#graphic description injury

[kinglazrus]

The Cracks in the Mask

Sequel to The Moment it Breaks. Written for @invisobang 2023!

AO3 | FFN

Rating: T

Words: 9156

Warnings: mild panic attack, nondescript mention of vomiting, temporary dismemberment, graphic description injury

Description: Danny has been struggling for months. Balancing ghost hunting, school, and keeping his powers a secret has drained him both physically and mentally. And it all comes crumbling down when an identity is exposed—but not Danny's. Tucker Foley, his best, is a ghost hunter. And not just any ghost hunter, but the Tech Hunter. The same hunter who, just three days ago, pressed a cannon to Phantom's chest and fired without mercy.

This is fine, right? Everything is fine.

Check out the amazing art made for this fic by @popjeckdoom!

Cover | first scene | second scene

—

Danny can still feel Tucker's hands on him. Not in some aching, metaphysical way like when they bump shoulders, and the warmth of that contact lingers for hours afterwards. This isn’t warmth, but heat. Tucker’s fingertips had only brushed the hollow of Danny’s throat during that final grab, yet the spot burns now.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning toward a storefront window as he checks his reflection, pulling the collar of his hoodie down. Splotches the colour of old bruises litter his throat, tinged green around the edges and dotted with red. The rash and micro-cuts left by Tech’s nanobots are unmistakable. Had Tucker noticed how the nanobots coated his fingers as he reached for Danny, seen how they wounded him?

Of course, he didn’t. There is so much Tucker never notices.

The hoodie isn’t damaged, but that doesn’t surprise Danny. Tech’s touch has always hurt, and it was always designed to hurt ghosts.

It never destroys anything man-made.

Never harms anything human.

Danny clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. It’s getting harder and harder to lift his feet with each step. The wobble of his left knee, the stabbing in his chest every time he breathes, the itch of his throat. It all weighs him down. And atop that, something far heavier bears down upon him, a bone-deep dread that twists his stomach into knots. He has felt the press of that unseen force from the moment Tucker stepped into Lancer’s office.

Danny sways under a bout of dizziness, nearly stumbling into the street when he tries to catch his footing. Unable to breathe deeply, he compensates with quick, shallow breaths.

And the itch on his throat persists, like bugs creeping under his skin, gnawing on his insides. They skitter from his throat to his chest, spreading from his ribs to his heart, his lungs, burrowing deep.

Danny doesn’t notice his hand roaming under his hoodie until a nail slips between the bandages on his chest and pricks the open wound. A passing woman glares at him when he yelps, muttering something about delinquents under her breath. Danny ignores her.

At least he isn’t thinking about the itching now. He presses the heel of his palm into the bandages, grimacing through the lingering sting, waiting for it to dull into the ever-present throb. To be safe, he clasps his hands in his pocket, so he won’t scratch again as he continues down the street.

Despite how bright the sun shines, the air is cold. Or, it had been when he left for school that morning. He remembers looking out the window—seconds before realizing he was three hours late for class—seeing how crisp and clear everything looked, how the snow sparkled in the sunlight, and knowing it would be cold. But he's not cold now. He almost feels too hot, and the temptation to rip his hoodie off grows along with his weariness.

A red-hot coil burns in his chest, hissing as it brands the inside of his ribs. He exhales the steam in shallow puffs and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Something yellow glints at the edge of his vision, causing Danny's heart to leap into his throat. He throws himself to the side, slipping in the snow as he tries to get out of Tech's reach.

But Tech's not here. Tech is at school.

The taxi that caught Danny’s eye passes harmlessly by.

He leans against the nearest wall as he tries to catch his breath, which is hard when the bandages around his chest are so tight that his ribs creak. He reaches under his sweater again and probes the bandages, finding the loose loop his scratching had created. His fingers come away damp, but that could be blood or sweat. He doesn’t want to know which, wiping his hand on the inside of the hoodie.

It's too damn hot out here. His skin crawls. There's so much yellow everywhere, every flash cranking Danny’s nerves up. It all becomes too much, and he crashes to his knees as his stomach revolts.

No one pauses at the sight of a kid gagging on the sidewalk. Danny wonders what they think of him but decides he doesn't care as he retches again. Nothing but bile comes up. When was the last time he ate or drank anything besides ectoplasm? When did he even have that last? He has a foggy memory of opening the box he keeps his supply in and downing the last three vials at once, but he can't say when that was. As for actual food, that must have been on Friday, before the fight. That was three days ago, and he hasn’t had a bite to eat since.

Danny's head spins.

He should go home. Lancer told him to go home. Actually, no. He said he would send Danny home. With a parent, probably. Parents who already hadn't been answering the secretary's calls, which would have left Jazz as the remaining option. Danny won’t be surprised if she had put herself down as one of his emergency contacts the second she turned eighteen last month. But going home with her would either mean waiting at school all day for classes to end or pulling her out of class so that she could take him home.

Danny's stomach churns again. No. He wouldn't have let that happen. Even if he hadn’t stormed off, he still would have left.

He slumps against the wall behind him. During the fight on Friday, he landed poorly, and his left knee has been smarting ever since. It protests a bit more loudly now, especially after getting jostled around by Tucker. A few seconds to rest and stretch it out will do him some good.

Snow soaks into his jeans, but he doesn't care. Taking a handful of snow, he shoves it in his mouth, swishing it around until it melts, trying to get rid of the bile taste. He doesn't have anything else to wash it down with. He doesn’t even have his backpack, for that matter. Maybe it's still at home, sitting by the front door. Or he left it in the school office. He can't remember.

He doesn't remember much of anything since Friday. Just the pain, and the blood, and the cracking of his heart as he glimpsed those familiar green eyes underneath the visor.

A few snowflakes fall onto Danny's lashes. His eyelids flutter.

Why is it so hot?

After checking that people still aren't paying attention to him—they aren't—he closes his eyes and tugs on his core. Cold floods his veins as his ice powers activate. It soothes the bruises that spread across his back and stomach. He focuses on the palm against his chest, concentrating on his worst injury.

The cold is a balm. It pushes back against the heat in his cheeks and helps him forget about the burn of Tucker's hand.

Danny doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a vehicle pulling up. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but his cheeks are still far too warm. He still hasn’t caught his breath.

He hears tires rolling over broken concrete. This must have been where he fought Johnny a couple of weeks ago. The city is usually pretty good at cleaning up Danny's messes, but sometimes the smaller debris gets missed. Most people have learned to ignore it by now, but Danny always notices.

A window rolls down.

Danny squeezes his eyes tighter, hoping he hasn't been mistaken for a vagrant. A scrawny kid with no backpack, huddled on the street during school hours in winter, wearing nothing but a hoodie. He pulls his knees up to make himself smaller. Bending his left knee hurts a bit more than it should, more than it ever has with bad landings in the past, but he ignores it.

“Danny, do you need a ride?”

It takes Danny a second to recognize the voice and the truck. Mr. Foley leans over the passenger seat and peers at him through the open window.

It takes another second for Danny to remember his ice powers and cut them off. He misses the cold as soon as it's gone. He always feels better when the cold comes from within, numbing his body from the bones outward. But he can't have Mr. Foley noticing the glow in his eyes. Despite the delay, Mr. Foley doesn't react.

“Where's your jacket? I almost didn't recognize you and had to turn back around,” Mr. Foley says.

“I don't need a jacket.”

“Everyone needs a jacket. You're going to freeze.”

Danny brushes the snowflakes off his lashes and stares hard. “Where's Tucker?”

“At the school. We got him set up with that student tutor program, and he's working on that for the rest of the afternoon. He has to catch up on all the work he missed from ghost hunting.”

“Oh.” Isn't that nice?

Danny almost says no. He has known the Foleys his whole life, considers them family, and would go so far as to call them his honorary aunt and uncle. There had once been a time when, if he couldn't go to his parents for something, he would go to the Foleys. But he almost says no.

Mr. Foley must notice his hesitation because he rolls his eyes and says, “Just get in the damn truck.”

Danny gets in the damn truck. Hot air blasts into his face once he's inside.

Mr. Foley waits until Danny, who first closes the vents on his side of the truck, has buckled himself in before speaking again. “I'm disappointed in you.”

How diabolical of him to wait until Danny can't easily escape.

“There's a jacket in my locker,” Danny mutters.

“Not because of that. Although, yes. You're going to get sick if you aren't already. Do you remember when you boys were little? Whenever you and Tucker played in the snow, you always took your jacket off. We couldn't leave you alone outside, or you'd come in three hours later with the worst cold we'd ever seen.” Mr. Foley shakes his head with a smile, although it fades quickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tucker, but it’s not like you to lash out,” he continues. “It’s obvious you’re going through something, and I’m here if you need to talk. But what you did in there wasn’t okay.

Danny watches the sidewalk as they pull into traffic, staring at the indent he left behind. He hadn’t noticed how much it was snowing when he was sitting, but a pile nearly three inches tall marks where he had been.

“I can’t say I’m not mad, but… I’m just disappointed.”

Danny wants to say he didn't mean to hurt Tucker, but he can't. Tucker is his best friend, but Tech? Thinking of Tucker's alter ego makes Danny's heart pound, and not in a good way. Not the way he's used to. Thinking of Tucker as Tech? He wants to throw up again.

Every bruise, every burn, every little cut Danny has gathered this past month throbs at the thought of that golden armour. He checks over his shoulder, but no one is there.

Tucker's at school. Tucker's at school. Tech is at school.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mr. Foley asks.

Danny shrugs.

“Tucker's okay, by the way. You didn't hurt him any more than he already was.” Mr. Foley pauses, giving Danny space to respond, but he doesn't. “This is an upsetting situation. Tucker is hurt and has been getting hurt for some time. Going out and hunting ghosts—” Mr. Foley shakes his head. “It's funny how much a mask can trick you. Tucker made me follow all the 'official' Tech Hunter accounts. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything there is to see of Tech online. It seems obvious now that I know. I always thought he was just a fan.”

Mr. Foley's grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But some of those videos…”

Danny doesn’t need to hear it. He has seen them, too. Clips of Tech zooming through the city, using gadgets and gizmos to take down ghosts with ease. They started fun. Even Danny enjoyed the videos at first. He felt a kinship with this new hunter, who didn't seem much older than him. But then the tech got bigger, the fights more brutal, the targets more… familiar. Danny stopped watching the videos a while ago, after he became the ghost in them.

“These last few weeks alone… I swear he was hunting down Phantom every day. I was starting to feel sorry for Phantom until—well. Until.”

Danny rubs his knee. Despite having time to rest, it still hurts. Touching it is like pressing on a fresh bruise.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Foley says. “It's been a stressful few days, but it's not appropriate for me to dump this all on you. You need to worry about school, not ghosts. I just always thought Phantom was a good one. It doesn't seem right that all ghosts could be bad.”

“Well, you were wrong. Everyone knows ghosts are bad.”

“Danny, your parents—”

“Were right all along. We all should have listened to them. Ghosts aren't good.” Danny squeezes his knee. “They can't be good. They're monsters, right? Because only a monster would hurt Tucker like that. Wouldn't see the person behind the mask. It—Phantom—Tucker was there the whole time, and Phantom couldn't see that. He just kept hurting him. He should have known!”

The soft voice of the radio fills the cab. And then Mr. Foley turns it off, and there's only silence. Danny can't look. He lets go of his knee, flexing his fingers. They're numb from how tightly he clenched his hand.

He wants to make himself small, curl up and disappear into nothing. He doesn’t want to be seen or heard or perceived. If only a portal would open up beneath him and take him to an endless void—there must be one somewhere in the Infinite Realms—where he can stop existing for a while.

“Danny,” Mr. Foley says.

Stop it.

“Danny, I'm worried about you.”

Stop looking at me.

“Your parents are good people, but I don't like it when you start saying these things. And you've been different lately.”

No, no, no!

The heat of the cab bears down on him. His bandages are damp, and he is cold and hot and too many things all at once. Mr. Foley keeps talking, but his words don't reach Danny. The pounding of his heart drowns them out. The truck turns a corner, making Danny's view spin, but when the vehicle straightens out, the world does not.

“I—” a voice says. “Please. I need—”

“Are you okay?” Something hot touches Danny's forehead. “You're burning up.”

A hand reaches for the door. A monster's hand with pale, bony fingers and scabby knuckles. It pops the door open. The truck screeches as Mr. Foley slams on the brakes, but Danny is already out the door, part of him phasing through the metal when it can't open fast enough. He hits the ground running.

“Danny!” Mr. Foley shouts after him, but Danny is gone before the truck stops.

He doesn't know where he's going. Snow pelts his face, nearly blinding him. The wind has gone from nipping at his cheeks to slicing through him, whipping into a storm. In the distance, a haze of green and orange glows behind the snow. Danny veers away from it and pivots down the nearest street. As he turns, he skids on a patch of ice and loses his footing, careening into a mailbox. The corner drives into his chest, and his world goes white.

Danny comes to face down in the snow with ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it is long enough that the flood of adrenaline has ebbed. As the tide recedes, it uncovers all the aches he had ignored for the past few minutes.

Every breath drives a dagger through his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry, puke, or collapse. Or all three at once. Through the flurry of snow, he hears a shout.

“Danny!”

He has to keep going.

“Danny, where are you?!”

Leaning on the mailbox for support, he drags himself up, pivoting on his left leg.

He hears a pop. A crackling, like stepping on broken glass. Danny crumples with a scream as a searing pain tears through his knee. It’s here and gone in seconds, leaving his whole body trembling as he lays in the snow. He tries to rise, but his knee immediately gives out.

A hand touches his shoulder before he can try again.

“Daniel.”

He tries to clamber away from the hand, the voice, but his leg can’t bear the weight, even when sliding across the ground. His entire side spasms when he accidentally knocks his knee, and he lashes out at the hand reaching for him, stopping just sort of crushing those fingers in his grip.

He whimpers. “Leave me 'lone.”

“Don't be stupid. You're coming with me.”

Danny is scooped up before he can protest. He doesn't even have the energy to squirm. Anything that isn't snow is just a blur of colour. The face above him. The car ahead of them. As they approach, Danny’s shaking stops. Not because he adjusts to the pain, his body just stops. No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing. All at once, everything has become very far away.

“Not so much fight in you today, little badger.”

He tenses as the car door opens, but inside is barely warmer than out in the snow. Danny lies in the backseat, cheek pressed to the chill leather. He tries to keep his eyes open, but staring at the seat ahead of him while the car moves turns his stomach. Again, nothing but bile comes up.

He closes his eyes, drifting into nothing as the darkness takes him.

—

A tether pulls Danny along. His body moves, and he moves with it, but he isn't moving it. “Danny” and “Danny's body” are not the same right now. His body feels the arms around his shoulders and under his knees. Danny does not. His body lifts its hand to stare at its scarred fingers. Danny does not.

Danny drifts behind, watching but not seeing, as the world moves around him. It is dull and flat and not quite real. It’s like possessing his Doomed avatar all over again.

