. Rooster looks at you suspiciously, eyes flickering between you and the calendar. 

“Next time, wait outside,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. It makes your skin crawl to be alone with him, even if he’s never done anything slimier than asking you to pull a double shift. You know the darkness that lies inside men. All men. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, taking his seat in a squeaky rolling chair behind the desk. His smile is a dismal, strained thing, like interacting with you is just as painful for him as it is for you. “Next time, just wait.”  

-

Johnny and Simon spend the day in bed. 

Johnny’s knee is propped up on a pillow, red and swollen. Simon lets his fingers hover over it, gentle, feeling the warmth of Johnny’s skin. Johnny winces, like even the brush of air against his knee hurts. 

“It looks infected,” says Simon. 

“It’s not.” It can’t be. Johnny can’t handle that—can’t handle the idea of having to go through the surgery on his knee again, the recovery, the way recovery is just synonymous with pain. No, it isn’t infected. “Just looks like that because he hit it.” 

Simon leans down and brushes his mouth against Johnny’s thigh. It’s meant to be sweet but—well. It’s the closest his mouth has been to Johnny’s cock in more than six months, and just the sight of it has Johnny’s heart skipping a beat and picking up again in double-time, his face growing flush. Not privy to Johnny’s thoughts, all Simon does is press a chaste kiss to the skin a few inches above where Johnny’s swelling starts—nevermind what else might be swelling now, too. 

The two of them lay entwined together, Simon curling up around him. He plants a hand on Johnny’s clothed chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to remind himself that Johnny’s here. That Johnny’s alive. The look in his eyes is far away, mouth drawn down into a tight frown. All at once, Johnny’s downright sick of it—sick of them not having anything to smile about. Sick of fighting. 

Johnny takes Simon’s hand, laces their fingers, and guides it down. Down over his slim, firm belly, watching from the corner of his eye as Simon’s brows climb up his forehead. Down until their hands cup his half-hard cock. Simon’s hand shifts straight away, fingers curling around the solid length, thumb stroking up the side, the gentle rasp of his calloused fingerpad loud against the cotton of Johnny’s boxers. 

“You’re hurt,” Simon reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” 

“I do.” 

“We don’t have to fuck. I just—” he doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he needs to feel something good. How badly he needs to know that his connection with Simon isn’t ruined. How badly he needs to see that they’re still lovers, that Simon isn’t just his live-in caretaker. How badly Johnny needs to feel like a human being—like a grown man. He finishes, a little lamely: “I just need it.” 

Simon’s grip goes firm. Johnny’s eyes shut, mouth falling open at the sensation. He hasn’t even touched himself like this in weeks, and while he hadn’t necessarily been keeping track, his cock clearly has been. Simon seems content to go on like this, mapping the shape of Johnny’s cock through his boxers, thumbing over the head until a wet sticky spot appears in the cotton fabric, his hand sometimes drifting down to cradle the warm heft of Johnny’s balls. 

Johnny, usually impatient, contents himself with this torture. Let Simon tease him all day, if he’d like, until Johnny is liable to go off at the whisper of a touch. The thought has his cock jerking toward the warmth of Simon’s palm, and Johnny groans when his grip tightens. 

“Fucking pretty, aren’t you?” Simon mutters, his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Johnny snorts. He tosses his arm over his eyes, but beneath his arm, he’s grinning. “Shuddup.” 

Simon clicks his tongue. “Be good, Johnny. Let me look at you.” 

Johnny moves his arm and gives his grin room to breathe. His head feels light and airy as Simon sits up and helps him work his boxers down his thighs just far enough to draw his cock out. The first touch of skin on skin has him hissing a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, it’s good. Just as good as it always was—maybe even better, because he needs it so bad. 

“Want you inside me,” Johnny says on a whim, feeling the truth of it in his chest. He doesn’t just want it—he needs it. 

Simon leans down and kisses him, just a little too hard to be mistaken as anything but desperate. How long has it been for him, Johnny wonders. He spends every waking moment with Johnny except his perfunctory showers. Does he indulge then, between soaping and rinsing off, holding his breath to hide his sounds while he strips his cock with one slick hand? 

It takes some maneuvering to get Johnny on his side, knee nicely cushioned. He can’t reach back and touch Simon, can’t grip his hip and pull him in closer, and it’s just another reason to miss his arm. Because there are a hundred thousand touches Simon deserves that Johnny can’t give him anymore. 

They’re lucky for the shelf life of the lube. It warms Simon’s fingers as he works them past Johnny’s rim. He takes his time, hands shaking where they touch him. 

“Need it bad, huh?” Johnny wonders. 

Simon snorts but doesn’t deny it. Just curls his fingers searching for that tender spot inside Johnny’s ass that makes him grit his teeth. His cock drools onto the bedspread, red and throbbing with his heartbeat. By the time Simon slips inside him, chest to Johnny’s back, Johnny feels liable to go off at a moment’s notice. 

For all the time they haven’t fucked, Simon remembers everything: the way to touch Johnny,wrapping a strong arm around his chest to make up for the one Johnny lacks, fingers playing with the whorls of Johnny’s chest hair or teasing one of his nipples; the way to angle his hips to nail Johnny’s prostate. 

“Quit,” Johnny groans, shifting until the stimulation isn’t so good, so dead-on. His cock aches, balls heavy and tight. “I don’t want to cum yet. Don’t want this to be over.” 

“Can’t miss Johnny; dick’s too big.” 

Johnny guffaws. The sound nearly startles him—when was the last time he fucking laughed? With you in the park—but he doesn’t need to be thinking about you now, not you with your small, soft hands and the curve of your mouth…

“Fuck—touch my cock, please touch my cock—“ Johnny whines, body trembling. He’s right there, right fucking there, too close to go back now, fuck it all, he wants to cum. Simon’s strong fingers curl around his cock and strip it firmly, and the pleasure inside him bubbles up and over, left too long to simmer. He nearly headbutts Simon in the face, his body shaking and jerking and cum splatters against his belly and the bedspread and down over Simon’s fingers. 

“Just like that—so good, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. His pale hand grips at Johnny’s sharp hipbone, cum smearing against Johnny’s skin. “My turn.” 

Afterwards, Simon gently helps him undress and goes to get them both fresh clothes. Johnny’s knee throbs freshly just from his muscles tensing, but he barely feels it. For the first time since his accident, he thinks that maybe things will be okay. He has no arm—but so what? There are many with a lot less. He’s John fucking MacTavish. He can do this.

Simon has gone still at their closet, holding something in his hands. Johnny leans up on his elbows. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find my lighter?”

