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#stitches and scars
gawki · 21 days
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Euphoria
~When you turn to the side and see your new chest for the first time~
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wasyago · 1 month
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squeaky_toy_sound_effect.mp4
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twentytwoarts · 5 months
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am i too late
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hal1uzinogene · 1 month
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🩸 IG: ariiajpg 🩸
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dandelion-roots · 3 months
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[ID: a digital drawing of chuuya and dazai from bungou stray dogs. in the main image, dazai is sitting on a metal counter in a nurse's office, his arms behind him to support him and knees spread so that chuuya can clean his wounds. he has bandages and scars on his arms and bare torso and is wearing white pants and white shoes. with a bored expression he says, hurry up. chuuya, who's opening a green bottle and is standing in front of the counter, shouts, wait a fucking minute, asshole, i'm not your damn nurse! in a smaller follow-up panel dazai shouts, you shot me! and chuuya is looking away while sweating and shouting back, you were being a shit. end ID]
the price of engaging in homoeroticism via shooting you 'old friend' THREE FUCKING TIMES more than necessary is, um... *checks notes* having to patch him up five minutes later whilst staring at his bare chest and then having to set his leg, thus literally putting him back on his feet to do his dramatic victory reveal??? this can't be right who wrote this
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sergle · 5 months
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scar therapy you son of a bitch idiot! and with silicone tape no less. you wish! you fucking wish you were me!
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uglynetwork · 3 months
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i'm still coping™ by fooling myself that genloss Ranboo could live. anyway you should all vote for generation loss as the best streamed series in the streamer awards :}
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forbiddentaako · 5 days
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the (after) life of the party
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Anatomy of Alastors demonic forms
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WHUMPTOBER 2022 - DAY 30 - Note to Self: Don’t Get Kidnapped
The Vigilante Trio were doing their business and they take their eyes of Diluc for ONE minute and suddenly he’s missing. Skip to two hours later and its already too late for their brother/friend to come out of his ordeal unscathed. Dottore knows how to work quick when he wants to.
-NO ROMANCE INCLUDED-
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leo-fie · 5 months
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Made some loyalist Space Marine cross stitch patterns. Many of them are untested, I can't guarantee they work. But the idea was for them to fit into an 8cm hoop with 18ct aida.
There isn't enough grimdark crafting!
Space Wolves, Dark Angels, Salamanders, Iron Hands, Ultramarines, White Scars, Blood Angels, Raven Guard, Imperial Fists
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krembruleed · 6 months
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KARLACH - THE SUN
Joy • Vitality • Excessive Enthusiasm
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how-much-for-a-whump · 2 months
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Gaddar 3. Bölüm
Prompt: "Stabbed in the back"
source
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dumpstergxrl · 6 months
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Scars
Sawtober day 2
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minervadashwood · 1 year
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Daryl Dixon x gn!Reader (plus size) - Soulmate AU
Careful
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Summary: You have a soulmate you've never met. When their injuries stop appearing on your body, you worry that they're dead. As the apocalypse starts, you're convinced of it. How very wrong you are.
Note: This story is a one-shot AU of the Scars and Stitches (Tumblr | AO3)  universe. I think it can be read as a standalone, but if you want to read the whole series first, go right ahead. There is one specific event referenced in the chapter "Safe" (Tumblr | AO3). You can check that single chapter if you’re curious. Huge thanks to @livingdeadblondequeen for giving me this idea of soulmates who experience each others’ injuries and pain.  This story contains: angst, scars, blood, a secretive Daryl Dixon, and a happy ending. Word count: 3.3K
Masterlist | Taglist
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The first scar happened when you were only four. One day, you were playing outside, just after a summer storm, making mud pies with your little brother. There, up to your wrists in wet, squelchy mud, sudden scrapes appeared on your hands, your knees, and your left cheek. Your brother screamed for your mother, and he started weeping uncontrollably. “Y/N’s dying!” he said, over and over. But you weren’t. Each of your scrapes, including the slashing wound on your forehead that bled profusely, were treated at the kitchen sink. You bawled through it all, but back then your mother was gentle. She soothed you with kind words, a soft touch, and endless patience.
More injuries came after that. Your nose was broken in the third grade, your wrist in the fourth. Not a month went by when you didn’t get bruised or banged up. Your mom went back to work, taking the nightshift with your dad at the local coal refinery. You were racking up doctor’s bills right and left, and the insurance was better with both of them working.