That changes when he is set down on a cold table in front of a glowing expanse. The swirling green fog beckons him forward. He tries to rise, but those hands grab him again and sit him back down. This time, he feels the pressure on his shoulder as if through layers of thick cloth. One hand moves to his head, dragging through his hair. Danny doesn't try getting up again after that. He sits, content watching the ebb and flow, breathing in the sour air.

The one time Danny's friends had been in his parents' lab, they called the air acrid. Danny would have agreed with them before. Now, that smell comforts him. The same way people enjoy citrus, vanilla, or pine, Danny savours the scent—and taste—of ecto-rich air. The longer he sits there, the more “Danny” and “Danny's body” feel like one thing again. The table beneath him becomes solid, real. His breathing, although far from easy, evens out. The haze over his mind creeps away like fog in the sunlight.

The trembling starts immediately. Danny closes his eyes, taking as deep a breath as possible, ignoring how shaky it is. He wants to curl into a ball and wallow, but this isn’t the place for that. Not anymore. Instead, he gives himself ten seconds.

One.

Ten seconds to be miserable.

Two.

To wonder how badly he screwed up this time.

Three.

Four.

To wonder if he cracked a rib when he hit that mailbox.

Five.

Six.

Or what he might have torn in his knee.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

To pretend he’s just a normal kid having a shitty day.

Ten.

Danny sits up straight and turns. Now that his panic has retreated—not gone, but tucked into a corner of his mind like a wild animal—he realizes where he is. Who he's with.

Danny didn't notice when Vlad pulled away. Part of him, much larger than he wants to admit, laments the loss of contact. Now, Vlad leans against the console of his lab. A large monitor rises behind him, with several smaller screens angled beside it. They can function as individual screens or act as one massive display. Danny has played Doomed on those screens many times in the past year. He can see the game's case just behind Vlad, alongside his NASA mug and a pair of headphones he has never seen before.

Vlad follows Danny’s gaze to the items on the desk. He smiles and picks up the headphones. “Do you like them? They just came in. I know your old headphones got damaged in a fight.”

“Yeah.” The ear pads on the headphones are planets, and stripes like the rings of Saturn decorate the headband. It will not be the first gift Vlad has given him. Danny swallows before adding, “With Tech.”

Vlad puts the headphones down and comes forward. “I'm sure you heard the news by now. It's all over Amity Park. I'm sorry your best friend turned out to be a ghost hunter.” He rests a hand on Danny's head in a paternal gesture, which Danny normally finds comforting. “It must be hard. Are you all right?”

Danny takes in the lab, which has grown more familiar to him than his own home. The day Vlad showed him this place and revealed himself, something in Danny changed.

You're like me, Danny had thought. You understand me.

Any ghost can stumble into Vlad's lab, but he and Danny are the only humans able to reach it. It became his haven. Here, he could be himself without worrying about anyone else seeing. And Vlad gave him that.

Tucker's words, which had never left Danny's mind, resurface.

Vlad told me to.

Danny jerks away from Vlad's hand, leaving it hanging between them. Something changes in Vlad's expression. It's so minute that someone else might not have caught it, but Danny has spent too much time with the man not to notice. Vlad's nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches downward. Danny blinks, and Vlad's smile is back at full brightness, but it's too late. Danny saw the mask crack.

Vlad clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. “I heard about your suspension. Your father added me to your list of emergency contacts after I came to Amity, and when you left without waiting for an adult, the school contacted me. You're lucky I found you. Have you even treated your injuries yet?”

“Vlad.” Danny's tone could make a ghost shiver.

Vlad pauses for a second. “Daniel. What did I do to lose my uncle privileges?”

“Whatever you did to Tucker.”

“Oh, dear. Is this about the press conference? I promise it won't be anything bad, but this is a big revelation for the city. I would be remiss not to address it.”

“No, I—press conference?” Danny shakes his head. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Tucker told me.”

Vlad's jaw tenses. Another crack. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

“Everything!”

Vlad looks Danny up and down, then swivels, heading back for the console. He swipes the NASA mug up and swirls around the liquid inside. Some week-old energy drink, probably. He sniffs at it and makes a disgusted face, then dumps the contents over a nearby floor drain. Vlad takes his time going to the eyewash station, filling the mug with water and cleaning it.

Two minutes pass before Vlad returns to the console and leans against it, giving Danny a long stare. Unable to straighten with the gnawing in his chest, Danny curls in instead. Vlad smirks.

The expression makes Danny bristle. He knows that face. It's the smile Vlad gives him when they've both seen something stupid—a private joke passing between them. Danny doesn't smile back. He doesn't see any jokes around here except for himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Is your fever getting to you?” Vlad says.

“You knew who he was! Tucker said so!”

“Oh. I found out by mistake. I knew it would only hurt you, so I gave him some advice. I would have told you sooner if I thought it would end like this. But you know how unstable you—”

“LIAR!” Danny howls, the sound tearing from Danny’s throat, shaking the lab. It cracks the monitors and shatters the mug in Vlad’s hand. He scowls, shaking off glass and blood, while Danny cries out. “Why would you make me hurt him?!”

“I didn't make you do anything. You said you wanted to help, so I gave you a task. You did get the relic, didn't you?” Vlad pauses, but not long enough for Danny to answer. “How exactly you went about getting it was entirely up to you. I have plenty of resources you could have used to track it down before Tech got to it.”

“I wasn't going to use one of your ghosts!”

“Oh, that's delightful.” There is nothing friendly in Vlad's smile now.

The shift takes Danny aback. Despite the cracks he saw, he doesn’t want to believe the mask is there, to see it crumble. This isn’t supposed to happen. Vlad should be smiling at him—warmly—and offering some sage advice that sounds pompous but ultimately helps Danny figure this out. And, after taking care of Danny’s wounds, they will go upstairs and watch something in Vlad’s home theatre. An old Packers game if Vlad reaches the TV first, during which he’ll recite the same hundred facts Danny has heard a thousand times over. Some kind of monster flick if Danny gets there first, or a space documentary if he wants to annoy Vlad. But no matter what they watch, they’ll spend the hours crafting a perfect lie about his behaviour for Danny’s parents, and when Danny goes to sleep later, he can rest easy knowing that Vlad has his back. Even if no one else does.

Danny wants his Uncle Vlad.

He doesn’t want this.

“You really think you're a monster, don't you?”

Danny fights back tears, saying, “I'm not like them! I have a heartbeat. I still feel things. I don't just hurt people because I can!” He doesn't even convince himself.

“There's more than one way to be a monster.” Vlad presses a button on the console.

The screens, cracked but still functional, light up. All seven show the same thing: a clip from Friday's fight. It isn't in the video circling online, but Danny remembers this moment. It happened not long after the fight began.

Phantom grabs Tech by the chest piece, lifts him, and then slams him down on the ground. Hard enough that the pavement beneath Tech fractures and his suit glitches. The video closes in on the ghost's snarling face. Its bared fangs. The wild, inhuman eyes.

“Shut up!” Danny launches himself at Vlad. In the second it takes to cross the lab, he transforms from human to ghost. His claws tear into Vlad’s suit as they collide and crash into the main monitor. It shatters, glass raining down around them, but the video doesn’t stop.

The screens on either side show the clip on a loop. The same scene is happening here, in a different place, with a different friend, but the same feral look on Phantom's face.

“I didn't want to! You made me do it!” Danny slams Vlad down again and again and again. All the while, that recording taunts him from the edges of his vision. Danny's attention snaps to the screens on his right. Beams of ectoplasm explode from his eyes and carve through the screens, scorching the walls as he turns from right to left.

Vlad shoves his palm under Danny's chin and fires. Pink overtakes Danny’s vision as the ecto-blast goes off, throwing him across the lab. The smell of smoke and singed flesh overpowers the comforting tang of ectoplasm. Danny stares at the ceiling, panting, and swallows. It hurts.

“Little badger, look at yourself. You're not in the right state for this.”

Danny pushes himself up and finds Vlad, now transformed, floating closer. The front of his suit is torn, but the injuries beneath are little more than paper cuts to him. Danny flicks the blood off his claws and tries to stand. His knee gives out beneath him.

“You can't walk.”

Danny tries to respond but cuts off with a sharp gasp. He touches a hand to his throat. When he pulls away, he finds ectoplasm dripping from his claws.

“You can't speak.”

Danny snarls.

“I thought you said you weren't a monster?”

With a screech, Danny throws himself forward again. Vlad dodges to the side. They've been here before. How many times has Danny tested himself against Vlad, tried out new powers on him, and sparred in the lab?

How many times has Danny lost to Vlad in these friendly sessions?

That doesn’t stop Danny from throwing himself, again and again, at the man he trusts. The man he sees as a mentor, an uncle, and maybe even a father figure. He lashes out with claws, and teeth, and ectoplasm, but nothing hits. Vlad keeps slipping out of the way, unbothered, as if this means nothing to him. Danny's whole world is crashing down around him, and no one cares.

He tries to duplicate, desperate for any edge he can get over Vlad, and gets so far as having two right forearms sprouting from his elbow before something inside of him fizzles.

“No, no, no!” Danny croaks. A ring flickers around his chest. He forces it back, barely, and leaps at Vlad again, charging ecto-blasts in all three palms.

Vlad dodges the first blast and the second but slips right into the path of the third. Triumph fills Danny as the ecto-blast explodes, until a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t forget who taught you all of your tricks.” The duplicate Vlad left behind to take the hit melts away as the real Vlad steps back, claws sinking into Danny’s flesh. He smiles before wrenching Danny’s arm upward.

Danny screams over the squelch of the limb tearing from his body. He crumples on the floor, groping at his elbow. Threads of muscle coated in blood and ectoplasm twitch beneath his fingers. Their tattered ends dangle from the arm in Vlad’s grip, a jagged bone poking out between the flesh.

Danny retches when he feels the muscles twitching. Darkness creeps into his vision, and he has to fight it back.

His arm. His arm. Vlad ripped off his arm.

A string of muscle slips out of the severed arm and hits the floor. Globs of ectoplasm follow, splattering against the tile. The flesh shrivels, sloughing off in chunks, followed by the remaining muscle, and the bones crumble in Vlad's grip as the arm corrodes from the inside out. Danny flinches at each wet smack, unable to tear his eyes away from the decaying limb. Every time a piece of it falls, his elbow spasms. He cups the wound, expecting his hand to close around a stump, but finds solid flesh instead. Slowly, his gaze lowers.

Ectoplasm oozes between his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he watches the last dangling thread of muscle fall, joining the mass on the floor. The ectoplasm on his elbow bubbles and smooths out into pale, unblemished skin.

Between the swimming in his head and the darkness creeping into his vision, it takes him a while to truly process what he sees. His right arm, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, is still there.

The melting limb is fake—the duplicate.

It is the duplicate, right? Danny flexes his real—please, please be real—hand. The crumbling remains of his other fingers twitch, sending a jolt up his arm. Muscles that did not exist before—and exist no longer—strain to move a part of him that isn't there.

The limb is fake.

But it feels real.

Every second of agony as his flesh decays before his eyes.

When the rings come again, Danny doesn't have the energy to fight them off.

“Remember: it didn't have to be like this, little badger. If it weren't for your stubbornness, we could have kept going as we were. But I suppose you've ruined it.” Vlad waves his hand, creating a shield of ectoplasm. With a push, it shoots forward, pinning Danny to the ground, moulding around his body as it binds him.

The last chunks of his arm dissolve, and Danny’s eyes widen when the puddle inches toward him. He squirms, breath hitching as he tries to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. His bindings tighten, forcing his elbows into his ribs, cutting into his wrists until his fingers go numb.

The ectoplasm seeps into his hair. When he whips his head around, droplets splatter against his cheek. One lands on his lips.

The taste of lime. The smell. Burnt. Rotting.

Vlad rests a foot on Danny's chest, on his injury. It draws Danny’s attention, but one word lingers in the back of Danny’s mind.

Acrid.

“And I could have done so much for you,” Vlad says, then digs his heel in.

Danny is too busy howling at his cracking bones to see the foot come for his head next.

—

Danny was bleeding the first time they met. It was the standard for their first few run-ins, spread over the following weeks. Even now, it seems that Danny always bleeds in Vlad’s presence.

He had been late coming home from school, caught in a fight on his way. He pelted toward the stairs, clutching his backpack against his stomach—the fifth backpack he would lose after his accident. Before he started climbing, his dad beckoned him to the living room. Danny didn't have time for whatever his dad wanted. He could feel the wet spot on his side growing. If he didn't get behind a closed door soon, someone might notice the stain spreading on his shirt. He cared more about that than the grey tint slowly overcoming his vision.

“Danny? Are you coming?” his dad called again.

Danny made the mistake of looking back. His dad’s eyes were filled with so much hope. Danny knew his parents were eccentric and that put people off, but how could anyone ever say no to Jack Fenton when he radiated such joy?

Danny's earliest memory is the glint of his dad's smile. The warmth of his arms.

At that moment, Danny was bleeding into his backpack. His vision was growing dimmer by the second, and he wasn't sure if he could walk straight. But his dad smiled and waved him forward, and suddenly Danny was a toddler again, taking his first wobbling steps toward his favourite person in the world.

His dad’s beckoning hand pulled him toward the promise of that warmth, and he stumbled into the living room.

He didn't know the man sitting on the couch. Didn't hear anything his parents said, either. Danny rushed through an introduction (Hi, I'm Danny, nice to meet you—I'm going to my room now) and fled as soon as possible.

Once locked behind the bathroom door, he stuffed his bloody shirt into his bloodier backpack and started fixing himself up. He had to dig a pellet of ice from his abdomen and was surprised it hadn't melted yet. That ghost—what was his name… Klemper?—had been tossing snowballs left and right. Danny hadn’t expected it to hurt once he got hit with one, much less bury a chunk of ice in his stomach.

So much for making friends.

Once the shard was out, blood flowed freely from the wound. Danny nearly passed out at the sight of it. It was the first time he had bled so much from a ghost fight. He impressed himself by holding it together, until he tried to stitch himself up with a travel sewing kit. As the needle dug into his skin, his world went black.

An hour later, Danny was bandaged—but no stitches, never again—and the bathroom was clear. He had stuffed the toilet paper and towels he used to mop up the blood into his backpack, intent on tossing the whole thing in the dumpster once night fell. Satisfied with his cleanup job, he slunk into the hall, shirtless, once again hiding behind his backpack.

Danny had been so busy checking if Jazz's door was closed that he hadn’t noticed the body before him until he buried his nose in a cashmere jacket. He looked up into the stunned face of the man his dad had wanted him to meet. Some old friend of his parents’ from their college days. Danny had already forgotten his name.

He wouldn't find out for weeks how the man noticed the only drop of blood Danny had missed—a stain the size of a quarter on the hem of his jeans. In the moment, all he saw was the man's shocked expression melting into amusement, and something else, something Danny couldn't name but recognized on an instinctive level. Something that made him take a step back.