Simon holds up with no preamble a skull-embossed balaclava. It’s worn, the fabric gone gray at its most threadbare spots, but the image imprinted on the front hasn’t faded.

“Blast from the past,” Johnny says, throat uncomfortably tight with an emotion he can’t name. “Thought you threw those out.” 

“Thought so too.” He doesn’t look eager to throw this one out though, his fingers tracing over the teeth, like he’s tracing the lipless mouth of a lover. 

“You miss it,” Johnny says, the glow of their sex fading rapidly. Of course Simon misses it. The military had been his entire life—until Johnny’s accident. Until Simon had discharged with him, to take care of him. Johnny hadn’t just blown apart his own life by going down in the helo in Kazakhstan, he had blown apart Simon’s life too. 

“No,” Simon says simply. “It’s not that.” 

Johnny frowns. “What is it, then?” 

“The night of the poker party—I was Ghost again. It was the only way I could…compartmentalize. Stomach it. I’d forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?”

Simon glances toward him. “Forgotten how useful Ghost could be.” Reaching up, Simon slips the balaclava over his head, adjusting it on instinct until it rests just right against the bridge of his nose. His hair is getting long, little blond strands visible, curling at the ends. 

“Now I want to fuck you again,” says Johnny, just to fill the air between them, and because sex used to be such an easy way to fill it. 

Simon doesn’t smile. 

“Johnny.”

“I was just teasin’—“

“Not that,” Simon says. Even his manner of speaking seems different, words clipped, tone short and no-nonsense. “What if I wanted to go visit our neighbor?”

The question lingers in the silence between them. Johnny swallows, the sound of his throat an audible click in the tense air. 

“You,” Johnny wonders, when he can speak again, “or Ghost?” 

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost smiles. 

[callsigns-haze]

His Shadow: Chp 8

masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7

Azriel, secretly juggling his responsibilities and personal life, maintains a hidden relationship with YN, who works at a pleasure house in the Hewn City. She was his light, his love, his passion. Yet being his darkest secret is a hard role because life in the Hewn as a young female isn't the easiest as the two of you hold an even dark secret yet to be told...

Pairing: Azriel x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences

For the next few days, Azriel didn’t leave YN’s side. He sat vigil in the quiet room at the River House, his eyes constantly watching over her, his heart heavy with worry. Her chest rose and fell softly, her face pale but peaceful in sleep. Her once-strong frame seemed so fragile now, broken ribs bandaged beneath the blankets, a splint wrapped around her sprained wrist.

Madja had been diligent in her care, informing him of her injuries: a mild concussion that would keep her in a daze even after she woke, fractured ribs that would need time to heal, and a strained wrist from where she had fought off the men. But it was her voice—or the lack of it—that weighed on him the most. The brutal strangulation had damaged her vocal cords, and Madja warned him that when she finally did wake, it would take several days before she could speak again.

Azriel’s heart clenched at the thought of YN not being able to voice her pain or fear. The memory of her being strangled on the floor, fighting for her life while Knox remained hidden, haunted him endlessly. He’d seen so much in his long life, witnessed horrors and fought battles, but the sight of her so close to death shook him like nothing else ever had.

Madja had been kind enough to offer healing spells to speed her recovery, but Azriel insisted on being there for everything. Every time she adjusted the bandages on YN’s ribs, every time she checked her breathing or felt for swelling, Azriel stood close by, offering silent support.

On the third night, Madja stopped by with her usual clinical efficiency, though her expression was more sympathetic than usual. "Her body is recovering well," she told him softly, taking his stoic silence as permission to continue. "The concussion is minor, and the ribs, while painful, will heal with time. But her voice... it may take several days for her to speak again. The trauma to her throat was extensive. She’ll need time."

Azriel nodded, his jaw tight. He’d been expecting it, but hearing it aloud made it all the more real. “I understand,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and constant worry. He reached out to smooth a hand over YN’s hair, careful not to disturb the splint on her wrist. “I’ll be here when she wakes.”

Madja gave a small nod and left the room quietly, leaving him alone with her again.

Azriel looked down at YN, his chest tightening at the sight of her bruised throat, the faint purple marks still visible beneath the bandages. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to tell her she was safe now, that he would never let anything happen to her again. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Knox, who had been in the care of Feyre and Mor during these long days, was brought to visit often, and each time Azriel held him, it grounded him in a way nothing else could. Knox’s small, innocent presence was a reminder of why they fought so hard, why they endured so much.

In the dim light of the room, Azriel kept vigil, his shadows swirling around him in a protective haze as he watched over his mate and his son, determined to stay until YN opened her eyes again and could feel the safety of his presence once more.

---

Azriel sat in the corner of the room, Knox cradled in his arms, the baby squirming slightly as he rocked him. His expression was tense, jaw clenched, as he waited for Rhys and Cassian to speak. He already knew what was coming—the questions, the confusion. They’d finally figured out what he had kept from them all this time.

Rhys broke the silence first, his voice calm but direct. "We need to talk about YN."

Azriel didn’t look up. He kept his gaze on his son, knowing there was no more avoiding it. “What about her?”

Cassian leaned forward, frowning. “We know she’s got a deal with Kier. A bargain.”

Azriel’s grip tightened slightly on Knox, but he kept his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

Cassian shot him a sharp look. “And you knew? How long?”

Azriel sighed. "A while."

Rhys crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t think to tell us? You’ve been hiding this from us the entire time?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Azriel said coldly, meeting Rhys’s gaze now. "And it’s more complicated than you think."

Cassian scoffed. "Complicated how? She’s tied to Kier’s pleasure house. Why?"

Azriel shifted Knox in his arms, trying to stay calm. "It started when she was seventeen. Her best friend killed someone in self-defense. The Hewn City is split between the elite and the ones trying to survive. YN was part of the latter. Her family had nothing."

Rhys’s expression tightened. He remained silent, waiting for Azriel to continue.

"Kier stepped in," Azriel said, his voice clipped. "He gave them protection, kept them from being dragged into a trial or worse. But there was a price. He granted YN an education, helped her family. And when she came of age, he bound her to the pleasure house."

Cassian cursed under his breath, disgust clear on his face. “That bastard.”

Azriel nodded, his jaw tight. “She’s stuck. She doesn’t want to be there, but Kier holds the power. If I push too hard, he’ll make her life hell.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his expression hard. “And you’ve been dealing with this alone? Not telling us?”

Azriel’s tone was sharp. “I didn’t have a choice. If Kier knew I was involved, he’d use it against her. He’s waiting for an excuse to tighten his grip on her.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “We could’ve helped.”