When you were twelve, your mom sat you down one Friday night--morning for her--and told you about the birds and the bees, including soulmates. She explained that the reason you got hurt so much was because out in the world somewhere, your soulmate was getting hurt, too. You cried, worrying about the person who was injured so often.
After that, your own troubles started. Your parents took up drinking, and your cozy little trailer became a nightmarish prison. The first time your mother slapped you, you sent a silent apology to your soulmate. They’d been hurt so much already, and here you were making it worse.
At fourteen, a fight with your mother, who wielded a broken lamp, left you bleeding from a gash in your oblique. Your younger brother got in the family car, barely able to see over the steering wheel, and drove you to the doctor’s office to get you patched up. You had a jagged scar from that, and so must your soulmate. Every night you prayed to that distant person, telling them that you loved them and that you were sorry. Not for anything specific, but just because both your lives seemed to be filled with pain.
But the worst scars came when you were fifteen. You were in English class--your favorite--when your back erupted into a sharp, bruising pain that made every other injury feel like tiny scratch.  You wailed, right in the middle of class, falling out of your desk chair and writhing face down on the floor. You jerked as more and more pain hit you, the force of it shaking you right to your bones. Then the bleeding started. Huge cuts formed under your shirt, soaking the garment in seconds. Your teacher ordered all the students out of the room, and she called the nurse on the intercom. You were in a fog of pain and tears, and soon too weak for even that. You woke up in the hospital, laying facedown on a gurney, your little brother at your side.
More came later, bruises on your face from what you eventually realized were fistfights, once a sprained ankle. Another broken nose. Then a third. But as you grew up, left home, and got your library degree on a state scholarship, the hurts came less and less.
You half wondered, through most of your twenties, if your mate hadn’t simply died from all their hard living. But deep down, you still felt a connection to them. Whether that was false hope or something else, you weren’t sure. 
Now, you are somewhere in Georgia, staring down miles of abandoned cars. Your arm is in a sling because one of your companions put you in a wrist lock two nights ago. You have two friends here. A stressed out cop and a surly redneck. The latter keeps a close eye on you. He knows about your scars and about your mate, whom you are certain is dead.
After Shane hurt you, somehow Daryl found you. Tipsy from the liquor he’d been drinking, he took one look at you and demanded an explanation. After you showed him your arm, he wrapped it with an elastic bandage and fashioned you a sling from a pillowcase.  The whole time, you sat there and cried your eyes out. You went on and on about your lost soulmate, all the pain they’d been through--all the pain you’d been through. Daryl listened, silently, his expression sometimes tense and sometimes soft. He is a man of few words, to say the least.
(You never noticed that since that night he started favoring his left arm, and that he usually sleeveless hunter took to wearing long-sleeve flannel.)
Daryl catches your attention as the group begins to split up to search the nearby cars. “‘M goin’ up ahead to get some gas wi’ T-Dog.”
“Okay,” you say. “I guess I’ll look for clothes and medicine. Maybe find something that will actually fit me.”
“Will ya try ta stay close ta the RV?”
You nod with a half smile. “Don’t worry about me, I’m one handed at the moment, and not looking to be a hero.” Daryl leaves you with a nod, and you watch him walk away from you; his broad shoulders seem large enough to carry the weight of the world. Maybe they do.
Rick approaches you a few minutes later, convinced that Daryl is the one who hurt you. You fall back on the lies you and your brother would spin after your parents had too much to drink. Lori demanded your silence, and you want to keep your promise.
“It didn’t happen to me,” you explain, “I have a soulmate. I thought they were dead, but hey, guess what? Miracles do happen.” The end of the world apparently has made you snarky. You give Rick the short version--not the weeping monologue Daryl suffered through.
“Maybe you’ll find them,” Rick says, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly.
Getting back to your task, you somehow find a suitcase with plus size clothing. Most of it is in floral prints or with obnoxiously bedazzled phrases like “hot stuff” and “super cute” spread across the front. The other options include garish Hawaiian prints and stretched out polos. You aren’t picky. If something might fit, you grab it. 
You have a good-sized bundle when Daryl suddenly grabs you and pulls you to the ground. In doing so, he has saved your life, again. Under a jeep, you huddle with him, holding your breath as he glances around and grips a long knife in his hand. The walkers pass you by, miraculously, and Daryl helps you to your feet. Just as he did after the CDC exploded, he holds you close, his arms wrap tightly around your thick middle as he whispers in your ear.