The man surprised Danny with a pat on the head. “Try dish soap. And cold water,” he said before gliding past into the bathroom.

Danny spent the rest of that evening hiding in his bedroom, afraid that at any second, his parents would come bursting in because their friend saw him bleeding. They never did.

To anyone else, that interaction would have been insignificant—a few harried seconds easily forgotten. But to Danny, who had already been through so much, it meant one thing:

There was an adult he could trust.

—

Danny wakes up to a fever and a ceiling covered in stars. Not the dollar-store, glow-in-the-dark stickers he grew up with, which his dad helped him put up when he was five, but a light projection from a lamp on the nightstand. With the curtains drawn, only the stars provide light for the room. Danny is thankful for that. He can barely keep his eyes open with how much his head pounds.

He reaches to peel off the blanket, but freezes. His right arm hovers in front of him, trembling. It comes back to him quickly: the sound, the smell, the taste. The slow decay of the phantom limb.

It was fake, he tells himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. That wasn’t real.

The rest of his body feels stiff, fresh bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like there’s a knife in his back, held in place by Vlad’s heel, and even the smallest inhale pushes Danny’s chest back into the blade.

His throat is a footnote in comparison, barely worth his notice.

But his knee… This morning, Danny’s knee twinged. There was discomfort, but he could walk. Comparing his pain from then to now is like comparing a bruise to a bullet wound. He knows the disparity between those two injuries.

He pushes himself up, peeling away from the sweat-soaked sheets, and bites back a cry when his leg shifts. He has to stop twice and grit his teeth before he manages to sit upright.

The blanket falls into his lap just as he spots his reflection in the mirror across the room. His chest and throat have been bandaged with care. The edges of his injuries creep out from beneath the bandages, flares of red skin touching his collarbone and ribs. The bandages on his throat are also damp, but not from sweat. Danny recognizes the slightly tacky sensation of Vlad’s healing salve—a concoction made to soothe ectoplasmic injuries. It works best on surface wounds.

Beneath the blanket, he discovers unfamiliar pyjamas. Pulling up the left leg reveals a compression bandage around his knee. If it’s supposed to help, it’s not doing much.

There is little else in the room besides him, the bed, and the mirror. The projector and the nightstand, of course. A dresser beneath the mirror. A Dumpty Humpty poster on the door. This room is one of many that Danny had yet to explore in Vlad's manor. Despite this, he immediately knows what, or who, it's for.

This is Danny's room.

Only a day ago, that realization might have warmed him. Now, it fills him with disgust. He needs to leave as soon as possible, but he can't go out in a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see his hoodie or sweatpants, but he notices a stack of clothes on the corner of the bed.

Designer jeans, a Vladco polo shirt, and a fur-lined leather jacket. No way Danny is putting those on.

He goes to transform, tugging on his core, but a jolt of electricity stops him. It rips through his body and leaves him breathless, clutching his chest. He doesn’t try again.

He should. If he wants to get out of here quickly, he only has one option. But just turning his hand intangible makes his insides itch. He doesn’t want to know how intense that would feel across his whole body. Doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

Danny berates himself for his weakness.

He changes into the clothes and hates every second of it, but he doesn't have another option. It takes an embarrassingly long time since he has to manoeuvre his bad knee. Bending it hurts. Straightening it hurts. He can’t even let it lay limp without some discomfort. But he manages, grimacing when he catches his reflection, and starts the arduous process of limping through the manor.

He may not have explored every inch of Vlad’s home, but he knows the layout well enough to find his way to the front door. He keeps one hand on the wall to help his balance, but he still falls a few times.

By the time he reaches the stairs, the wall is the only thing holding him up. Every time he puts weight on his left leg, his knee slides beneath his skin. His right thigh aches from hopping across the manor on one leg. While ghost hunting keeps Danny in shape, the last few days have drained him so much that he feels like a weak freshman again, barely able to run a mile.

As he peers down the stairs from the third-floor landing, part of him whispers that he should go back and collapse into that soft bed. But he hasn’t sunk that low yet. As he debates the least painful way to make it down, a voice floats up to him.

“—wake him up. I don't want to take up more of your time,” Jazz says.

“It's not a problem, dear.” Danny's heart quickens at Vlad's voice. “Danny visits often enough. I don't mind him taking up one of my spare bedrooms for a few hours. I'm just glad I found him so quickly.”

Danny clings to the newel post as he lowers himself to the floor, starting the long process of scooting down the stairs one step at a time.

“Thanks again for calling the school back. Lancer said he didn't want to pull me out of class, but someone needed to be here for Danny.”

“He was fine with me.”

“Family, I mean.”

“Right. Of course. But you could have waited for school to end.”

Danny glances at the grandfather clock on the main floor, visible at the back of the hall now that he's worked his way down to the second landing. It's not even three yet. Jazz had to leave school early because of him. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He swallows a few times, but the taste lingers. He can't get rid of his guilt that easily.

“Yeah, that's not happening. Danny comes first.”

He wishes she would stop saying stupid things.

When Danny finally reaches the bottom floor, he stops to gather himself. A few quick breaths, so close to hyperventilating that he wonders if his panic has reared its head again, before he strides over to the doorway leading to Vlad's sitting room. He almost makes it all the way, but on the last step, his leg buckles, and he clings to the door frame to keep himself up. Jazz’s head jerks up at the sound of him hitting the doorway, and her face lights up when she spots him.

“Danny!” She is upon him instantly, leaping across the room to reach him, rubbing his hair, touching his forehead, and fussing with the jacket. “Oh. This is new?”

“His clothes were soaked, and he didn’t have a good coat. I couldn't in good conscience leave him like that.”

While Jazz frets, Danny stares past her. Vlad sits in a lavish armchair with his back to them but watches through the mirror above the mantle. He has a thing for mirrors.

Their eyes meet, and Vlad's flash red. Danny pales.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jazz asks.

Danny, unable to speak, nods. The way Jazz fusses, she keeps pushing him back, forcing more weight onto his injured knee. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, Danny.” Jazz lifts a hand to wipe the tears away, but Danny flinches back.

“Careful.” Vlad rises from his chair. The movement yanks Danny's attention back to him as he approaches. “I think I might have bruised his ego when I had to carry him inside. He must be sulking.”

Danny can feel Jazz's eyes on him, but he can't look away from Vlad. Danny hasn't stopped shaking since they made eye contact. Vlad raises a hand to fix his sleeve, and Danny flinches again.

“Oh.” Jazz's hand finds Danny's wrist and squeezes it once. “Well, thank you again. I'm taking Danny home now if that's all right.”

Her tone says she doesn't care if it's all right; they're going home now.

“By all means,” Vlad says.

No one moves. Danny doesn’t want to look away from Vlad, afraid of what might happen the second he turns his back. Jazz must pick up on his wariness because she keeps looking between them as if she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

Vlad finally breaks the spell over them by gesturing to the door.

Jazz takes Danny’s hand and pulls him away. He stays behind her, so she can’t see him limping. Unfortunately, they’re nowhere near the wall, and he has no way to hold himself up when his leg gives out again. His hand rips from Jazz’s as he stumbles, barely catching himself from face-planting.

Jazz spins around, lips parting, but Danny snaps, “What?” before she can say anything.

Hurt flashes across her face. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He drops to one knee, ducking his head to hide his grimace, and mutters, “Tripped on my shoelace.”

Jazz doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t lift his head to see what face she’s making. Danny fiddles with his perfectly tied laces until Jazz’s feet turn away from him and head for the door. He stays on the ground, breathing softly through his nose until he’s ready to stand, rising on one leg. His left knee spasms.

He massages it through his jeans, although it doesn’t help. The compression bandage doesn’t seem to be doing anything, either. It feels like someone sliced his knee open, chipped the bone to pieces, and filled the hole with oozing ectoplasm.

The front door opens and shuts.

Danny only has a second to process what that means before he jerks toward Vlad, just in time to see a syringe of orange fluid jabbed into his arm. Danny rips his arm away, but Vlad is faster. By the time Danny stumbles back, the syringe is empty.

“I've done a lot for you, little badger. I still will.” Vlad closes his fist around the syringe. There's a flash of pink, and then ash falls from his hand. “You'll be thanking me in a couple of hours when that kicks in. Remember, I only want what's best for you.” He turns but pauses halfway. “Oh… and keep that relic safe for me, won't you? I'll be needing it soon enough,” he says before drifting out of sight.

—

The car shakes as Danny drops into the passenger seat, and once more when he slams the door shut.

“Hey, not so hard,” Jazz says.

Danny ignores her, facing the window as he scrubs his face. He can still taste the salt on his lips, and the red around his eyes is prominent. He tries to rub it away, but there’s no helping it. After a few fruitless seconds, he gives up, pulling the bar under his seat to slide the chair back and give his legs some room. He cranks the lever on the side as well, putting the back down, and drapes a hand over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jazz prods him. “Upright, seatbelt on. That's not safe if we crash.”

“Do you plan on crashing?” The words drag at his throat, which quickly went hoarse during his minute of alone time. His voice comes out raspy and quiet. Danny doesn't know what Jazz sees, or what she makes of him right now.

After a few seconds of staring, she sighs and turns the engine on. “Just wear your seatbelt.”

Danny clicks it into place with the hand not draped over his eyes. If Jazz sees the redness, she’ll know that he was crying. Stupid. Fourteen years old and crying like a child. Danny's fingers dig into his scalp. His nails aren't quite claws when he's human, but they're sharper than normal and prick his skin. Every time he cuts them, they start growing back to a point. He always trims them before it gets too obvious.

They drive in silence. Danny grits his teeth, focusing on not hissing in pain every time they hit a pothole. Hold it together, he tells himself. Only a few more minutes to home, and then he can fall apart in private. Until then, he just has to be okay.

Everything is okay.

Everything is okay.

Jazz doesn’t try to talk again, which is better for Danny. He’s unsure if he can open his mouth without some strained sound escaping him. The inside of his lip is already ragged and bleeding from how hard he bites down.

When they turn onto their street, he thinks he’s in the clear. Jazz parks on the backstreet, in front of their garage, and Danny hears her shuffling around. At first, he thinks she’s getting out, and hopes he can wait her out and go inside a minute later. His hopes are dashed when something drops onto his chest.

Danny bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

“You left your backpack at school,” Jazz says. “After you got suspended. Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny clenches his jaw, breathing as deep as he can through his nose, and swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. Once he can speak without gasping, he says, “Yeah. I put it down, and then I forgot it was there, and then I left because I'm not allowed to be there anymore.”

“Only two weeks, and you still have to do schoolwork. I'll be bringing it home for you. Maybe you can use the rest of the time to get caught up on everything else you haven't done yet. And then you can tell me what the hell happened with Vlad back there.”

“Can we just… not do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out angry, but there’s a bite to her name that he can’t take back. Being in this car, with her, is too much right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs things back to the way they were when he was oblivious and hurt, but not as hurt as he is now.

Jazz purses her lips. “Okay. I'll tell Mom and Dad about the suspension. You can talk to me—and them—when you're ready.”

“Yeah. Right.” Danny gets out before Jazz can say anything else. She follows, but he refuses to look back, fighting to hide his limp. He doesn't stop until he's inside, up the stairs, and in his bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the bed, crumpling against the door, curling over his knee as tears prick his eyes.

There are daggers under his skin, chipping away at bone and muscle, driven deeper with every step he forced himself to take. He thumps his head against the door, mouth open in a soundless scream as he lets the pain wash over him. It tears through his body, every bruise and burn throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Outside his room, the house comes alive as his parents return, their voices filling all the empty spaces. Danny's room stays dead and quiet.

For hours, he leans against his door, staring up at the stickers on his ceiling. While his eyes trace the familiar constellations, his mind has receded deep within himself. Moving from his head to his toes, he focuses on all his aches and pains, giving himself a few moments to feel each one before shoving them out of mind.

Some pains are worse than others. The bruises, he files away without a second thought. The headache and the twist in his gut take a bit more effort. But his chest? His knee? Danny doesn’t have the words to describe how much they wreck him before he can push them away.

It’s just pain. He can handle pain.

At some point, someone comes by and knocks on his door. Danny doesn’t answer, barely conscious enough to hear it. His chin dips to his chest as he watches the shadow until it leaves, relaxing only a fraction when it does.

Eventually, the sounds outside dim. Jazz whispers goodnight. The floorboards in the hall creak, first under his mom’s light steps, and then they groan as his dad traipses across them. A door closes. Everything goes quiet. With the quiet comes an all-encompassing numbness.

The clock on Danny’s nightstand reads two a.m. by the time he drags himself from his stupor. In his backpack, abandoned at his side the second he sat down, something glows. Danny reaches inside and gropes around until he finds it, small and cold to the touch. He draws the item out.

“This is all your fault,” Danny mutters. Whether that is to himself or the relic in his hand, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. Both are true.

As Danny opens his palm, the Ring of Rage glows brighter.

#invisobang #invisobang 2023 #danny phantom #Tech Hunter AU #No One Knows AU #Danny Fenton #Vlad Masters #Maurice Foley #Mentor Vlad Masters #Manipulative Vlad Masters #danny phantom big bang #danny phantom fanfiction #phicc #phanfic #mild panic attack #nondescript mention of vomiting #graphic description injury #temporary dismemberment

[gallifreyanhotfive]

#big finish does it like no one else #👌 #doctor who #dw #dr who #classic who #new who #big finish #big finish doctor who #big finish audios #dw eu #doctor who eu #doctor who expanded universe #eighth doctor #ace mcshane #fifth doctor #peri brown #scherzo #natural history of fear #graphic #tw: graphic depictions of violence #description of injury #polls

[the-magpie-archives]

Like many of you, I am fascinated with the state of Jonathan Sims head archivist of the magnus institute London... In particular, his ribs! Many focus only on his missing two, but there are many more things to consider!

Jon's a fragile guy, I mean it's pretty much his whole canon appearance! For a man like him to be thrown around like a ragdoll for pretty much his entire time as archivist, he'd certainly have suffered more than a few broken ribs!

To contribute even more to the damage, after the unknowing, Jon was found with no pulse and not breathing, meaning he would have undergone CPR for at least 20 minutes. And trust me, THAT BREAKS RIBS.

Aside from bones, I can't imagine Jon's lungs are in the best state either. He's a long time smoker, was exposed to dangerous amounts of CO2, and survived a massive explosion followed by a collapsing building. Needless to say, these sort of things make it hard to keep lungs healthy!

Despite all the pain and horror, I like to think that Jon managed to stay looking at least relatively put together, so picture this:

A polite, slightly awkward office worker comes into your clinic. You decide that to diagnose properly, you'll need to do a chest X-ray! He's distracted, but readily agrees. After the brief wait, you get the images back, and see THE MOST FUCKED UP CHEST YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. A horrifying amount of healed fractures, warped and re-broken; two ribs are just straight up gone, both lungs scarred beyond survivability, and somehow this guy is just sitting there. Alive, as far as you can tell.