“She didn’t want help,” Azriel said firmly. “She didn’t want to be seen as weak. And if you had known, Kier would’ve caught wind of it. He’s not stupid.”

Rhys crossed his arms, tension rolling off him. “So, what now? You’re just going to keep letting her work there while Kier pulls the strings?”

Azriel’s eyes flashed. “I’m working on it. But if I make a move, it has to be calculated. Otherwise, he’ll ruin everything.”

Rhys sighed, rubbing his temples. “We need a plan. Kier can’t keep his hold on her forever.”

Cassian’s voice was gruff but sympathetic. “We’ll figure this out. But next time, don’t shut us out, Az.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his focus returning to Knox as he rocked the baby slowly, his mind already churning with thoughts of how to protect them both.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look, understanding the gravity of the situation, but knowing they had no choice but to trust Azriel’s instincts—for now.

---

The room was bathed in soft, dim light as YN slowly stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Her body felt heavy, weighed down by the pain radiating from her ribs and the dull ache in her throat. Every breath was labored, shallow, as if the air itself was too thick to pull in. Her eyes finally opened, the world blurry for a moment before the room came into focus.

Azriel was there, sitting in the chair beside the bed, his dark eyes trained on her with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. He had been waiting for this, for her to open her eyes, for the confirmation that she was still with him. The second he saw movement, his breath hitched, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clenched together as if bracing himself.

“YN…” he whispered, voice cracking slightly, the relief in his tone palpable. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes and tension radiating from every muscle, but his expression softened the moment she focused on him.

She tried to speak, tried to form words, but nothing came out. Her throat felt raw, burning with the effort. Panic flashed in her eyes, her lips parting again, but all she managed was a faint rasp, her voice entirely gone.

Azriel was at her side in an instant, his hand gently cupping her face. “Shh, don’t try to talk. It’s okay,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek tenderly. His touch was warm, grounding her in the moment, anchoring her as the panic began to subside. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Her gaze met his, and in that silent exchange, a thousand emotions passed between them—fear, relief, sorrow, love. She lifted her hand slowly, the movement weak and shaky, and placed it over his. The gesture was small, but it said everything she couldn’t.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he fought to hold back the flood of emotions. Seeing her like this—so fragile, so hurt—it tore at him in ways he couldn’t describe. He had been terrified, truly terrified that she wouldn’t wake up, that she’d slip away before he could even hold her again. Now, with her fingers weakly gripping his, it took every ounce of control not to break down right there.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, leaning closer, his forehead gently pressing against hers. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, but she couldn’t cry, not fully. The tightness in her throat, the pain in her chest, wouldn’t allow it. But the emotion was there, heavy and unspoken between them. She blinked, the tears slipping down her cheeks, and Azriel wiped them away gently, his thumb moving across her skin with the lightest of touches.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Azriel’s forehead resting against hers, his fingers brushing her cheek, his other hand gripping hers tightly as if letting go would mean losing her all over again.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy, his voice softer. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” He tried for a smile, but it faltered. “Don’t ever do that again.”

She managed a faint nod, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. She wanted to tell him everything—that she was okay, that she didn’t blame him, that she was so damn grateful to have him there. But the words wouldn’t come, and all she could do was squeeze his hand in response.

Azriel’s eyes flickered to the bruises on her neck, and his expression darkened. He wanted to kill the men who had done this to her, wanted to rip them apart piece by piece. But right now, all that mattered was her—keeping her safe, keeping her close.

“Rest,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up again. I’m not going anywhere.”

He settled back into his chair, his hand never leaving hers, watching her as her eyes slowly fluttered shut again. Even in sleep, her face was tight with pain, her body too still, too fragile. Azriel watched her for a long time, every protective instinct roaring within him, and made a silent vow to never let anything like this happen again.

She had fought for her life, and now, it was his turn to fight for hers.

---

Two weeks had passed, and YN had begun to feel like herself again, at least physically. Her voice, once stolen by the brutal attack, had gradually returned—soft and weak at first, but stronger with each passing day. Azriel, however, had been relentless in his overprotectiveness. He had insisted that she remain in Velaris, far away from the dangers of the Hewn City, and had forced Madja to write an official medical letter to her employer, explaining that she was unfit for work for an extended period. He had even gone as far as delivering the letter himself, leaving no room for argument.

Now, YN sat on the balcony of their guest quarters in Velaris, the warmth of the afternoon sun bathing her in golden light. The balcony overlooked a peaceful garden, filled with vibrant flowers swaying gently in the breeze. She cradled Knox in her arms, the baby’s tiny body relaxed against her as she cooed and tickled him lightly under his chin. His sweet giggles filled the air, his small Illyrian wings fluttering ever so slightly in his excitement.

"Shh," she whispered with a soft smile, trying to soothe him back to sleep. “Come on, little one, it’s nap time.” Knox’s bright, curious eyes blinked up at her before slowly starting to droop, his body going limp as he fell into that peaceful baby slumber. YN continued to rock him gently, her fingers brushing through his dark hair, and she let out a contented sigh.

As she focused on the baby in her arms, she didn’t notice Azriel slipping quietly out onto the balcony behind her. His steps were silent, a skill he had perfected over centuries, and he took a moment to simply admire the scene before him. YN, looking healthier now, her hair loose and glowing in the sunlight, holding their son as if the entire world revolved around the tiny bundle in her arms. The sight filled his heart with a warmth he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.

Without a word, Azriel stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her into a warm, protective embrace. YN let out a small gasp of surprise before her body relaxed into his, the familiar weight and scent of him instantly soothing her. She tilted her head back slightly to look up at him, her lips curving into a soft smile.

“Didn’t hear you coming,” she whispered, her voice now smooth but still carrying a hint of the recovery she’d undergone.

“I didn’t want to disturb such a perfect moment,” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm on her skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. His hands slid down to rest over hers, cradling Knox together.

“He’s finally asleep,” YN said softly, her eyes drifting down to their son’s peaceful face. “You know, you’re going to spoil me with all this protection,” she teased, though there was no real heat in her words.

Azriel chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her back as he held her closer. “I’ll never stop protecting you. Or him.”

YN leaned her head back against his chest, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling of being wrapped in his arms. “I know. I feel it every day.”

They stood in silence for a while, the only sound the soft rustling of the trees and the occasional cooing of Knox in his sleep. It was peaceful, something YN had rarely known before Velaris, before Azriel had come into her life.

After a few moments, Azriel gently kissed the top of her head and leaned down to whisper, “Rhys and Cassian are coming down soon. They want to talk to you.”

YN’s body tensed slightly in his arms, and she opened her eyes. “Talk to me?” she asked, her voice carrying a slight edge of concern.