“Ya did real good. It’s gonna be alrigh’.”  A moment passes before he loosens his arms and lets you go.
You wonder what he must think of you. Some helpless person who cried and moaned over a bruised wrist. Someone who needs constant looking after because they can’t protect themselves in this world.
Not all of your group fared as well as you and Daryl. In fact, he has disappeared into the forest. You sit with T-Dog, stitching up his arm and digging through long-lost Merle’s stash for antibiotics.
Later, as if you’re some child to be handled, Daryl demands that Glenn take you to the farm, ostensibly to take care of T-Dog. But you know better. You’re in the way and virtually helpless. Daryl doesn’t want you underfoot while he continues the search for Sophia.  You can’t blame him.
At the farm, your scant first aid knowledge isn’t much good when there’s an actual physician around. You are partially relieved. Carl has much better chances without you getting in the way.
Carol, practically a walking zombie--no, not that kind--only frets and cries. Normally, Lori would comfort her, but Lori has her own troubles.  You help organize the camp, before it gets too dark, pitching tents and making up beds for Daryl, Shane, and Carol.  After, you sit with Carol, and she tells you stories of Sophia, some that break your heart and some that make you smile. Her tirades against Rick bubble up in between the tales. You let her talk; it’s not like Rick’s around to hear, anyway.
Night has fallen long before you hear the now-familiar sound of Daryl’s motorcycle. He talks with Carol, and the woman cries and pounds her fists against his chest. The sight affects you so much that you feel pressure on your heart, the repetitive pulsing almost making your ribs ache. You watch as she cries herself out, and Daryl’s head hangs low. Unable to bear the sight, you leave to  get some food and water for him. 
Carol escapes into her tent, and as she leaves, you bring the food to Daryl. You sit next to him while he eats in silence.
You want to hug him again, like you did in his truck, like you did on the highway, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.
“Thanks fer the grub,” he mumbles, standing up.
“Sure, no problem. Did you get enough to eat? Drink?”
He nods, biting his thumbnail and looking at the ground.
You know he’s exhausted, but there is something boyish and lost in the way he stands and the drooping of his shoulders.  All at once, he reminds you of home, of family. Indeed, a wave of familiarity overtakes you, as if you have known Daryl all your life.
Ignoring the voices of your better angels, you reach up and gently draw his hand from his mouth to hold it in yours.
He lets out a long sigh and runs his thumb over your knuckles. “We got someone keepin’ watch?”
You stare at your joined hands in the moonlight, at Daryl’s thick, calloused thumb moving over your skin. His touch grounds you, somehow. Nothing is okay right now, but with Daryl next to you, this chaos feels almost bearable.
“Dale on the RV, T-Dog in the camp,” you answer. “We set up a tent for you. You need some rest.”
He nods.
Still holding his hand, you lead him to a small copse of trees, where his tent sits, apart from the others. You know that Daryl likes his privacy.  
On the way, you tell him about Carl, about Otis and Shane heading out in the morning. You tell him about Hershel, too, warning Daryl that the man is protective and opinionated. You finish just as you reach his tent, and you reluctantly let go of Daryl’s hand.
(You don’t notice how he clenches and unclenches his fist, or how he puts his other hand on that wrist, trying to dull the pain there.)
“Ya got a place to get some shut-eye?” he asks, his voice raspy and soft.
“With Carol. Don’t want to leave her alone overnight.”
He grunts, giving you a small nod. Resisting every urge to hug him, you turn and walk back to Carol’s tent. Sleep comes fast, but Carol’s cries wake you up in the night, over and over. Each time you try to  comfort her until eventually she falls asleep again.
The next day, in the late afternoon, the heat has taken its toll on you, so you find respite in a shaded part of camp, drinking from a bottle of water. The grass, soft and tempting, practically invites you to take a nap. Even without Daryl or Rick close by, you are relatively safe, so you give in.
When you wake up, Dale’s face is directly above yours. His hat askew, his brow covered in droplets of sweat, Dale’s mouth is moving, but you blink in and out of consciousness. Another concussion, you think, that would make three, now.