The man remains composed, and smiles politely as you stare at the X-rays, and you begin to think that maybe those aren't acne scars across his face.

#Overall I would just love to do a full medical examination on him... God it'd be fascinating. #Man's using otherworldly life support to keep his corpse up and walking #But seriously Google 'healed rib fractures' if you don't already know what they look like‚ shits interesting. #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #Jonathan Sims #the archivist #The unknowing #jared hopworth #tma the flesh #tw injury #tw doctors #tw graphic description

[factual-fantasy]

I has 27 late asks (Sorry! :{ )

Well I’m TRYING to be active but right now but I have like 7 different projects I’m trying to make progress on but they’re all talking forever and life keeps getting in the way and I’m going as fast as I can but there’s still week long gaps in-between posts and I just hehfhgjgsl;sgk

They are Ingo(black) and Emmet(white)! :D They are very scrinkly. Also yeeess I shall drag you down into the submas fandom through my works hehhehhfggjdfskgjk

Awe, I’m glad my content helps you feel better! :DD And yeah. It felt nice to slow down a little and really take my time for a change :0

XDDD Awe! Thank you!

Sweet tooth? Never heard of it :0

XD I almost drew a comic where Jangles was secretly crushed by all the comments comparing him to Papyrus because he feels like he’ll never match up to him :( 

HURGENNBRR... THANK YOUUUUUU

Thank you for still respecting my boundaries  😭😭😭😭

Also, Mangle is in the AU, or well. she was. She dead now :(((

Oooo, this would have been a fun Elesa to experiment with! But I guess mother hen Elesa was more appealing to me at the time <XD

Awe XD thank you! But also ah,, sorry. I don’t think I’d be very comfortable with that,,

@astrokea

XD You’d be surprised by the number of people that have messaged me stuff like this. “YOU’RE INTO THIS FANDOM TOO??” I always get a kick out of it XD

BEAUTIFUL, ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL DESCRIPTION

HEHODFIJ THANK YOU SOOO MUCU THIS MEANS THE WORLD TO MEE

I TRY TO PUT A LOT OF HEART AND THOUGHT INTO MY AUS AND THE FACT THAT YOU SEE ALL THE LITTLE THINGS I PUT INTO IT IS JUST FJJHJFBKJBKJ

Oh yeah, blaming himself for the bite, becoming very protective, nightmares about the event, the whole 9 yards.

I can imagine he wouldn’t eat or sleep well for weeks- even months after Luigi’s death. It takes him a very long time and a lot of late night talks with Luigi before he’s able to slowly heal from it. :(

XDD Same to you!

@theangelofangst​

Ah, well although I’m not really comfortable with Fanart.. I appreciate the thought, thank you! :}}

I haven’t thought of any scenarios where the Ice flower backfires on Luigi.. Although that is a really good angst idea 👀👀👀

I haven’t drawn the full comic. But I have a sketch of Mario's reaction to Luigi dying to a venomous Goomba bite and then being revived.

Mario does not take it well :x

@sodasplatoon​

There isn’t intended to be a connection between Bowser and King Boo. As for Bowser’s troops being captured by King Boo? Bowser doesn’t really care..

The troops are warned that King Boos forest is dangerous. Because duh, King Boo lives there. If they go there anyway and get caught? That’s their own fault. Besides, a measly few missing troops here and there means nothing to him.

So most of the time King Boo and Bowser just leave each other alone. Bowsers pretty tough so King Boo doesn’t mess with him. And Bowser doesn’t care about missing troops so he doesn’t bother the king. Neutrality is sustained. Now, if one of Bowser’s children or Kamek had been captured by King Boo?

The entire forest would have been burnt to the ground within hours.

XD Thank you! Rock on!!

My Mario and Luigi are like are between 5-6 feet. Peach, Daisy, Wario and Waluigi are just giants.

Hmm.. that’s actually a good question. I guess it could be presented by a big screen in the sky. But sometimes I’ve drawn Bibi registering the question without looking in any particular direction. Maybe it could be a clear image that comes into their minds sometimes?? XD Idk-

Well its hard to say who’s phantom pains are more painful. 

Mario got slashed across the gut in 3 different places. The injury was so severe he died instantly. When he gets those phantom pains, they appear as hot burning sensations along where the gashes were. This pain completely cripples Mario. He cannot move or walk or really anything until the pain subsides..

Meanwhile Luigi got the flesh on his leg shredded up by a Goomba. Sure that must have hurt real bad. And the fact that he didn’t instantly die made him have to suffer through it for days. When he gets phantom pains I imagine it to feel like a really bad charley horse. But like, all over his leg. This also completely cripples Luigi until the pain subsides..

I think their pain could be measured about the same. Just different types of pain on different parts of their bodies.

I did when I was little, I don’t watch it much now a days though. :/

Yes! I have some ideas in mind for them :}}

@randox-talore​

YES! YES EXACTLY!!

There’s a lot I could do with this but I haven’t drawn yet.

Mario and Luigi could be going on a walk in the forest near the kingdom. Luigi comments that he’s uncomfortable, like he feels that they’re being watched. Then suddenly two 1-UP mushrooms appear..

Or Mario has fallen ill and is bed ridden. He keeps saying he’ll be fine and that he feels better already! Later that night a 1-UP mushroom appears in his room...

Mario goes to try out a new power up under supervision of the Toads. They’re not sure if it is safe or if Mario’s body can handle it. Mario says it’ll probably be fine. When suddenly a 1-UP mushroom appears in the room.. 

So many ideas!! XDD

Aww, well. I’ve heard good things about the movie since its come out. So I plan to sometime get around to watching it. :}

#my response #bibi and jangles #super mario bros #tw injury #tw graphic description

[byierficrecs]

❝ wrathful wishing star and poisoned apple tree ❞ author: DaineYui

link: archiveofourown.org/works/38993034

personal blog || submit a story || support me on ko-fi 🌈

#📚 #byler #byler fanfiction #byler fic rec #will byers #mike wheeler #stranger things #r // mature #r // chaptered #r // ongoing #r // 50k+ #t // hunger games #t // au #t // strangers to lovers #t // hurt/comfort #t // angst #t // slow burn #w // graphic descriptions of violence #w // blood #w // injuries #w // murder

[spinchip]

Turn You to a Colder Summer

(a/n: I wrote and edited this during my breaks at work, don't judge my grammar mistakes too harshly hehe)

(Warnings: frostbite (descriptions of numbness), violence, blood, injury, torture, mentions of past self harm, mouth trauma, threat of potential death. Kai does not have a good time, but he lives. The Ice Emperor is a Bad Guy)

(Wordcount: 2600)

Cold fingers drag along Kai's cheek in painful friction, ice crystals cracking and cutting into his skin like nettles as the hand arcs up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The Ice Emperor's eyes are uncanny where they piece Kais gaze- black sclera where there should be white, burning electric blue where there should be warm sky, little flecks of gold that shift in and out of existence in the glow of the ice spires around them. No love. His expression is blank but not in the way Zanes usually is. It's cruel, clinical, and coldly detached.

Kai is bound in the floor, laid sideways to avoid the throbbing agony of brushing his frostbitten shoulder along the too-cold stone beneath him. That mark is hand-shaped, pressed brutally into his skin with a purposeful touch because Zane's ice couldn't get past the fire in his blood normally, not without excessive force or access to unlimited power. The ice blocks binding his arms behind his back and his ankles together don't sink frost as deep as when the Ice Emperor had torn him from his friends with an iron grip around his bicep. Their ambush failed. They were trying to escape, back through the tunnels Krag had shown them but he hesitated to follow, a part of him wanting to try and succeed where Lloyd had failed and draw Zane from the tyrant wearing his face. Kai knew better, he knew he couldn't get caught.

But he did, and now the Emperor is crouched over him with strange eyes and snowflakes trickling from his palm.

"He's not himself." Lloyd had said after stumbling back into the village- he’d left to look for the land bounty and had stayed gone three days, "If he catches you, he'll kill you." He promised, the sash from his ninja suit rewrapped tight over his belly and stained with his blood. The Staff of forbidden spinjitzu had a blade, after all. The Emperor was not afraid to use it. It was pure luck Lloyd had avoided the thick of the blade and hadn’t dropped his guts on the throne room floor.

To further prove his point and to save a life, he'd been dragging behind him a girl with each of her limbs encased in ice and delirious from blood loss, her mouth smeared with red where she'd coughed up bits of her lungs. He’d tapped her- just a tap against her sternum, the barest of hits that she’d nearly dodged, and he’d pushed ice into the delicate capillaries lining her lungs and frozen her blood half solid. The first breath she’d taken after had been agony, the second had torn. Akita. Lloyd had to tell them her name because she had passed out not long after arriving in the village- and when she tries to speak she was too out of it to form the right words. The blood flooding in her mouth wasn’t any help, either. Her body gave out once they began to chip her limbs free of ice, exhaustion claiming her. She was holding on to her life by a thread. Zane had done that.

No, the Ice Emperor had done that. It was an important distinction.

Kai, who'd just gotten his power back- the weak flicker that it was- had gone and gotten himself caught by the man.

The Ice Emperors eyes cut paths along his face, searching for something he knows is there but can't quite place. He'd been pacing around Kai for a long while, agitated and upset as he stared daggers at his prisoner. The frost on the edge of Kais cold and chapped lips reminds him not to speak. The Emperor has no qualms about forcing his silence. At first he’d thought the man was guarding him, too worried about the threat his powers might impose to regulate him to a typical cell under the palace. He was wrong. The Ice Emperor has no fear of him at all. Now he's so close Kai can smell oil, tracing burning cold lines into his skin as if finding the right path across his face will reveal what he's looking for.

Kai prepares for the eventual question. He also prepares for the scenario where the Emperor asks no questions and freezes his heart in his chest, but he hopes it doesn't come to that. He imagines what the Ice Emperor might ask- what the part of Zane still alive in him might push him to ask. There's no doubt that Zane still lives, because if he didn't the Emperor would have no reason to take any interest I'm him at all. He'd have been dead ten times over. Maybe he'll ask who are you? Or how do I know you? Or how do you know me? And Kai can explain to him that he loves him, he loves him, he loves him and that will make everything okay. It will. It has to.

Another long moment passes where the Emperor is crouched over him searching. Kai searches him too. Looks at everything in hope of finding the piece of the puzzle he can use to slot everything back into place. He's wearing completely different robes than he was before he was struck by the staff, white and gray and hand embroidered with diamonds made to glitter everytime he moved. His armor is growing fractals of ice in a messy, unkempt way. There's a patch where the icicles have been meticulously chipped away, but that chore was dropped and now they've been left to grow rampant. His face is dented and there's a patch of ice that's holding his jaw in place- an ugly crack from the corner of his mouth, a gap, and Kai can see where the connection between his mandible and skull has been snapped. The lopsided frown makes the break even more apparent.

The hand on his face is covered by a pure white glove. The hand on the staff is bare other than a thick case of ice, and Kai can see clear through it to the mess underneath. The titanium casing on his hand has been split apart to reveal his skeletal structure below. Kai has spent enough time in Jay and Nyas' mechanic lair under the monastery to have at least somewhat of a grasp on the basics of Zanes parts, so he knows what he's looking at. More specifically, he knows what he's not looking at. Wire- important wires, the ones Nya complains about because they have to special order them and they take ages to come- are missing. Not torn out, but neatly trimmed down near his wrist. The structure boning for his pinkie is gone, removed in the same clean fashion. There's more- Kai only knows so much, but he can tell the machinery underneath looks far more barren than a few wires and bone. Lloyd told them about the message in that cave, where he'd tried to fix the mech.

Kai can see it clearly in his mind. Zane, desperate and alone, taking the edge of a ninja star and sliding it along the near Invisible seam holding the casing of his hand together and shoving, cracking the connection points until it pops clean off. He and the mechs used the same type of wiring, after all.

The Emperor's voice is quiet when he speaks, the unfamiliar deep grit softening in the question meant just for the space between them, "Why do I hate you so much?"

Kais heartbreak over what might have happened in the cave stalls, every part of his mind thrown off rhythm with a question he never would have guessed he'd be asked. He can't articulate a response because he can't understand why Zane would hate him, and why that emotion would be leaking out into the Ice Emperor now.

"Zane-" He starts before his mouth is sealed shut with a layer of ice. Brain freeze hits first, sharp and cruel and like an icepick up through the roof of his mouth. Frost invades his mouth and glues his teeth together, crawling halfway down his throat. It hurts all the way to the roots of his teeth and he thrashes on instinct, bouncing his head off hard stone before he can control his reaction. Every part of his face hurts. There's a terrifying moment where the ice spreads over the back of his throat and seals off his sinuses and he's certain the Emperor has finally decided to kill him by suffocating him to death.

But the ice recedes almost as quickly as it came, though the Emperor keeps his hand over Kais mouth as a reminder not to slip up again. That was worse than the first time he'd done it, Kai doesn't want to know how bad it might be next.

The Ice Emperor's face is terrifyingly blank, a mask that gives absolutely nothing to Kai, so empty it scares him more than anything he's done so far. The interest in his eyes has fractured, and underneath is a hatred that makes the black of his pupils seem darker.

"You and your friends," his voice is still gentle, chillingly calm, "I hate all of you so much. I do not know why, but I do. I want to punish you."

Kai’s heart is jack rabbiting in his chest, beating at his ribs as adrenaline floods his system with nowhere to go. Fight or flight and he can't do either.

He takes his hand off Kai's mouth, "Speak." He orders.

Kai is woefully unprepared, stumbling over himself to try and come up with some way to remind Zane who he is. Lloyd told him that Zane said he loved them in his goodbye video. Why did that change? Was it the staff corrupting his mind? But the staff can only feed feelings that were already there. Did some part of Zane, some small part, really hate him?

"You're sick," he tries, his tongue darting out to try and wet chapped lips but its been hours since he's had a drink and his mouth is dry, "The staff is altering your mind, Zane. This isn't you. We're all friends! We love you!" He isn't above pleading and he pours desperation into each word, "You have to remember! I love you!"

The Emperor tilts his head inquisitively to the side as his expression flickers along the edges. Kai still knows Zane well enough to pick up on the minute changes- not a hint of it is kind. Whatever Kai said picked something loose, but not enough. Not enough. The light In his eyes changes but not in any way Kai can understand. He presses his finger to Kais mouth and seals it with another layer of ice, stopping his words. The air is thick, fraught with a tension so strong Kai can barely breathe through it. The Emperor looks at him. His eyes are so dark. He can still see Zane in everything the man does.

"I waited for you," the Ice Emperor speaks slowly, sounding out the sentence as if reaffirming its truth. A piece of Zane, just a sliver- a curiosity for the man crouched before him. It's a feeling, a certainty of a grievous crime, "And you never came."

It's bone chilling hatred.

It's betrayal.