Azriel sighed softly, pressing another kiss to her temple. “They’ve been worried. They know about your... connection to Kier and the pleasure house. They want to make sure you’re okay and figure out how we can... keep you safe.”

She let out a long breath, her grip on Knox tightening a little as she thought about the conversation to come. “I don’t like being a subject of discussion.”

“I know,” Azriel murmured, his hands rubbing soothing circles over her arms. “But they care about you. They just want to help.”

YN nodded slowly, her mind already racing with how much she should tell them. The last few weeks had been difficult enough without having to explain her past and the dangerous web of alliances that had kept her bound to the Hewn City for so long. But if anyone could help her break free, it would be Rhys and Cassian—Azriel’s family. Her family, too, in a way.

“Alright,” she finally said, her voice steady. “I’ll talk to them.”

Azriel kissed her once more, lingering for a moment before stepping back. “Thank you,” he whispered, his gratitude evident in the way his voice softened. He reached down and brushed his thumb gently over Knox’s cheek, the baby stirring slightly but remaining asleep.

“We’ll figure it all out,” he promised, his hazel eyes filled with determination. "Together."

Rhys and Cassian approached YN with a heavy seriousness in their demeanor. The peaceful atmosphere of the balcony shifted as the weight of the conversation settled between them. Azriel stood by YN's side, his gaze locked on her face as he sensed her unease, but this was a necessary conversation. If they were to free her from the clutches of the pleasure house, this was the only way.

Rhys was the first to speak, his voice gentle yet firm. "YN, we’ve been discussing your situation with Kier and his... assistant. We know you’re bound by that bargain, and we’ve been working on a way to break it. But there’s only one option that we can see.”

Cassian leaned forward, his large frame looming slightly as he crossed his arms. “We’ve come up with a plan, but it’s not going to be easy. Kier’s assistant—the man who controls your bargain—is going to be the key. He’s one of your clients, correct?”

YN swallowed hard, already feeling a pit forming in her stomach. She nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around Knox, who slept peacefully in her arms. “Yes,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “He requests private sessions. He’s... powerful.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched beside her, his hands itching to destroy the man who held so much control over YN’s life. Rhys, sensing Azriel’s rising anger, continued in a calm, measured tone.

“We believe that the only way to break this bond is through him. If you can get close enough, distract him when he calls for you again, we can move in. Cassian and I will take care of his guards, and Azriel will handle him. But we need you to keep him occupied—long enough for us to get inside.”

YN felt her heart race, her palms growing sweaty as she tried to process the enormity of what they were asking. The thought of being alone with that man, knowing what was about to happen, made her stomach churn. Worse still, the prospect of murder, something she had been entangled with before, clawed at her mind. The memory of her friend’s desperate act of self-defense still haunted her, and now they were asking her to be part of something similar.

“You want me to distract him while you... kill him?” YN asked, her voice trembling slightly as the reality of the plan sank in.

Rhys nodded solemnly. “It’s the only way, YN. If he’s dead, the bond will be broken. You’ll be free.”

Azriel stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her back. He could feel her flinch at the word "kill," and it sent a pang of guilt through him. He hated that this was the only option they had, hated that YN would have to face this darkness again. But he also knew that they couldn’t keep living like this—constantly looking over their shoulders, bound by a deal that held her captive.

YN stared down at Knox, her mind swirling with a mixture of fear and hope. On one hand, this was her chance—her chance to be free from the pleasure house, from Kier’s cruel control, and to live a life with Azriel and Knox without constantly fearing for their safety. But on the other hand, the thought of being involved in another killing, even indirectly, was enough to make her chest tighten.

Cassian’s voice broke through her thoughts. “We’ll be there the whole time. You won’t be alone in this.”

Rhys knelt down beside her, his gaze soft but unwavering. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I wish there was another way. But we’ll make sure you’re safe, YN. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Azriel knelt beside her, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had escaped. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “But this is the only way to end it.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat dry as she nodded, more to herself than to them. She had survived so much already—being bound to that awful place, the attack on her apartment, and the struggles of her past. If this was what it took to be free, then she would face it. She would do whatever it took for her son, for the life she wanted to build with Azriel.

But the weight of the decision settled heavily on her shoulders, and she knew this would not be an easy path.

“I’ll do it,” YN finally whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she spoke. “But... I’m scared.”

Azriel’s grip on her tightened, his forehead resting against hers for a moment. “I know,” he murmured. “But you’re strong, YN. You’re stronger than any of us.”

Rhys stood up, exchanging a glance with Cassian before looking back at YN. “We’ll make the arrangements. When he calls for you again, we’ll be ready.”

YN nodded, though her body felt like it was moving through quicksand. The thought of going back to that place, knowing what would happen, made her feel sick. But deep down, she knew there was no other choice. If she wanted freedom, if she wanted to protect Knox and Azriel from this life, she would have to face this head-on.

Azriel stayed beside her as Rhys and Cassian left to make their plans, his hand never leaving hers. He could feel her trembling slightly, and it broke his heart to know what she would have to go through. But they would get through this together—he would make sure of it.

“I love you,” Azriel whispered, his voice filled with all the emotion he could never quite put into words.

“Me too,” YN replied, her voice steady but her heart racing.

And as she sat there, holding her sleeping son close, YN steeled herself for what was to come. This was her chance to be free—to finally break the chains that had bound her for so long. And no matter how much fear and uncertainty filled her, she knew she would face it for her family.

For Knox. For Azriel. For herself.

One more chapter and then MWAHAHAHAHHA YALL ARE GONNA HATE ME!

[evilmoldywizard]

Hey guys, recently been turning evil about Stanford pines again because of book of bill, so here are some headcannons I have of him

- as someone (myself) who has a lot of hand issues that come from joints in places they shouldn't, I feel like he has a lot of chronic pain with his joints and wrists specifically. (I'm an avid Stanford pines finger splints believer), because just trying to make the anatomy work when drawing his hands makes mine sore just thinking about it. I feel like as he gets older especially he starts to need extra support for his fingers and wrists with all the tinkering with machinery, and stealing heavier tech parts he does.

- the scalp over the metal plate in his head has trouble growing hair like it used to before surgery, and its partially why his hair has started going gray heavier around that area, its overall a bit of an awkward patchy area, he doesn’t really care much though. It also gives him headaches whenever the weather is off, but he only really notices this when he is back home in the mystery shack.

- he of course is covered in more dumb tattoos that he picked up throughout the multiverse, as well as some actually good meaningful ones too. He's also had a lot badly removed but just enught that you can still see them faded.