Kais heart drops through his stomach and cracks to pieces on the icy floor. No no no-! He can't wrench his jaw free of his muzzle but he tries desperately to. He tries to scream, to howl and pour heat into his mouth- fire reacts to his devotion to his family, rushing through his body but again Kai is not enough.

We didn't know! We couldn't have known! We came as soon as we could! He thrashes on the floor, tries to bash his jaw down to shatter ice. He wants to grab the Emperor by the shoulders and shake shake shake him until his head pops off. I would have torn apart the sixteen realms to get to you! He's crying and the tears sting where they drip down his face. I would do anything!

He slumps, boneless and sore where his skin bruises on stone. He's thirsty, he's starving, and he's so so cold. The fire flickers out of him back down to an ember, faint and comforting if not much else. He blinks the wet from his eyes and sees the Emperors white white robes are stained with blood at the bottom. Above him, the tyrant moves.

Kai pushes himself back, the reality really sinking in. He was going to die here. No! he couldn't! He couldn't let Zane do this because when they got him back- and they would get him back, Kai has to believe that- he would never forgive himself. His back hits a pillar of ice and he looks around wildly, trying to figure out some way to get out of this, a smoking gun, a dues ex machina- anything! To stop what's coming.

He can do nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut as the Ice Emperor cups his cheek gently- but there's no ice stabbing into his brain, no agony of a literal ice pick lobotomy. The Emperors thumb wipes away an errant tear. A heartbeat passes before Kai hesitantly looks up at him.

The Emperor's face is still and serene, "I am not going to kill you, Kai." There is a moment of relief, even an inkling of hope before the chill comes.

It seeps into his skin from the Emperor's hand, down down through his face- It pours like slush through fat and muscle, cutting through his cheek to burn his gums and freeze the nerves in his teeth. It gets colder. Kai tries to dislodge his hand but the Emperor jerks forward and slams him down, holding his head against the stone floor as he pours ice into his blood faster, more brutal. Kai can't scream, his jaw locking against the bite of frost. It gets colder. It burns like the road rash he’d gotten the first time he’d wrecked his motorcycle, but a million times worse. Pain overwhelms all of his senses until he forgets how to breathe, hyperventilating and trying miserably to suck in enough air through his nose. His mouth is still sealed shut, he can't get enough air- he can't- His vision flickers with black spots.

It gets colder.

Feeling stops, numbness spreading like a balm over dying nerves. He stops struggling, taking advantage of the respite to catch his breath. His chest hurts with how hard his heart beats. His head is spinning. He looks up at the Ice Emperor with exhausted eyes and finds no pity, and especially no mercy. As Kai had struggled and sobbed in agony, he’d watched it all happen. He’d just watched. Kai is aware of the hand in his face by pressure alone, feeling blissfully gone.

The Ice Emperor takes his hand away.

He lays there and breathes, a tingling feeling spreading over his cheek. Pins and needles that turn sharper and sharper. With the loss of cold, feeling creeps back in and Kai is slowly aware of every inch of dying skin the frostbite has decimated. It hurts- it hurts like nothing he's ever experienced. He can't comprehend the pain, his mind blanking out as the blood roars in his ear. His vision goes gray at the edges as he struggles to stay awake. He can't pass out- he has to bring Zane back. He has to. He can't let him hurt the others. He can’t fail him like he did with the fight against Aspheera. Kai has to be enough. Please let him be enough.

The Emperor cards a hand through Kai's bangs, deceptively gentle as he wipes sweat slick hair off his forehead.

"I want you to suffer."

#ninjago #kai ninjago #zane ninjago #ice emperor #ice emperor ninjago #ns11 #blood #gore #frostbite #violence #graphic descriptions #injuries #serious injuries #torture #mentions of past self harm #mouth trauma #threat of death #ask to tag #spinchip fic

[apersond]

@faeriekit I would have sent this as an ask, but then it got Long, so... TW for graphic descriptions of a flesh wound.

I have many fun medical stories from either myself or my family that I could tell, but the one that I enjoy telling most is from when I was 10 and the relevant brother in this story was seven.

So, it's a saturday morning, my siblings and I are all supposed to be cleaning our rooms. Brother Dearest, however, is not cleaning his room; he is messing around, jumping on and off the bed, and also, most importantly, he is playing with the mini-blinds cord. Specifically, he is wrapping the cord around his finger and then pulling his finger out of the coil, wrapping then pulling, wrapping then pulling. In a fit of genius, he decides to combine the jumping-off-the-bed with pulling-his-finger-out-of-the-coil, except this time, instead of the coil loosening and his finger smoothly sliding out, it cinches.

Tight.

------

A brief aside, there's this really delightful medical term that is just wonderfully evocative of exactly what it looks like when flesh is stripped from bone; it's called degloving.

------

Later, my brother claims that he didn't really feel anything at the time, and I suppose that makes sense as he didn't damage the nerves so much as remove them.

Because of this, he doesn't really begin to panic until he starts to bleed, and he bleeds a lot. His bedroom is in the basement, so in order to reach my mother upstairs, he has to climb a flight of stairs, round the kitchen, climb another flight of stairs and then round the landing, during which my mother is being treated to the rapidly rising sound of my brother crying out, "mom, mom, MOM! There's so much blood! MOM!!!"

My Mother is exactly the kind of person you want next to you in a crisis or emergency situation, and I like to think that I inherited this from her. In any case, my mom, who has four accident prone children with varying degrees of severe asthma, is a pro at emergency room visits. In this moment, she doesn't hesitate or freeze, just grabs a clean rag, wraps it around my brother's hand and herds him out the door and into the car and off they go. She doesn't stop to think or panic, just moves.

This will be important later.

------

Before she leaves, my mother calls me up from the basement and tells me that she's taking my brother to the ER, and that in the meantime, I, as the oldest child, need to watch my other two siblings. She's not gone long before I get curious as to what all the fuss is about and start nosing about. Because he didn't panic until he saw blood, my brother left a rather convenient trail of blood down the stairs, across the basement, and to my brother's room. There, I notice a round looking rubbery object on the window sill.

I think it's a bouncy ball.

Then I see the nail.

------

Meanwhile, at the ER, a nurse is unwrapping my brother's hand to get a look at his finger. Very calmly, she looks my mother in the eye and asks, "do you have the rest of his finger?"

Just as calmly, my mother replies, "I'm going to have to call my husband."

------

Realization of what exactly it is I'm looking at washes over me, and I spin to see my youngest two siblings indulging their curiosity just as I did in following the blood splatter down the stairs. They haven't come into the room yet, so they don't know what's happened. There's still time.

I push them both all the way up the basement stairs, shut the door at the top behind me, and declare with as much authority as I can that, "No one is going downstairs."

Soon, my dad will get home early from work. He has received a call from my mother with instructions to collect my brother's finger, put it on ice, and meet my mother at the ER to drop it off. I know exactly why he's there. I tell him my brother's finger is on the windowsill in his room downstairs. He leaves just as quickly as he arrives, and once again I'm left by myself and in charge of my siblings.

I will remain so for the rest of the day.

------

Back at the ER, my mother has now passed control of the situation to the nurses and has gained enough emotional distance to come out of crisis mode.

She's feeling a bit nauseous.

The nurse currently looking after my brother is certainly not helping; she's looking at the damage to my brother's finger again, and because it's uncovered, every time his heart pumps, blood spurts out and hits the nurse in the face. She doesn't re-cover his hand. It spurts again.

The nausea gets worse.

Finally, the doctor arrives to assess the situation and give my mother the options on the table, and my mother can refocus. The facts of the matter are that, because all the flesh was stripped from the bone, his finger is going to need some help getting blood and oxygen to the area to keep any reattached flesh from dying while the necessary blood vessels regrow.

The first option is to stitch the injured index finger to his middle finger, except that the top third of his finger would need to line up with the middle portion of the middle finger, meaning his finger would need to stay perpetually bent. If at any point he straightens out his index finger, it would tear out all the regrowing blood vessels and they would need to start again.

My mother is a little leery of this option, but thinks it might be doable. "How long would it need to stay bent without moving for?" she asks.

"6 weeks."

"There's no way! I don't know an adult that could do that, much less a seven year old! What are the other options?"

Option two is to make an incision in my brother's side and stitch his finger into his side. Again, if it is pulled out, they have to start over.

"For how long?"

"Six weeks."

"Can you not see how that's worse?"

Option three is to minimize how much reattached flesh needs to be oxygenated by filing down the bone in his finger and mostly just reattaching the nail bed. Recovery is once again 6 weeks, but this is the only option that feels doable. My mother picks this one.

------

My brother gets half a dozen numbing shots in his hand, but they don't knock him out or ask my mother to leave the room. My mother is still in the room when the hand surgeon pulls out an instrument that can only be described as looking remarkably akin to hedge clippers.

My mother's heart rate jumps a bit.

"That is not a file."

Neither the doctors nor the nurses hear her, the nurses are asking question after question to the doctor. They've never seen anything like this before. My brother is still not being knocked out and my mother is still not being asked to leave. They're going to do this right in front of them.

My mother's nausea returns.

My mother ends up asking a nurse for a sheet to hold up between herself and my brother and the nurses and doctor so they at least don't have to watch. They can still hear everything.

------

Finally, they put my brother's arm in a cast to keep the tendons in his hands from pulling on the healing area, instruct my brother to keep his arm above his heart as much as possible to keep blood from pooling, and to come back in six weeks to get the stitches removed.

And that's the story of how I found my brother's finger on the window sill. :)

#graphic injury #flesh wound #graphic descriptions of a flesh wound #seriously I tell this story as dramatically and graphically as I can for Entertainment Reasons #nothing pleases me more than to watch people's faces twist in horror and disgust as they realize what's going on #if you have a queasy stomach or are currently eating #consider scrolling past

[lingeringmirth]

too still

Stranger Things | Lumax, Lucas centric | Rating: T | Words: 100 | Drabble, Angst, major canonical character injury , S4 missing scene.

cw: major character injury (no graphic description)

A/N: This is actually my first lumax and first time writing Lucas' pov.

Also here on AO3.

-

Lucas holds Max in his arms and he cries. He knows he should get up, should run, call an ambulance, but he can’t move.

Erica finds him there, his fingers to Max’s weak pulse, his vision blurry with his tears.

She runs.

‘I’m sorry… Don’t go. Please, Max.’

Death has brushed by him before, but never like this since they thought Will was dead, and that hadn’t been like this… he hadn’t been in love with him.

Max is too still, maybe too broken to be mended. He can’t lose her.

The sound of sirens has never sounded as welcome.

#whumpril2024 #whumprilday12 #prompt: weak pulse #lumax #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #angst #drabble #cw: major injury (non-graphic description)

[rookthorne]

A Grave Price | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

Pairing; none Word Count; 1.3k Warnings; hurt/no comfort, major & background character death, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, auditory hallucinations, WS!Bucky A/N; God, I am so sorry guys. Please don't hate me, I know I'm awful.

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

A soothing voice was guiding him and to where, he did not know - but he knew he would be safe from the horrors that followed him.

Soldat’s target was dead, the body strewn in the snow amongst the rocks and boulders, but it didn’t come without a price. 

Everything - everything - had a price. 

Extraction wasn’t for another agonising few hours, and Soldat had to be on site. It was an order. Orders were to be obeyed. Pain did not come before an order, the river of blood surging from the wound in his thigh did not come before an order - his life did not come before an order. 

The blood that leaked from his veins didn’t contain only his life essence, it held within it the control Hydra held upon him. With every step away from the deceased target, every single drop of blood that leaked from his wounds, he lost himself - lost himself and became a shell of someone he did not know. 

Screams and shouts echoed in his ears and it disoriented him amongst the encroaching snowstorm, and for all Soldat knew, those voices belonged to people in the trees, their wailing cries a siren’s song for a dying man. 

His training hadn’t prepared him for the possibility of death and the horror that came with it.

Extraction point. He had to get to the extraction point, he had to follow an order. 

Through the strong wind and flurries of snow, Soldat stared at the line of trees to find the way he came, only to fall to his knees with a groan of pain. 

“Nyet,” he growled fiercely, ignoring the way his voice grew weak. “Nyet, nyet.” His gloved hand came away from his side to find purchase against the white snow, and he gasped quietly. The snow, once so white, was now stained crimson with his blood. 

“Bucky!”

Soldat’s head snapped up towards the trees to find the source of the voice, only to find no one there. “Nyet, nyet,” he repeated. 

Determined, Soldat pushed himself to his feet again, ignoring the way the world tilted on its axis, and ignoring the way he had to gasp for air against the stab wound to his lung. The target hadn’t gone down without a fight. 

Snow crowded his vision, but Soldat pushed on - he had to get to the extraction point, lest he get the chair and the burning halo. No.

“Bucky! Come home!”

The disembodied voice startled Soldat and he pulled free his rifle, taking aim at the tree line. “Kto zdes'!”

It was though his conditioning had completely abandoned him - calling to an enemy was suicide, yet, he did it. No one came into sight, there were no more calls that carried across the wind. 

“Kto zdes'!” Soldat tried again, his fear turning quickly to anger. “Kto zdes'!”

A frustrated growl made its way up his chest and he grimaced, he did not understand the prickling of his skin, or the way his stomach was tied like a knot - tighter than those he used to interrogate. 

Emotions were a weakness, and weaknesses will get you killed. 

Extraction. Move. 

Soldat shouldered his rifle once more, wincing against the movement that pulled at the muscles of his chest and side. “Dvigat'sya.”

His boots dragged along the snow, each stumble against a wave of vertigo almost tore an angered shout from his throat. The extraction point was not far from where he had landed the killing blow to his target, so why was it taking so long to get back?

“Bucky! Over here!”

“NYET!” Soldat roared to the wind, his eyes wildly looking around for the source only to see no one. “Ostanovi yego!” 

The blood was draining from his wounds faster than he could staunch it, faster than his ability to heal, and the world was becoming grey and blurred. In an act of desperation, he pulled free his side arm and pushed on, no longer listening to the incessant calls of “Bucky!” in the wind. 

It was a terrifying possibility it wasn’t coming from the wind, but his own mind. 

Soldat stumbled and fell only two more times until the extraction point - a small shack no bigger than the cell that held him - came into view. The door swung open to admit him when he pushed against it, and he fell to his knees with a hiccuped groan of pain. 

Blood drenched the front of his combat suit, the once meticulously kept black leather now slick and shiny, not with his target’s blood, but his own. 

The rifle on his back clattered to the floor when Soldat ripped it away with a gasp of pain, and he wished the muzzle could be taken off, but that was prohibited - no one could touch the muzzle covering the bottom of his face but his handler, not even him. 

“Bucky?”

The voice was right there, right in front of him, and Soldat looked up from his chest to stare into nothing. “Kto zdes'?” His voice came out as a wheeze, a strained sound that was so foreign to him and it unnerved him further. 

“Come home.”

“Home,” Soldat repeated, his hand came to rest against his side on the now gaping wound. Blood pooled at his knees and he swayed slightly when his vision blurred. “Chto home?” 