-transgender because he just is

-i would say “did his own top surgery” but I feel like he would of never bothered, because of the recovery time. He would probably be one of those trans guys that just work out an insane amount to sort of even out the muscle.

- regularly gets confused/ straight up forgets details about the dimension he's in. (canon, I know but listen) he has been through so many versions of so many realitities and god knows how long he spent in each, trying to relearn customs, languages, names of things, etc, and genuinely gets upset when he forgets which pieces are from what dimensions. It just reminds him how much he has missed out on. This also leads to a lot of derealisation issues and paranoia about finally being in the right place.

-in some dimensions he has been able to study up and get some more degrees on some like really obscure topics. I feel like he did this in the really early years before he became an outlaw in nearly every dimension. He probably wanted to fall back into as familiar of a pattern as he could with all the constant chaos around him, academic approval is the closest thing he can feel like to having control over his current situation. It also kind of reminds him of Fiddleford, but he doesn't like to dwell on it, or really think too hard about it.

- he genuinely loves hearing about new changes to his home dimension from dipper and Mabel, even dumb little memes Mabel keeps showing him. He doesn’t really get it, but he just likes to be included.

-he visits Fiddleford almost every day since they reconnected. Trying to find pretty much any reason to see him. He misses him more than words can say and feels guilty about how things ended with them, and Fiddleford knows this. He just likes having Stanford around too much to say anything about how obvious he is being.

[arkjamkson]

UHHHH IVE NEVER WRITTEN BEFORE, Don’t know how to tag and I didn’t proofread cause I’m real lazy. also kinda stupid, i probably used the same metaphors and similes like a million times. So uh, yeah. Read at your own discretion, I’ll tag what I think is important so read pls

TWS & MENTIONS—— Torture, blood, goreish, betrayal, heavy angst, overall gruesome and violent, mentions of relationship with simon ghost riley (implied but heavily), angst angst angst and more angst with a side of angst. Did I mention angst.

That’s it I think lmk if I missed any? Okay enjoy, hopefully!

Inspo and plot credit to users ghouljams & criminalamnesia !!!

————————————————————————

When your vision blurs and your eyes fog up— you can’t make sense out of the coarse pangs of pain running up your sides, down your legs and through your nose. For the first time in your life, it’s a weary weekend evening and you happen to be tied up to a splinting wooden chair in the middle of a dark warehouse. You think the red running down and dripping onto the floor is your own blood, but again, you can’t see. A fist collides against your stomach once, twice, then thrice, and finally relents.

"P…please— stop," You recognize your voice alongside the ringing in yours ears. Panicked— desperate. Your hands twitch behind your back on instinct, a deep familiar instinct to grab those hands and soothe your thumbs over those scared knuckles.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Price grumbles. This wasn’t what he wanted to happen— not your betrayal, not the torturing, and most insistently— not the feelings that hit him when it all came crashing down. The pang in his heart planted the thought and truth that you were practically family. He shakes his head before slamming a door behind him.

“Fuckin’ hell is right!” Simon yells back, slamming down his mask onto the table. He catches a look at your blood smeared over it and anger flares up and over his lips again.

You look at his face and you think you’ve never seen him make that expression. You’ve seen the best and worse of him. You’ve seen the face he makes when he’s afraid, the one he’s made when he cries and his shoulder shake with sobs. It scares you how foreign they he looks now. Ten feet can’t feel anymore distant than right now. Tears boil over onto your red and purple cheeks, voice cracking and quiet.

“I didn’t— I wouldn’t! I was with Gaz all the whole time, tell them Gaz!” You manage and don’t notice how through your fading conscience, you omit and slur words together. When Gaz averts his eyes you can’t help but wonder who’s the real traitor in this whole ordeal.

“You abandoned your post, left Sergeant Gaz to fend for himself, didn’t answer none of your fuckin’ callsigns,” Simon steps closer. You flinch.

“Why?” He yells. “Fuckin’ speak!” Fear runs rampant through your veins and you can’t recognize this man. This man is angry and unrecognizable, and you can’t for the life of you believe why.

“Please, Simon— I didn’t. I wouldn’t.” A few words go unsaid in the wake of pain.

“Good at lying, aren’t you?” Simon steps close. He’s quick to pull out his infamous sleek knife out one of his holders and slice it across your shoulder. Warm blood trickles down and you let out a cry so raw it hurts your throat. It hurts, burns— but nothing sears more than the look he gives you.

You shake your head and sob out. This can’t be seriously be happening. You were just returning from hiding after the Mexican cartel stormed you and Gaz’s recon location. You ran until your lungs gave out and when you thought you were safe, Johnny had tied your wrist behind your hands and forced you down onto your knees with a rougher than usual hand.

Confused, you panted out. A joke, perhaps? You look around with a small smile. It drops as quick as it formed and it’s almost comical how fast it all happened. One second your legs were aching from running and the next it was from the cut of a choppy knife. The hand that used it was just as choppy, rigid, tense.

“Please, I didn’t do it! I didn’t fucking do it!” Your voice shakes with hurt and anger. “Why won’t you all believe me!” Your voice tears out of your throat. Simon slams his hand down on a table and the noise beats fear into you and gets your heart pounding.

Silence ensues and you could’ve sworn it was worse than being tortured. Your own fucking force members. Eight years, rough and painful years, for one bark from Shephard to tear everything down and away from you.

It takes a few more beatings from Simon for it to get through your hazy mind—He’ll kill you; Right here, right now. Your history can’t save you in the face of betrayal.

When your body is bruised and raw with cuts and you can’t place anything anymore, only then are you granted a silence. Like a madman, captain Price swings open the door of the room he had cowered into.

“Fucking hell, Simon! Stop!” He pulls Simon’s arm back, voice taut and if you could see, you’d see the guilt in the blue of his eyes. His words are like a bite in the neck to everyone in the dark room.

“Shephard conned us. He— Fuck!” He grabs the bloody knife out of Simon’s hand and throws it onto the ground.

“He and graves fucked us over. Lied to Laswell and the rest of us ate it up like fucking dogs!” He yells. Frustration pounds guilt into his head.

Simon’s hand goes limp and you don’t get the satisfaction of seeing guilt seep and set into his face. It would’ve been funny had it not been due to the weight of it all.

“Shit. Shit, shit!” Price runs up to you, eyes frantic as he look over your wounds. Raw, teared and sliced open. Bruised beyond recognition.

You can’t even respond to his hands holding together some of your wounds, the panicked yells between Soap and Gaz, the pale silence from Simon. It’s too quick, you think. That or your mind is slowing down. Most likely the latter.

[gabessquishytum]

Feeling very annoyed about my joint pain right now so what better way to deal with it than projecting my problems onto Dream?

So Dream is hypermobile, and he's been dating Hob for a little while. With Hob, he doesn't feel like he complains too much, he doesn't feel like he's a burden. He doesn't feel like he has to hide the pain and frustration he has to deal with because of his body. As a child he was often told that he was faking injury to get out of doing things he didn't want to do. Often he was told just to exercise more. As he got older, he was told that he was giving up on himself and that he should just push though the pain (despite the fact that when you're hypermobile, sometimes pushing though the pain now means needing joint replacements in the future). But with Hob, his problems are always taken seriously, his pain is believed and he's never infantilized for it. Hob isn't disgusted by his body doing weird things, his reaction to Dream hyperextending something on purpose isn't "put that away that's gross" it's "you'll regret that tomorrow"

Dream has definitely subluxed his jaw while giving Hob blow jobs before. After, because you know Dream wouldn't stop sex for something as trivial as a subluxation, Hob heats up a rice bag and massages Dream's face.

On his bad days, sometimes Hob will stay home from work just to comfort and be there for him. It's care like he's known from no other person ever in his life and he almost certainly cries about how lucky he is (usually in Hob's arms) at least once a week

Idk where exactly I'm going with this. But I'm just spinning the concept of hypermobile!Dream getting comfort and acceptance from Hob in my head. Just Dream getting the comfort I wish I had in my life.

Oh anon, joint pain is so horrible. I'm sorry you're going through it. I'm also in the hypermobile club, so I feel you. I really do.

Dream finds it hard to accept that this will be his life forever, you know? There's no cure for his condition, only management. He spent a lot of time pretending that there was nothing wrong, and ended up hurting himself. He has so many regrets... but knowing that he also gets to spend the rest of his life with Hob makes it almost bearable. Hob has slowly adjusted their shared home to be hypermobile-friendly, putting in all the accommodations that Dream has denied himself over the years: a bath chair, perching stools in the kitchen, banisters on the staircases, even a wedge for their bed so Dream can prop himself up when he's feeling bad enough to be bedbound.

Hob knows Dream’s body better than his own. When Dream hyperextends his knees, Hob is the one to notice and give him a gentle nudge. When he's standing and hanging off his joints and straining them, Hob grabs him a chair so he can sit down instead. When he needs his ring splints, it's usually Hob who fetches and puts them on for him. Dream often feels like a burden, but Hob tries to explain that all of these things aren't chores for him. They're just intuitive, easy acts of love. Hob WANTS to be Dream’s support.

Sex is a lot easier with Hob than it ever was with past partners. There's k-tape and splints and joint braces, which Hob treats with the same reverence he'd usually save for lingerie. Dream, naked, clad only in wrist splints and k-tape, is the most beautiful thing in the world to Hob. Cause he knows that Dream isn't going to get hurt while they make wild and glorious love.

They've definitely had wheelchair sex. Hob has knelt between Dream’s slightly spread legs and sucked his cock. Fortunately the brakes were on, or Dream might have gone rolling across the room from the force of his orgasm. Hob is very good with his mouth.

All in all: life is really really hard, but it's also good. And Hob makes it all worth it by being there and being himself. Dream couldn't love him any more if he tried.

[ronance-romance]

Have some wound cleaning ronance for your Wednesday morning!

“Shit,” Robin gasped, looking over her shoulder. “Is it dead?”

“I only shot it twelve times,” Nancy mumbled. “If it’s still not dead, we have a big problem.”

“Right. Right right right—”

“Robin, your shirt.”

Nancy lifted her torn up shirt without thinking twice about it to see the source of the blood. There was a series of three inch gashes in the shape of claws. Not good. Blood seeped out steadily.

“It’s just a scratch,” Robin said pleasantly as if it were a paper cut. “I’m fine!”

Nancy unzipped her backpack. In the last several months, she had rebroken bones, made splints, given stitches, administered pain medication. Who knew her calling was nurse now rather than journalist or detective? She fished out the needle and black thread. She was almost out, but there should be enough for Robin.

“W-what are you doing?”

Nancy took out disinfectant. She was too focused on trying to remember steps she had read all too recently to answer.

“Is that alcohol?” Robin’s voice pitched higher. “Nancy! I’m fine. Really!”

“It’ll sting, but you can’t get an infection,” Nancy said finally. She started gently soaking a rag with the disinfectant. “That’ll be worse than the initial injury.”

“O-okay.” Robin sucked in a breath. “Do it.”

With that, she swiped the rag over the claw marks. Robin barely let out a whimper.

“Now, you need—”

“Get that needle away from me!!” Her voice had reached that fearful, worrying pitch again.

“Robin,” Nancy said softly, patiently. “I’m trying to help you.”

“That’s what they all say,” Robin babbled. “And next thing you know, you’ve had a hundred needles in you and everyone disappointed in you that you’re broken and no reason as to why.”

Nancy paused, mid-threading the needle. She looked at Robin’s face for the first time since she opened the first aid kit.

“Did someone tell you that?”

“What? No!” Robin let out a high pitched, half formed laugh.

“Robin.” Nancy finished threading the needle, but didn’t let it pierce her skin yet.

The quiet look shared between them did more to calm Robin than words ever could. It was then Nancy took notice of the piercing pair of sparkling blues staring deeper into her than she’d allowed anyone in a long time. She cleared her throat and began stitching, taking that as permission.

“Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?” Robin blurted, her voice tinged with pain.

“Did you hit your head too?”

Pretty? When was the last time someone had called her that? She spent half her time covered in blood, drenched in sweat, dressed like she was going to war. None of that screamed pretty to her.

“Yeah, yeah that’s definitely it.”

“Just a bit…more…”

Nancy leaned in and cut the thread with her teeth, bringing her lips close to Robin’s skin as she did so. The girl shuddered in response and finally pulled down her shirt, but Nancy grabbed her wrist mid-pull.

“I gotta bandage this too,” she reminded her. “And then we’re done.”

“Yes, Nurse Nancy.”

Nancy made quick work of the gauze and finally drew back from her patient, admiring her work before remembering she needed her shirt back over her body.

“Well…there we are. Simple as that.”

“Yeah.”

Steve yelled out that he found Will, tearing them both out of their spell and into action once again.

[blackbird-brewster]

Shoutout to disabled babes who need to use accessibility aids during sex. Like sure, my wrist splints and knee brace aren't that 'sexy' looking, but I guarantee they'll help in my ability to fuck you senseless.