“Home,” the voice affirmed - a soft voice, Soldat realised. This wasn’t a handler. 

Soldat’s vision blacked out and he blinked to clear it, an uneasy feeling settling deep in his chest. “Kto Bucky?”

“You are,” the voice said quietly, and if Soldat didn’t know any better, the voice was still coming from right in front of him; a comforting presence knelt down in front of him at the bitter end. 

A hiccup wracked Soldat’s frame and he winced. His chest was constricting and his throat burned with something he had never felt before. The sudden feel of dampness high on his cheeks startled him, he didn’t understand. 

“Time to come home, Bucky,” the voice whispered and Soldat stiffened with fear. Another hiccup tore through his chest and his eyes felt wet, worse than when they dunked his head into a trough of ice water. “Come home.”

Before he could stop himself, Soldat reached up with his trembling right hand and brushed the pads of his bloodied fingers against his cheekbone, pausing to examine the clear liquid like it was hazardous. Another hiccup barreled through his chest and he whimpered through the wave of pain it brought. 

“You’re crying, Bucky,” the voice said quietly, and the constant use of the word Bucky was beginning to soothe Soldat in a way he did not understand. “I’ve come to bring you home. Come with me.”

“Idi domoy?”

“Home,” the voice repeated. 

“Mne kholodno,” Soldat whispered back. The door slammed shut in the wind and he slumped back against it, his once taut and rigid frame slackening with the loss of blood.

Soldat didn’t have a home - never had a home - but the urge to rest where it was safe, where the voice could protect him, overwhelmed any sense of danger for asking another question. “Mogu ya otdokhnut'?”

“Yes,” the voice answered. There was a sudden pressure against his chest that made him look down, but there was nothing there; a phantom hand of comfort resting against the slowing beat of his heart.  

“Yest' tsena?” Soldat asked shakily, but he didn’t feel scared - the voice was there, and it would protect him. His hands, metal and flesh, fell limp in his lap, and his head lolled to the side. 

There was no strength left within him to fight the laxness of his muscles, nor the cold that nipped at his every last nerve. 

“Yes,” they answered. Soldat went to open his mouth to speak, but only managed a slow, deep exhale. With his body still and his eyes glazed over, the voice continued solemnly. “It’s one you have wanted to pay, for so, so long, Bucky.”

Nyet = No “Kto zdes'!” = “Who’s there!” “Dvigat'sya.” = “Move.” “Ostanovi yego!” = “Stop it!” “Chto” = “What is” “Kto” = “Who is” “Idi domoy?” = “Go home?” “Mne kholodno” = “I’m cold” “Mogu ya otdokhnut'?” = “Can I rest?” “Yest' tsena?” = “Is there a price?”

You can imagine the voice as anyone - I’d give examples but that might ruin it. Lemme know who you thought of in a reblog. 💗

___________

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

Masterlist | Library | AO3 | Wattpad

#whumptober2022 #no.27 #PUSHED TO THE LIMIT #stumbling #altprompt #stabbed #tears #marvel #fic #hurt/no comfort #major character death #background character death #graphic descriptions of blood and injuries #auditory hallucinations #WS!Bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #rookthorne's works #A Grave Price

[tsarisfanfiction]

Carnage

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Lee Fletcher, Lizzy White (OC), Kim Ha-Yoon (OC) "Three deaths and twenty-six mutilations," or the immediate aftermath of the chariot race from hell, as experienced by one of the youngest kids in camp. Whumptober day 3, “Make it stop". Pre-canon this time; that throwaway line in Sea of Monsters about why the chariot races were discontinued has always intrigued me, so I figured why not try and explore it in a fic?

Lee was shaking.  There were screams in his ears, some echoes from earlier that wouldn’t go away, the terror as everything went horrifically wrong, and some still shrieking now.  Pain, grief, horror.

There was blood on his hands, splattered across his face and his mouth tasted of metal and it was disgusting but worse was the knowledge that it wasn’t his.  It was someone else’s, and no amount of spitting could get rid of the taste.

Chiron was shouting orders, and Ha-Yoon, too.  Lee tried to listen, but there was so much noise and his spine kept tingling because people kept promising that things were going to be okay, that things would be alright, but no-one was believing them.

Even without the tingle of a lie, Lee wouldn’t believe them.  How could he, when there was so much blood, so much pain?

He could see the crushed head of Berta, the head counsellor of cabin six, long blond hair matted with blood and skull completely caved in.  The one grey eye visible was glassy and sightless.  She hadn’t even been in a chariot, but she’d been in the wrong place when the Ares chariot had careened into the stands and something had gone boom.

Lee was pretty certain Ramona and Xander were dead, too.  The Ares chariot had been red already, but now it was liquid-red, and there was a single limp hand visible from the wreckage.  It wasn’t attached to a wrist.

“Lee!”  Hands grabbed him and spun him around so fast he almost lost his balance.  “Lee, are you hurt?”  It was Lizzy’s voice, and Lizzy’s tell-tale splash of dark pink bangs, but all Lee could focus on were the rest of the campers moving around, and the ones that weren’t, covered in blood and too still.

Ha-Yoon was shouting in English, he realised numbly.  That felt wrong.  His head counsellor never spoke in English.

“Lee,” Lizzy said again, and her hands cupped his face, forcing her to look at him.  Her hands cupped his ears, muffling the screaming.

There was so much screaming.

He blinked up at his sister as her thumb started wiping at his face.  “Are you hurt?” she repeated.  Lee shook his head.  No, he wasn’t hurt, just his ears ringing from all the screaming.

Lizzy’s orange camp t-shirt had red on the shoulder.

“Okay, good,” she said.  “Let’s get away from here.”

She didn’t give Lee a choice, tugging on his arm until he followed her, stumbling across the wreckage of the stands.

There was so much blood.  Lee saw Gabriel kneeling down next to Marisa from cabin five, his hand faintly glowing as he sang a hymn.  The words were drowned out by her screaming, her one remaining hand struggling to free itself from Gabriel’s firm hold while the mangled remains of her right arm slowly knitted up.

Lizzy pulled him past.  “Don’t look,” she ordered.  “Look at me, Lee.  Just me.”

That was easier said than done.  Everything was carnage and Lee tripped over one of the new Aphrodite kids where she was cowering behind her head counsellor as the pink-haired girl called out to the rest of her cabin.  It sounded like a roll call.

The Aphrodite chariot had been one of the first to flip, careening into the Hephaestus chariot which had then tangled with the Hermes chariot.  Lee didn’t know what had happened to the kids in it.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The Hephaestus and Hermes chariots had exploded.

He didn’t know what had happened to those kids, either.

Under his feet, blood-splattered stone turned to red stained grass instead, and he felt Lizzy pull him against her side, burying his face in her dark pink-purple dungarees.  “Don’t look,” she repeated, but not looking meant he could just hear more.

Ha-Yoon was still yelling, sending runners to fetch ambrosia and nectar and anything else they could carry from the infirmary.  Hooves squelched into the ground, and Lee know if that was the horses or Chiron kicking and tugging at the wreckage of the chariots.

The screaming still hadn’t stopped, even though the voices were turning hoarse.

Make it stop, he begged, but he couldn’t find his voice and Lizzy was still pulling him away.  Please, someone, make it stop.

“Lizzy!” Lee heard Ha-Yoon shout.  “I need Lee over here!”  She was still speaking in English, and it sounded wrong.

Lizzy muttered something that didn’t sound happy, but Lee felt her change direction, tugging them towards their head counsellor.

“Lee’s too young for this!” she argued back as they stumbled forwards, and part of Lee wanted to rebel at that – he was nine, now! – but the world was still screaming and he just wanted it all to stop.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Ha-Yoon snapped back.  “Give him to me.  I’ve sent Lauren and Michelle to the infirmary and I need you to go after them and make sure everything’s prepped.”

“Why don’t I take Lee-”

“I need Lee here,” Ha-Yoon cut Lizzy off.  “Lee, come here.”  Her words were short and abrupt, but she’d just switched back to Ancient Greek, and Ha-Yoon always spoke in Ancient Greek rather than English and that comforted Lee enough to peel away from Lizzy’s side and stumble across the short distance to his Korean sister.

She let him burrow against her jacket, even though the fabric was damp in places.  It wasn’t as comfortable as Lizzy.  Ha-Yoon was shorter than their sister, and Lee’s head was pressed against her shoulder rather than under her arm.  “Lee, I know this is loud and scary, but I need your help,” she said, and he tilted his chin up until he could see her face.

“Mine?” he asked, wondering what he could possibly do in the face of so much blood.  He wasn’t a healer like Mitch or Gil or Gabriel.

Ha-Yoon nodded.  “We’ve got a triage system set up and I need someone to look after the people that are hurt but not badly,” she said.  “You’re good at healing, so I need that to be you, okay?”

Lee swallowed but nodded his head.  “Okay,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” Ha-Yoon replied, her voice softening a bit.  “Wait here, okay?  I’ll send the patients over to you.”

He whimpered as she pulled away, and felt her hand squeeze his shoulder lightly.  He didn’t want to be left alone, but he knew Ha-Yoon wouldn’t leave him alone if she had a choice.

He also knew that Mitch and Gil had been in their chariot, caught in the backlash of the explosion, and that they hadn’t got up from where they’d crumpled.

Mitch and Gil were the best healers in camp.

His first patient was the new Aphrodite kid, barely injured but shaking just as much as Lee had been.  Still was.  He was pretty sure her name was Silena, and that the two of them were the youngest kids in camp.  Her head counsellor, Belinda, was with her, and had a nasty cut on her arm that Lee hadn’t seen earlier.

It was something Lee knew how to treat – kids came into the infirmary with cuts all the time, usually after sparring with Ares kids – and Belinda obediently stayed still while he dabbed at it and wrapped it up with supplies Lauren had appeared with just after Ha-Yoon left him.  Other campers came up to him, white-faced and red-stained but never with anything worse than deep cuts, and every so often Ha-Yoon came by to make sure his patients were listening to him.

Anyone who didn’t listen to Lee definitely listened to Ha-Yoon.

Eventually, the screaming died down.  There was shouting, instead, and sobbing, but it was easier to listen, and to look, when he didn’t have patients to treat.

Looking was a mistake, but Lee couldn’t help it.  Marisa’s mangled arm looked horrible even after Gabriel’s healing, and at one point he saw Gil being run up the hill towards the big house on a stretcher, leg twisted the wrong way around and white poking up out of all the red.  Mitch had stayed where he’d fallen for some time, even after Gabriel ran to him after finishing with Marisa.  When he’d finally been stretchered away, Lee had seen something dark sticking out of his chest.

Slowly, things turned less chaotic.  Most of Lee’s patients left him once he’d bandaged them up, heading for where most of the head counsellors were starting to organise clean-up.  The ones that stayed tried to help him, or comforted each other.

But things were still bad.  The lack of screaming didn’t stop the blood from being everywhere.  The less injured campers moving around while the worse patients were transported to the infirmary didn’t stop others being dead.

Lizzy didn’t come back from the infirmary, but Ha-Yoon’s brief stops got longer and longer, until he had no patients left and just her for company, wrapping an arm around his shoulders lightly.

“Time to get cleaned up,” she told him.  “And to get away from here.”  She shooed him on ahead of her, towards their cabin, and didn’t let him stop until he was in the shower, a pile of clean clothes folded outside and waiting for him.

At the sight of the faint red swirling down the drain with the water and soap bubbles, Lee sat down heavily, wrapping his arms around his knees and cried, because there had been so much noise, so much blood, and he was only nine and people were dead.

He didn’t know how long he spent in the shower when there was a knock on the door, only that at some point the hot water had turned freezing.  “Lee?”

He’d used up all the hot water.  Lee sniffled.  “Coming.”

Lizzy was waiting for him when he stumbled out, dressed in fresh clothes but unable to stop himself from snivelling.  Her top was still stained red, but her hands were so clean they almost shone.

She was holding his headphones, the ones his dad had given him in a dream a few months ago and had been on his head when he woke up.  “Do you need these?” she asked him.  Lee snivelled again and reached for them, letting them close over his ears with a satisfying snap.

The bubble of silence they wrapped him in made him wish he’d had them earlier, when everyone had been screaming and everything had been too loud.

Lizzy tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to look at her.  She pointed at herself, and then the bathroom, then at him and his bunk, ending her pantomime with a shrug.

Lee curled in on himself a little more and nodded.  “I used up all the hot water,” he admitted, his voice the only sound that ever got past his headphones and sounding a little tinny in the silence.  “Sorry.”

Her laugh was silent, but the way she waved her hand told him she was telling him not to worry about it.  She pointed at his bunk again, and Lee did as he was told, slinking over to it and curling up under the covers, even though it was the middle of the afternoon and he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

It was quiet, and there was no blood here.

In the safe cocoon of silence and blankets, Lee could almost pretend the chariot race hadn’t happened.

Almost.

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“make it stop” #percy jackson and the olympians #riordanverse #fic #blood #major injury #background character death #graphic description of violence #percy jackson fanfiction #riordanverse fanfic #lee fletcher #silena beauregard #original characters #lizzy white #kim ha-yoon #tsari writes fanfiction

[arecaceae175]

Febuwhump Day 26: Alt. 1: Rope Burns (Hyrule)

AO3 link. Warnings: blood, injury, loss of consciousness, graphic descriptions of violence

Continuation of Knife Wound (Sky) and Presumed Dead (Hyrule). The final part of this storyline will come tomorrow, so stay tuned!

@wildsage00 WOO here we are. This is completely unedited, like not even a solid read through. I'll come back and edit tomorrow probably, but for now I hope it's good!

Part 3/5. Part 1. Part 2. Part 4. Part 5.

After seemingly endless hours of following Hyrule’s trail, they finally reached a building. It was half underground and covered in vines. It was not easy to spot. 

It was even harder to figure out how to get inside. Sky felt like they were wasting precious minutes and was ready to go along with Wild’ plan of ‘bomb it until we get inside,’ but Warriors insisted they keep the element of surprise. Somewhere deep inside his mind Sky knew that was the right call, but every second that passed by made his anxiety spike even further. 

Four was the one to find the way inside. He didn’t admit how he did it, but he opened a hidden door from the inside. Without a word, they all rushed in. They were silent save for the clanking of their armor and swords, but even that was dampened by strategically placed cloths. 

Twilight remained in his wolf form to follow Hyrule’s scent. Sky could feel the distress rolling off him in waves. Twilight’s nose was scrunched like there was an overwhelming smell. Sky refused to entertain the implications of that thought.

A scream ripped through the air. Sky flinched violently, barely resisting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. Once the initial shock went down, Sky realized exactly what he had heard. That was Hyrule’s scream. 

That was Hyrule screaming in pain. 

Sky broke into a sprint. He vaguely heard Warriors hiss his name, but Sky didn’t stop. His chest heaved as he sprinted down the hall until he reached a wooden door. He could hear monsters’ yells and cheers loudly through the door. 

Sky had enough presence of mind left to wait for backup. Wild, Legend, and Twilight were just barely behind him, and as soon as they caught up Sky burst through the door. 

There were dozens of monsters crowded into the room. Sky didn’t recognize any of them, but he could tell they were the strongest of their type. There were countless weapons leaning against the walls, but only the ones in the center of the room were holding any. 

A large stone slab was elevated in the center of the room. Sky could barely see through the thick crowd of monsters, but he could make out Hyrule’s upper body tied to the table. There were ropes around both arms pulling them taut towards the corners of the slab. Another rope was tied tightly around his neck, digging deep into his skin. Hyrule’s eyes were closed, his skin was pale, and his head was lolled to the side. 

Underneath the table, a large basin caught the blood dripping from Hyrule’s wounds. 

Sky saw red.

The spell of silence was broken by six arrows flying in quick succession. The three monsters closest to Hyrule were his with two arrows each, one in the eye and one in the throat. Blood spurted wildly, coating in red the little unblemished skin Hyrule had left.

Sky yelled and leapt into the crowd. The world slowed around him, and all that there was became him and his sword. He swung with deadly accuracy. He never missed, and nothing ever got close enough to hit him. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sky registered his side flaring in pain, and his lungs heaving to keep up. He pushed the pain down and ignored any other sensations. Hyrule needed him, and he wouldn’t let his brother down again. 

The battle passed in a blur of blood and guts and metal striking bone. Sky tore through the crowd of monsters until he was by Hyrule’s side. Sky forced himself to look away long enough to survey his surroundings. The others had joined and were quickly taking down the horde, thinning it from the inside out. Wild was on a perch on the wall taking down any stray monsters that got too close to Hyrule. 

Sky released a breath and turned to Hyrule, just as he heard Legend reach his side. Sky grabbed Hyrule’s wrist to check the pulse as he cast a glance over Hyrule’s body to assess the damage. For the first time since they arrived, Sky’s hands faltered.

Hyrule was a mess. He had multiple stab wounds in his thighs and shoulders, and long, deep cuts across his abdomen. His shirt had been completely ripped off and his pants were in shreds. Although Sky could feel a pulse, Hyrule’s skin was pale and cold. He breathed in shuttering gasps, and his pulse was far too erratic to be sustained for long.

Before Sky could work through the fog in his thoughts, Legend’s voice cut in. “Get the ropes,” he ordered. 

His sharp tone cut into Sky’s mind and spurred him back into action. Hesitation wouldn’t help, and Sky would not allow himself to be too slow to save someone. Not again. 

Sky didn’t bother pulling out a smaller knife; he sliced through the ropes with the Master Sword. He cut the ropes around Hyrule’s arms and neck, then sheathed the sword and carefully untangled them. The ropes left deep gashes in Hyrule’s skin. Sky felt himself muttering near-silent apologies as he pulled the ropes away and the wounds oozed fresh blood. 

It was blood Hyrule didn’t have left to lose. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Legend was by his side again. He had two red potions in hand. He thrust one at Sky, which Sky had to fumble to grasp in time, and quickly uncorked the other bottle. 

Legend lifted Hyrule’s head with gentle hands and let the potion trickle into his throat. Sky massaged Hyrule’s throat until he swallowed. They kept at it until Hyrule had gotten down two full health potions. The wounds on his abdomen and thighs began to stitch themselves back together. It would be enough to get them to safety, but Hyrule would need proper medical care to recover from this.

Sky tore his focus from Hyrule and glanced around the room. The battle was still raging. More monsters were flooding into the room from side corridors. The other heroes were keeping them at bay, but the battle was not going to be over anytime soon. 

Sky turned back to Hyrule and carefully, carefully lifted the smaller hero into his arms. Hyrule flinched and whimpered, the first movement they’d seen since his earlier scream. Sky felt the noise slice through his heart. 

“We have to go,” Sky said. Legend nodded, determination glinting in his eyes. 

“I’ll cover you,” Legend said. He quickly glanced around the room and saw Four fighting close by. 

“Smithy! We need you with us,” Legend yelled. As soon as Four felled his monster, Legend broke away towards Warriors and Time. “We’re getting ‘Rulie out of here! Meet back at camp!”  

“Go!” Warriors yelled, not even turning to reply as he sliced clean through a monster’s throat. 

Legend ran back to Sky’s side, fire rod drawn and ready. Four dashed ahead, easily clearing a path. Sky clutched Hyrule closer to his chest, feeling Hyrule’s uneven breaths on his neck. Sky ducked his head down to whisper in Hyrule’s ear. 

“We’re here,” Sky said. “We’re getting you out.” 

#febuwhump2023 #febuwhump #febuwhump day 26 #febuwhump alt 1 #rope burns #fic #tw: #graphic descriptions of violence #blood #injury #loss of consciousness #captivity #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu fic #lu hyrule #lu sky #lu legend #lu four #ace writes

[hummingbird-of-light]

June of Doom Day 3

3. “I can handle it.” 

| Kidnapping | Fracture | Struggle |

TW: crash, open wound, blood and injury, graphic description of violence and death, major character death, animal attack

~

"Please, I just want to know if someone made it out alive."

Khan didn't respond to Scott's pleads. Instead, he focused on the shuttle's controls.

"They-" the Scotsman tried to talk once again, but the augment harshly cut him off.

"They killed my family!

Scotty's eyes widened and he winced. No... that was impossible! He knew his crew. They'd never...

"Nae..."

"My crew was hidden in the torpedoes. Spock and the rest of your oh-so-precious crew detonated them."

Scotty still couldn't believe it. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to find some words.

"An eye for an eye, Mr. Scott. They killed my crew... so I killed them."

The engineer's face went pale and he ran a hand through his hair. Was it really true? Had they actually killed Khan's crew?

Quiet sobs escaped his mouth, despite him trying to hide it.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't take the pain.

An image of Keenser appeared in front of his closed eyes.

No...

'I can handle it,' a soft voice in his mind reminded him. He'd had to get through this kidnapping. For his friend.

++++++++

"Where are we going?"

The engineer looked at Khan, wiping away last tears. He didn't have time to mourn just yet. He had to find a way to break free.

"Somewhere I can think. Somewhere I can plan just what I do to your Starfleet."

Khan wanted revenge. That was quite obvious. And Scotty didn't like the look in the augment's eyes. Whatever part did the Scotsman play in that plan?

"And ye expect me to help ye?"

Khan glanced at his hostage, a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

"If you want to stay alive."

Scotty swallowed. He didn't want to die. Despite everything he'd lost, there was still a reason to fight.

"What-"

Khan didn't get to finish his question for suddenly, a red alert started to ring.

Scotty jumped up from where he was sitting and looked at the control panels. His eyes widened in horror.

"We are being pulled into that planet's orbit. It's too strong for this wee shuttle!"

Panic rose inside of Scott's chest. He had survived and now he'd die in a crash?

"We have to get out of here."

Khan stayed as cool as ever. He got up and walked over to where he expected the rescue pods, however, there were none.

"We're going to die," Scotty breathed fearfully.

"No, we're not. I'm going to land this shuttle."

Khan walked back to the controls and Scotty just stared at him in disbelief.

"Ye cannae land it! The systems are failing!"

They had entered the planet's atmosphere and were now crashing towards the ground.

"I will land it," Khan repeated his words and he actually stayed true to them.

When the shuttle hit the ground, Scotty was hit by some debris that fell from the ceiling. Luckily, he had sat back down in his seat again, so he wasn't thrown around like a rag doll.

Yet still, pain shot through his body at the impact. He managed to undo his seat belt and looked around. Smoke made it hard to see, but he made out the figure of Khan.

He wasn't moving.

Scotty got up from where he was sitting, but as soon as he tried to take a step, a sharp pain shot through his leg. He looked down and almost instantly his stomach turned around.

A sharp piece of metal was pierced through his thigh. How had he not noticed it right away? Blood was streaming out of the wound and Scotty knew that he needed medical help as soon as possible.

Groaning in pain, he made his way over to Khan. There was a cut on the augment's forehead. Apparently he had hit it.

Scotty stared at the man's chest for a moment and when he saw it moving up and down, he knew he didn't have much time.

He had to escape! Now!

As fast as he could, the engineer opened the shuttle's door and got out of it.

However, his hope for help, was quickly destroyed when he looked at his surroundings.

A desert!

Green sand and a reddish sky with a hot burning sun. No people or buildings.

The Scotsman swore loudly in Gaelic. This wasn't fair! His only spark of hope was stumped out in merely a few seconds.

He glanced over his shoulder. Khan was still not moving.

Scotty knew that it was his only chance. So he started to run. Well... it was more of a quick limp.

The pain in his leg got worse with every step he took, but Scott tried his best to remind himself of his mantra.

"I can handle it. I can handle it. I can handle it."

He repeated the words over and over again. He just had to believe in them. Then everything would be fine.

But the sun was burning and he was getting weaker and weaker. He felt the sweat run down his face like water. He felt his throat drying up.

And eventually his body couldn't take it anymore.

Scotty collapsed and the world around him started to spin. He was feeling dizzy, about to throw up.

The last thing he saw were feet and a person kneeling down to him. A deep voice filled his ears.

"You shouldn't have tried to run, Mr. Scott. Now you'll pay the price."

Khan.

He had followed him. He had found him. But he wouldn't help him.

Scotty heard strange noises coming closer. It sounded like snarling. But his eyelids were too heavy to take a look at whatever was there.

"As the saying goes, the devil takes the hindmost."

He heard Khan's footsteps disappear into the distance.

And suddenly all hell broke loose. Something attacked Scotty. Teeth and claws buried themselves inside his flesh and the Scotsman couldn't help but scream.

'I'm sorry, Keenser.'

He should have known that the planet wasn't uninhabited. He should have known that something was waiting out in the desert.

His screams for help were drowned out by the noises of the creatures feasting on him.

Scotty's last thoughts were with his friend, who he had left behind.

He hadn't been able to handle it.

#juneofdoom #june of doom #day 03 #whump #whump challenge #i can handle it #kidnapping #star trek #fanfiction #montgomery scott #khan noonien singh #shuttle crash #blood and injury #open wounds #animal attack #graphic descriptions of violence #major character death

[bloop-im-a-frog-now]

If The Gods Were Kind — sand pt.1

Part 6 babeyyyy!!! One more part before we get only desert duo content. I don’t know what else to say about this except have funny, hehe.

Enjoy!

Master Post

— —

Content warnings: graphic description of injury, character death (oh yeah, that one)

Taking over the sand lands wasn’t going to be easy. Scar knew that when he made his plan. He needed the llama, he needed to build his relationships with the others in this world, and most importantly, he needed to make sure the sand was accessible only through him. 

He didn’t know what compelled him to tell his plans to Grian. Maybe it was his aura, maybe it was the way he laughed when Etho’s tree burned down, maybe it was the comfort of seeing his diamond sword and golden chest plate. 

“Scar,” Grian whispered, gesturing his hand in a following motion. The way his lightning green eyes shined brighter even in the shadows sent shivers down Scar’s spine. Maybe those were what compelled him to open up.

“Do you want to take over the sand lands?” He made sure to keep his voice at the same level as Grian’s. 

Grian hummed. “The sand lands?”

“Yeah,” Scar couldn’t stop himself, “it can be ours and—”

“They can hear us,” Grian warned, “they’re right over there.”

Scar tilted his head to see name tags moving around through the cobblestone walls. He flicked his hand, almost dropping his crutch but catching it on time. His lower back cracked in protest. He shrugged instead.

“It’s fine, I can burn their village down—” he followed Grian’s gaze only to see a judgy Bdubs and an amused Cleo right in front of them, “—oh, hi!” he said louder, smiling nervously.

Grian let out a wheeze while Bdubs crossed his arms, frowning.

“I’m with you, what’s wrong with you?”

Scar glanced back at Grian, spotting Impulse.

“This is the worst secret meeting I’ve ever been to,” Grian whisper-yelled, laughter in his voice.

Scar’s cheeks burned as Cleo let out a laugh. He shook his head and jerked it towards the oak forest. “Let’s have it over there.”

When people finally stopped following them (with Grian pausing every time they went down a hill), Grian took some saplings out of his inventory, showing them to Scar with a smirk. Scar frowned when he didn’t recognize it.

“What’s that?”

Grian blinked at him and looked back at the sapling he was holding. He squinted his eyes, inspecting it, only to groan in frustration.

“Sorry, wrong one.”

He took a much more colorful sapling in his hand. Scar gasped when he realized what kind they were. 

“Oooh, dark oak saplings.”

Grian’s smirked widened. “I’ve been on a journey all over the world, collecting every sapling I could.”

Scar hummed. “They believed they had the last dark oak saplings.”

Grian raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yeah?”

Scar chuckled and grinned. “We could have a monopoly over it.”

Grian’s eyes dilated, nodding and wings fluttering behind his back. Scar had a clear view of them. Going from red to yellow to blue, looking more bony than fluffy and crooked at some places. He wondered if Grian could fly. Or what even happened to him for his wings to be this messed up. 

He shook the thought out of his head, focusing on their conversation. He had to convey his first business idea.

“Do you want to take over the sand lands and make people pay to come to get sand?”

Grian laughed nervously. “I’ve sorta started a base, but,” he paused, wings twitching, “the desert?” His wings almost close around him before he shook his upper body to put them back where they were. “It’s not the greatest place to live.”

Scar tutted. “No, it’s not about living, it’s about selling sand, because—”

Grian burst out of laughter. “It’s about the monopoly.”

Scar nodded frantically. “It is!” He jerked his head towards the village. “Dude, that place is a bust, I’m going somewhere better.”

Grian still looked uncertain, but he pulled out his dark oak saplings from his inventory. “There is a small place where the rest of the dark oaks are.” He inhaled through his teeth and tilted his head to Scar, too bird-like. “Do you think dark oak or sand?”

“Well, think about it,” Scar approached him, holding the two crutches in one hand and resting the other on Grian’s shoulder, ignoring the flinch, “we can make more dark oak with saplings. But sand?” He paused dramatically. “How do you make more sand?”

Grian opened his mouth and closed it, looking down in thought. “You can’t,” he concluded.

Scar grinned. “Exactly. So, whaddya say, partner?”

Scar extended his hand to Grian. But he shook his head.

“Have you seen how massive that land is?” His accent was more pronounced than usual, catching Scar off guard how close it resembled to Martyn’s. 

Scar shook his head, not sure why that was important, placing the crutches on each side and grasping them. “We’ll just put a fence around it.”

Grian choked and laughed. “No no no, you don’t understand.”

Thus began their journey to the desert. A very long one at that. It took them two days to reach one end of the desert. Grian proved his point as they walked on the sand, dodging zombies, creepers, and skeletons. Scar was made aware of the existence of spiders thanks to that journey. He did not like them one bit. 

Grian gave him a “see? ” look, gesturing his hand across the desert, and Scar shrugged. 

“We could just mine it all,” he said, trying very hard to sound serious.