[kit-williams]

Consequences

Male Lead: Konrad Curze/Solruthis Uadasha/The Night Haunter (Sol being his nickname) Female Lead: Reader/Sorsollia (sun that illuminates)

I'm sorry I love Zalgo text a lot it says HIS

tw: yandere, broken bones, physical assault, torture

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog

Another successful compliance! As they didn't receive as much fighting as he had forseen but he was certain that would please Sorsollia. The smile on his face disappears seeing another scribe there waiting for him... you were the main scribe they were to collect when he had to do these frivolous talks of what he had done.

The other scribe bows their head and he feels a sense of anger... perhaps disgust that someone else is here... but he swallows the feeling and gets the talk over with. As they are packing up their tablet he stops them. "Where is Sorsollia?"

There is an upturn in their heartbeat, "She hasn't been feeling well. I don't know what she is sick with all I know is that she's off rotation for some time." LIAR his mind hisses but he knows his Sorsollia will be displeased if the only other Scribe that he has 'dained to be in his presence is dismissed.

"Thank you." He dismisses them as he sits and broods. His Sorsollia is alive... he would have been told otherwise. So he simply waits for a few hours... and waits... and waits... and waits. Sorsollia does not come... she does not message... there is silence... and Solruthis Usdasha does not like this.

He moves with the flickering lights... they turn off long enough for him to move to the next hall... to cram himself into the next crevice. Humans are surprisingly unaware creatures though many are Nostroman he passes... he frowns as he heads into the part of the ship that is inhabited by those who do not like it being so dark. Here the prey tends to act skittish... as he watches how one person turns on their heels when they see the hallway lights flicker hiding his movements. The soft nope from their lips would normally make him smile but he is on a mission.

He could easily also push himself into the service halls and move around that way but no... this is his ship and he can slink about how ever he pleases. He comes to her door pushing his thumb over the reader and overriding her locks... after all it is his ship he is the skeleton key.

He moved with unnatural quietness into her abode; spacious given her rank it had two rooms compared to the typical singular room. His ears moved as he heard her pained hiss.

Sorsollia winced as she dabbed the cotton ball against the cut on her forehead her non dominant arm in a sling as her broken wrist was splinted. Most of the swelling on her face had gone down just leaving the ugly bruising. She sniffled hard feeling herself want to tear up and cry again, her eyes went up freezing as there was someone- "Sol?" Her voice cracked as she turned around.

The fearful beating of her heart died as he knew that rushing hopeful beat. His mind was terrifyingly silent as he took a step closer... as he gently grabbed her face and turned her toward him... it was so quiet when he looked over her face... someone had beaten his Sorsollia. Someone had harmed his Sorsollia while he was away. His eyes look at her broken wrist and splinted fingers too he knew a threat he knew what a threat to someone's livelyhood looked like. His thumb absentmindedly wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks as her legs give way and she lets out a dispared wail. A wail that normally excites him... and oh how it still excited him in a different way. He pulls her out of the small room of the bathroom and holds her close. "Oh my Sorsollia what happened? Did the head scribe order this?" His voice suddenly went cold at the thought of someone abusing her because they were on a power trip.

"No! No... no... no... I don't-"

"Don't lie to me. Sorsollia you know I don't like lying. Don't protect the scum." He snarls holding her tightly, "They must be punished... I am a Primarch no one-"

"I don't know who they were." She sobs into his chest afraid of the repercussions but her Sol was there. "They came to me when you were gone. They didn't tell me who they worked for but to only edit a few documents to make their lord look better. I assume they were thugs for some noble. Because one of them had to have been one... because I talked back to him I was too comfortable in my position working for you because they didn't like a scribe talking back to them." Her voice strained at the end as the tears ran harder. "They knew which hand was my dominant one... so they broke my wrist of the other one to send a message." She was so very ugly when she cried... utterly distressed and distraught.

"And you still told them no?" He probes.

"They told me that they would be back and to use this time to consider it." She hiccups softly.

"When they come back I want you to agree." He says holding her. "I'll make sure I find out who they are and who their employer is." He whispers to her as she sobs into his shirt. Solruthis Uadasha finally truly comes out... there has been a great injustice inflicted upon his charge... upon his Sorsollia. And he will make them pay.

She was withdrawn... hardly holding the name Sorsollia but he played his role just as she did. They stayed apart as he played the distant ruler and not the attentive lover and she hardly needed goading into her role of the cowed submissive. He held her the night he came back... as she was tired and sleep wasn't coming to her... she was afraid and clung to him but for now she was by herself.

Konrad leaned back on his throne as the chirping of the small cogitatior he planted in her room. His impassive face split into an insane grin as he watches how the three... no four, his eyes spy the man at the door, "faceless" mooks walk with such false swagger. His nails dig into his seat as her arm is grabbed and Sorsollia collapses to her knees trying to get her wounded arm free. Konrad had sat and tended to her wounds to soothe her as she had been living in such sweet fear for days.

His dark eyes narrow at the hand touching his Sorsollia far too affectionately. Konrad gritted his teeth in that manic grin feeling the teeth chipping before healing. But once they were gone he quickly collected his Sorsollia taking the document they wanted her to improve and the name of the noble that had the AUDACITY to threaten what was H̷̨̭́̿Ḭ̴̏̕S̷̢͇̐. He hid her away in his room as Solrithis Uadasha got to work.

The lookout lay dead and blind... his tongue shredded to ribbons as they went down without saying anything. His torture felt much like an afterthought much just like their role in all of this. The two guards who had beaten and broken his Sorsollia's wrist he was careful in the application of pressure and pulling away... breaking more and more of their bones and perhaps like a Drukhari he twisted their useless limbs into unnatural shapes as the two bleated for death and each day he brought them closer and closer with more and more bones breaking and each day they did not expire he continued to crush and twist.

The lower noble who felt so big to be perhaps within the fucked up standards of society be able to get away with beating the personal scribe of a Primarch. Perhaps he had the right.... perhaps he did... but unfortunately for him he picked the wrong Primarch to try and get away with this crime. He had cut off the hand that he had dared touch what was his and was slowly peeling it bit by bit and feeding the flesh back to him.

Sorsollia was far too kind for her own good... he'd have to see what the laws from where she was were like... He pushed the flesh into the mans mouth grinning. "You know she said that the sins of the father don't pass on." He laughed, it was a hideous laugh one of disbelief that he held affection for someone so blind to the cruelty of the universe. And yet he hesitated to rip the veil from her eyes because once he did that... he was certain she would see the disgusting creature that he was. He craved her affection... he craved her attention... he craved her seeing him as a man. She couldn't be blind to everything... she was a legion scribe... she knew the methods.