Grian gave him a bewildered look before laughing hysterically. 

“Mine it all?! ” Grian moved back to the forest. “You’re bonkers.”

No matter how hard Scar tried to convince him, Grian left him, going back to the village, leaving him alone. Scar may have called him a coward a few times and said he was missing the opportunity to gain a lot of resources from it. It didn’t really matter in the end, Scar was still doing it and Grian would just be the one paying. 

After admiring the absurdness that was a spider climbing up the transparent wall and creating a plan over how to make his business idea work (the desert was bigger than he first thought, so, he decided he could protect one side of it and the other side that was cut by a river could be the one where people come get their sand), he went back to the village. He really wanted that llama and Etho wouldn’t stop him. Maybe he should offer him something in exchange. Something like a chest ready for him filled with sand?

The closer he got to the village, the better he could hear voices. There were quite a few of them, laughter ringing all across it. He went towards the now burnt tree and saw Grian, Etho, Cleo, Tango, Impulse and Bdubs huddled over camp fires.

“So,” Etho’s voice was the first one he could hear clearly, “Grian, quite a few people know about them.”

As Grian laughed (was it out of nervousness, Scar wondered?), Scar leaned over him, his chin almost touching the top of that mop of curly dirty blond hair. Impulse was saying something but Bdubs sent him a raised eyebrow and interrupted him.

“Is Scar your jester?” he asked Grian.

Tango laughed when he realized where Scar was. “Or the enforcer, I’m not sure.”

“Did Scar follow me—?” Grian turned around and almost squawked when he saw Scar grinning at him.

“Well, hello there everyone!” he greeted. 

“Oh, he did.”

“Grian, you took off and I couldn’t find you.”

Scar made sure to pout and add a bit of hurt in his voice. At Grian’s grin though, Scar knew it didn’t announce anything good.

“I’ll tell you what Scar’s been up to,” Scar tried to place his hand over Grian’s mouth but his wings pushed him back. Scar really didn’t want to touch the avian’s wings, and he almost grumbled how they prevented him from executing his plan. “Scar’s been trying to convince me to take over the desert so that no one can have any sand.”

Deny it . “Noooo oh oh.”

“Not a bad idea,” someone chimed in.

“It’s not that bad,” Bdubs hushed everyone with his surprisingly calm voice. “And, honestly, we think you should pursue that.” A still silence, as if Bdubs was trying to find the correct words. “Th-there is something—”

“After,” Tango interrupted, but Bdubs ignored him.

“Something you’re currently protecting that we feel could be beneficial to everybody involved.”

“Uh-huh,” Grian said slowly, uncertainty in his voice, leaning to the side. Scar put his crutches in his inventory and placed his arms crossed on the back of the chair, leaning forward. Grian’s hair was itching his chin, but he ignored it.

“But, um,” Bdubs looked in front of him, where Etho was sitting, “Etho, take it away.”

Etho blinked at him and sent a nervous look to Grian—and thus, to Scar too. “Um, so, yeah, you know, we thought we could just take it,” he fiddled with his glove, “but that didn’t seem right, right? So we wanna—”

“Extend the olive branch,” Tango cut again.

“Yeah, you know, a gift.”

Scar groaned quietly, walking towards the chest that was resting against the dirt barrier. He didn’t have time to open it when Grian said:

“You want the villagers.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, the originals from grandma,” Etho laughed nervously, followed by everyone’s snickers.

Scar turned around, mocked shock on his face.

“You held out on the villagers on me, Grian?” He pouted. “And I thought we were making plans to steal the desert.”

Of course, Scar knew Grian was never going to join him in his business adventure, but still, two heads were better than one. And it was fun messing with Grian.

Grian gave him a baffled look. “You were making plans to steal the desert.”

Scar scoffed. “I was bamboozled!”

“D’you know what, d’you know what,” people huddled closer to Grian, “when we arrived at the desert, I was like ‘there’s no way we’re gonna protect it all’ and you know what he said?” Bdubs shook his head vigorously, Impulse quirked his eyebrow, Etho hummed in intrigue, Tango took a step back and Cleo looked at their nails, somewhat bored. “‘What if we just mined it all?’”

Everyone burst out of laughter in surprise. 

“Yeah.”

“This doesn’t seem like a good idea anymore.”

“Well,” Impulse said once everybody calmed down, “we didn’t come empty-handed, we do wanna trade for the villagers. We actually have an offer.”

Tango nodded. “We pulled our effort, our sweat, our,” Tango hesitated, “our muscles and put together this,” he pointed vaguely at the chest.

Everyone agreed and moved towards the dirt barrier. A few negotiations were needed here and there, but eventually, Grian agreed and everyone cheered. Scar wondered how they were gonna share the resources coming from the villagers, after all, they did say it was for everyone. With him living in the desert and knowing it was a two-day trip, he had the feeling he would be traveling a lot more than anticipated. This was why he wanted a business partner.

Eventually, Tango, Impulse and Etho got to work while the rest just hanged out close to the border. 

“What other ideas did you have?” Bdubs asked him after a while. 

Scar hummed. “Well, there was pillage the village, we did that.” He slightly rocked back and forth with his crutches as he thought. “Take the sand lands and take the sand for ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Bdubs encouraged.

Before Scar could respond, the classic hissing noise of a creeper hit their ears, everyone scattering away. When Scar spotted Martyn and heard his laughter, he groaned.

“Oh no, not again!!! ”

Grian just joined him while still looking like he lost 10 years of his life. 

“A-ha! Gotcha good.”

“Ugh, that was obscenely loud,” Grian complained through his laughter. 

Scar sighed. “We were having a secret meeting of world domination, and now it’s all ruined.”

“Yeah, thanks Martyn,” Bdubs rolled his eyes, groaning.

Martyn looked around him. “Is there a reason why everyone is in this one corner of the world?”

“Etho and Tango said they claimed the village first,” Cleo explained. “We’re here for the fun of it.”

“And villagers,” Grian added.

“Oh, I see. BigB and I just started here and y’all just come in like, squattered in it.”

Scar found it was a particular way to say “grouped in ”.

“By the way, good people of the world,” Martyn gained everyone’s attention, including the others that were occupied with the villagers, “I’ve come to spread the word of a new business that’s propped up.”

“Oh,” some people awed in interest. Scar simply hummed, intrigued in crushing any competitor. 

“Just,” Martyn checked his communicator, “due north of here, actually, is the fabulous business known as Renchanting. Tag line—”

“Renchanting?” Etho wondered out loud.

“—Don’t be a dog, be a God.”

People were talking over each other, Bdubs noting how Martyn’s iron armor was glowing with a purple effect instead of pink like Grian’s, and how Etho was mentioning something, but before Scar could comprehend, Martyn yelled:

“Oh, that one’s real!”

In the few days Scar’s been in this world, he’d had zombie bites, the arrows of skeletons, and the sting of the phantoms. This was new.

He first heard the explosion before feeling it. It tore his back apart, almost like his flesh was being ripped off like a zombie bite, but spread out unevenly. His armor dug in him, sharp metallic corner piercing his body. An excruciating pain, almost like the headaches he would get when reading, grew on the back of his head, feeling the trails of blood on his shoulders and his now naked chest.

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#gotta love when friends are just having fun #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #third life #3rd life smp #grian #grianmc #zombiecleo #trafficblr #bdubs #bdoubleo #impulsesv #martyn #martyn inthelittlewood #ethoslab #tangotek #tw: graphic description of injury #tw: character death #traffic series #bloop's attention seeking strategy

[pyrocephalus-rubinus]

Drop by drop

There was this very specific dance that schools at Oldtown tried to convince kids to do each Dome anniversary. Nevermind that our dome was barely holding on. Nevermind that most kids never listened to teachers, more interested in the beer that was waiting for them after classes. Ben taught it to me once though. I lost a stupid bet that I can’t remember and that’s how I ended up trying to learn the steps to the laughter of the other kids in the dancing class. Clap. Step. Drag one leg. Turn. Clap. Step. Drag one leg. Turn.

Weird how the body remembers this stuff.

Right now I’m trying not to clap, as I drag my left trying to keep up with Nureyev’s pace. His right arm is clasped around me, holding me up. 

“Now turn,” says Nureyev, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. 

I’m trying not to laugh. Clap. Step. Drag one leg. Turn.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll try”.

We somehow make it through the aisle and find an empty room. Nureyev starts piling every piece of furniture in the room against the door as soon as we are inside. I slide my back down one wall and collapse on the floor. 

Never been a fan of blood. Or of a lot of blood. So I avoid looking at the slaughter-fest of my right leg. I stare at Nureyev instead, still frantically pushing chairs against the door. He has a far away look in his eyes, and his fingers keep trembling. When he runs out of chairs, he turns to look at me.

And he looks… angry. Angrier than he was ten minutes ago. I can still hear his words echoing in the building. 

Keep reading in AO3:

#whumptober2023 #no.6 #it should have been me #tpp #tpp junoverse #fic #graphic description of injury #leg injury #blood #blood tw #jupeter whump #jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #my first whump fic! #of course I was gonna torture these two come on

[destinyclan]

Before Moon 0 (7/8)

This was far from how Grousestar expected this night to go. And it was seriously messing with her mind.

Though a little anxious at first, at the prospect that nobody would be joining her and Tempesthaze, to which Tempesthaze kindly reassured her that she would remain by her side nonetheless, her fears were soon disproven. Sunnyfeather had decided to take Aphidkit along with her to the journey. "You found him after all, it's really only fair. And this way, you won't have to worry much about how he'll survive back in the clan." she had said. A little while later, two feisty apprentices showed up, Cranepaw and Tempestpaw respectively, begging to join the new clan. Grousestar hesitated, but felt herself obliging, since she felt she wasn't really in any position to turn any cat down, a fact that would prove itself later again, when the two warriors who arrived later, introducing themselves as Bouncerise and Oriolespeckle, seemed pretty displeased with the last cat to join thus far, a she-cat named Shortgrass.

But despite this, things went well. Grousestar caught the first piece of fresh kill in moons that had more than skin on it's ribs. Eating it felt like eating a piece of prey from StarClan. She saw the sun shine at sundown in a way that she hadn't seen in a long, long time. Truly, she felt like this was right.

Later in the night, the cats were arguing about rest. Tempestpaw wanted to continue, but Tempesthaze reminded her to mind the other members of the group, Sunnyfeather and the kit in particular. Just as Grousestar decided to call it a night and make a shelter, a faint bloody scent reached her nose, far too intense to be anything old. The others seemed to have caught it too, as Tempesthaze pretty instinctively ran towards it to investigate. Grousestar's stomach turned at the sight of another cat's leg, injured and ridden with an infection, but Tempesthaze did not hesitate for a moment, immediately crawling underneath the bush that that cat had seemingly made it's nest. Grousestar followed.

The cat's chest moved, but she was breathing shallowly. Painstakingly lifting her head at the new arrivals, she used her frail voice to plead.

"Please... save her..." Grousestar tilted her head, a little confused, before the she-cat moved her tail to reveal a tiny kitten, barely a moon old, clinging to her mother's belly. Meanwhile, Tempesthaze had already made a move to order the rest of the group. "You two, go get cobwebs! And marigold, if you know what it looks like!" She commanded Bouncerise and Oriolespeckle, who immediately got going. To the apprentices, she said "Go fetch moss and get it wet, so she has something to drink!" and lastly, once the apprentices were on their way too, she turned to Shortgrass. "I'll go look for marigold and nettles, you come with me if you know what they look like. If you don't, help guard the cat and Sunnyfeather with Grousestar." Not awaiting a response from Shortgrass, she immediately went on her way. The aching queen uttered inaudible words, not long before she would sigh, in pain but too exhausted to scream. It wouldn't be too long before everyone returned, the apprentices first who were quickly ushered under the bush by Grousestar, who was speaking reassuring words to the wimpering cat.

"Don't worry, we'll help you! Have this..." She used the wet moss to drip water into the dry mouth of the cat. She heard a very faint "Thank you" from here, before she began crying out in pain again. Tempesthaze, Bouncerise and Oriolespeckle returned aswell, and Tempesthaze began her treatment, desparately working against what she knew were impossible odds. How long had she been living like this, the medicine cat wondered, taking note of how far the infection had spread. Did she have enough time to save her? "Keep her awake! She can't fall asleep! You two, bring the kitten to Sunnyfeather!" The queen let out a heartbreaking noise as her kitten has gently taken away from her flank, but Grousestar rested her nose upon her head. "Don't worry. We will save her, like you said." It seemed to have worked, but now the queen was getting quieter again.

"What's you name?" Grousestar asked, in a bid to keep her awake. "Muddy..." the she-cat whispered, and Cranepaw parroted the bizarre name back to her. "I was a kittypet..." Her heavy gaze fixated on something hidden between the bushes' leaves: a thick, red vine, the kind that kittypets wore around ther neck. "My twolegs had a dog... usually he was harmless but then he..." She began weeping, as she assumably recalled the events of her injury. Grousestar buried her nose deeper into her fur. A clan cat like her was already well aware of the kind of things dogs were capable of. She could only imagine how a kittypet, with no fighting experience, fared in that situation. "I didn't think about it... I just... ran."

Muddy's breathing slowed down, her eyes got even wetter than before. "... I just wanted to be happy... and have my kits..." she cried, her voice getting quieter and quieter. At last, she gazed up into Grousestar's eyes, who felt extremely haunted by the gaze she met. The queen was about to die, and they were all helpless to watch.

"... Will you protect her?"

"Yes! I promise we will. She will be safe with us."

A final breath. A hint of relief and happines, before her eyes went completely blank. Empty.

Tempesthaze growled out in sadness, and frustration a moment later. She looked at the dead cat, the cast of herbs she had applied hoping it would help as a last ditch effort. He brought her nose down to her pelt for a moment, before leaving the bush to check up on Sunnyfeather. Grousestar remained for a little longer, looking at the queen, as well as the two apprentices who were still holding onto the wet moss, horrified at what they had just seen. Then she left too.

Sunnyfeather had accustomed the kitten to her in the meantime. Oriolespeckle had fetched some more moss to temporarily nest in, and for the kitten to stay warm. She was feeding well, seemingly without issue. Having left the bush a few leaps behind them, the group gathered around Sunnyfeather, looking down at this tiny being.

They were all silent, some looking away, some at each other, sadness in their eyes, uncertainty, but also hope. Some only having eyes for the kitten, who looked exactly like her now deceased mother. Mobody dared saying a thing, not about what had just happened, or this kitten. That was, until one of the apprentices leaned in closer. Cranepaw, too, seemed to have noticed the resemblance, as she carefully brought her nose closer to the kitten and cautiously spoke her mind. "Mudkit..." she whispered, before looking up at Sunnyfeather with big eyes. She closed hers, as she replied. "Yes, that sounds lovely..."

#destinyclan #clangen #before moon 0 #prologue #bm0 part 7 #infection #blood #injury #wounds #<- graphic #animal death #<- descriptive