There was a nasty thought planted in his mind now... the paranoia and mistrust rearing its ugly head... he left the torture room unable to find satisfaction in conducting the punishments until he figured out why. "Sorsollia." He said entering the room wiping the blood from his hands as she paused what she was listening too looking over at him from the lit corner of his room.

"Yes?"

"I need to know something." He walked over.

"Of course I live to serve." She said with a genuine smile but that only heightened his paranoia.

"Why did you want to work for my legion? We are perhaps the most cruel ones... and you had personally applied."

"I had personally applied for both your legion and the blood angels." Her lips became a thin line as she thought of words, "While I don't agree with the methods you employ... your rate of compliance compared to the body count is a good ratio. Um..."

"Speak."

"I just don't agree with it... but it leans more into the necessary evil. Not that you are evil Sol." Sorsollia quickly adds, "Just all of this... the great crusade... perhaps there is a selfishness in my part for hoping that I'm on the correct side of history... instead of simply being a conscientious objector... that maybe this will all be worth it in the end. But what do I know of war and combat... I'm just a helpless Scribe." She says looking at her wrist, "I chose you for the low ratio of bodies to compliance."

"And Sanguninius?" He says not betraying the way his hearts were twisting at the thought of his Sorsollia being in the Great Angel's company... being his Scribe. Konrad wants to claw his scalp at the anxiety that bubbles over at the thought of her being enamored with the perfect angel.

"I've heard he is kind. He gives many chances to accept the imperium's generous offer... but I've heard that the Blood Angels can be... scary. " She nervously laughs, "Me talking about how scared I am of the Blood Angels when I work for the Night Lords. I probably sound stupid..." He's noticed since she's been attacked how critical of herself she has been.

He pulls her into his arms his long fingers combing through her hair, "Sorsollia." He listens for her hum, "In a couple of days this will all be over. I want you to return to being yourself."

The pitying smile she gave him nearly had him snarling, "You're very bad at comforting but I appreciate the attempt. Just..." Her voice sounded so small, "Please promise me this won't happen again? Just... I thought I was safe and-" Her voice breaks as tears flow.

Giving her his child would let everyone know who she was... it would make sure no one would touch her... He kisses away her tears, "Shhh Sorsollia I swear upon one of my hearts that it won't happen again."

That gets her to smile, "If I'm keeping track that means you've sworn on both of your hearts so far."

"So it is. I've already taken care of the thugs that hurt you. They've been punished."

She just nods and hides her face in his chest, "I should probably go back to my room."

"One more day Sorsollia. You slept so fitfully last sleeping cycle... it would make me worry to find out you've been struggling to sleep. And I need to make sure you are comfortable so your wrist and fingers heal."

"Okay Sol. One more night." She sighs happily just feeling that she'll soon be able to put this all behind her. For Konrad he was thinking of what he was going to do to the noble who was so eager to get the Primarch's gaze... oh the dark grin on his face as he certainly had it now. He gave his Sorsollia a kiss on the forehead and swore that the sparkle to her eyes was slowly returning and that made his hearts sing.

[moonstruckme]

babe you’ve got me obsessed with doctor remus!

can i request a drabble where reader gets into like a car accident and has been taken into a&e with like mid/severe injuries and remus has been assigned to treat her?

if not then that’s fine! love your work bae 🎀

Hi gorgeous! Thank you for requesting (I'm obsessed with him too) :)

cw: hospital

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 716 words

The nurse leaves, and you think you might finally get more than five seconds to yourself but then the curtain pulls back again, a tall doctor taking her place. You’ve been able to feel your heartbeat pulsing through every inch of you since you’d stumbled out of your smoking car, and this new man doesn’t help matters. 

He’s lovely. With a face smattered with warm freckles and silvery scars and a mop of brown hair that looks like it’s never once been brushed, this is the kind of person who would fluster you on a normal day. Now, you don’t even know the word to describe the effect he has on you. 

He has to ask his question a second time before you hear it. 

“Have you had allergic reactions to any medications?” 

You blink. It still feels like reality is moving at twice its usual speed. You don’t know if it’s just you shaking, but it feels like the whole room. “Uh, no. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright.” The doctor’s voice is businesslike but kind, with a Welsh lilt. He flips a page on his clipboard. “Anything we weren’t able to address in the ambulance? Any new aches and pains?” 

“I—I don’t think so.” 

He lowers the clipboard slightly, looking at you. His eyes are a lightish brown color, like honey left too long in the sun. “Has anyone talked you through grounding exercises?” 

You feel your brow wrinkle. “What?” 

He almost smiles. “I’ll take that for a no.” He sets down his clipboard on the edge of your bed, pulling up a rolling chair and sitting down in front of you. “I’m going to have you breathe with me for a minute, alright, sweetheart?” 

It’s not in your nature to contradict professionals, but you feel your head shaking as if from somewhere outside of yourself. “Why?” you ask. “Aren’t there more important things?” 

“There are still things left to do,” he allows, seeming unaffected by your questioning, “but you’re stable. It’s nothing that can’t wait for a few minutes, and it’s important that you’re calm so you can think properly.” He takes your hands in his, ignoring the odd padding of the splint around your broken wrist and holding your fingertips instead. “All I need from you is for you to copy my breathing. Can you do that for me?” 

You nod. As he starts to talk you through it, your eyes begin to sting, an effect of his gentle tone or the respite your body has been craving or both. Your doctor’s expression doesn’t change when he sees the silver lining your eyes, but he gives your fingertips a light squeeze. 

“Okay, in for eight this time,” he says in that lulling voice. “Good job, just keep at it.” 

You manage to breathe in for long enough to satisfy him, and after the exhale he drops your hands. 

“Well done,” he murmurs, mindful of the small cuts on your face as he thumbs away your tears. “Are you feeling a bit better?” 

“Yeah,” you answer honestly. The word comes out like a sigh, and his lip curves softly at the plain relief in the sound. 

“Happy to hear it. You were right earlier, there’s still plenty left to do,” he says, expression sombering somewhat as he looks at you intently, “but if you ever need a break, you tell me or someone else, okay? I don’t want you suffering in silence.” 

“Okay.” You wet your lips, feeling much more solid than you had a few minutes before. The world has slowed to its regular speed. “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

He smiles, which is altogether too charming for a place like this. It makes the long scar going across his cheek crinkle slightly and you could swear his eyes lighten a shade. “Well, see, that’s how I know you weren’t really with me when you came in, because we’ve already been introduced.” His expression lets you know he hasn’t taken any offense, but your face still heats at your impoliteness. “It’s Doctor Lupin, but you can call me Remus.” 

Something in you rings at this new knowledge, like a tuning fork has been struck. Remus, your consciousness echoes quietly. 

His smile softens. “We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other today.”