Forcing yourself to focus, to stay alert, you try to sit up, but Dale holds you down, his lips moving even faster now. A shadow moves above. It’s T-Dog with bandages and a bottle of tequila. His voice becomes a muffled sound, then all at once, you hear Dale saying your name, over and over, telling you to stay still. T-Dog shouts for Andrea, but she is nowhere to be seen.
“Wha--”
“Save your strength,” Dale tells you. “We’re just trying to stop the bleeding before we get you inside.”
The throbbing in your head gives way to a white-hot burning in your belly. You hurt from the inside out, as if something has clawed its way through you and left agony in its wake.
A soft touch wipes a cloth across your brow. The blood on it catches your eye. The throbbing in your head must be bleeding.
“Was it a bullet?” Carol’s voice asks. She cradles your head on her  lap. “They must have fallen and hit their head, too.”
“Can’t be. We would’ve heard somethin’,” T-Dog replies.
Aches, bruising and intense, bloom all over you, like smatterings of hammer blows on your joints, torso, and legs. A whimper passes your lips, but the others don’t seem to notice these fresh bumps. You start praying, like you did all those years ago, telling your soulmate that you love them, to be strong, to get themselves to safety.
Consciousness comes and goes, at one point your shoulders are caught in a bruising grip, but no one is actually touching you there. Quickly, after that, new agony rips through your open wound, making you scream and moan on the ground. 
Dale’s hands are shaky, you feel the trembling at your wound. All at once the three of them turn you on your side. You can’t help the piercing scream that erupts from your mouth. 
“Whatever it was, there’s an exit wound,” Dale says. “Didn’t see that at first.”
A pair of hands press against your belly and another at your back.
The new pain has you on the verge of fainting until the disembodied voice of Andrea shouts, “WALKER!” 
“Shit!” T-Dog exclaims.
All of a sudden, he lifts you. The world whizzes by, a steak of green in your peripheral and a wisp of clouds overhead.
Something slices across your temple, a quick burst of pain that fades in the wake of your torso being shaken and jostled as you are carried across uneven ground.
You can’t keep your eyes open. The voices around you are silenced and your vision goes dark. Again.
*
“That’s two more rounds of antibiotics, Rick. Your people can’t seem to stop getting hurt.”
“I understand that, Hershel. A few of us will go out in the morning and look for what you need. For now, I need to know if they’re going to be alright.”
“They’ll need some time to recover, but, yes, they’ll be fine. Eventually. Now, I need to check on my own family.”
You hear a door slam shut, and force open your eyes. “Rick?”
The room is dark except for the light from a lantern near the table. In a chair next to you sits the deputy.
“You gave us quite the scare today,” he tells you.
“What happened?” You try sitting up, but think better of it when you realize you are shirtless under the covers. You have more scars than words to explain them.
“Daryl was tracking Sophia, fell off his horse, and down a ravine.”
You clutch the covers to your chest. “Is he okay? How bad is it?” You tremble in the bed, sick with worry.
Rick smiles and says,, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
You turn to see Daryl laying next to you, his head wrapped in gauze. Distantly a door opens and closes: Rick making a quick exit.
Daryl’s eyes are watery as he speaks. “Didn’ ‘spect ya ta find out like this.”
He takes your hand and places it on your forehead. Instead of hair, your fingertips trace over gauze. You realize it's wrapped around your forehead, just like it is his.
Your heartbeat pounds in your chest, sounding in your ears like the hastened beat of a bass drum.
Next to you, Daryl slowly pulls the covers down to his waist. He has a tank top on, but it does not cover the bandage on his stomach. The white gauze has been placed on the same part of his belly that caused you incredible pain before you blacked out.
“All I thought ‘bout out there was gettin’ back to ya.  Jus’ thinkin’ of ya hurt as bad as me. I had to pull the arrow out to stop the bleedin’. I know it hurt like hell.” He lays on his side, but under the covers, his hand finds the soft flesh of your stomach and rests there. “‘M so sorry. Fer this, fer everythin’. If I knew before--” his voice cracks, but he keeps talking. “If I knew ya was ou’ ‘ere, gettin’ hurt ‘cause of me, I woulda been more careful all them years. I knew I didn’ deserve ya the moment ya told me all them times ya prayed to your soulmate, worried ‘bout him, ‘bout me.”
You take his hand and use it to pull him closer. His rough fingertips find their way to your upper back and hold you gently.
“I don’ deserve a soulmate, let alone someone like you,” he whispers.  “Look what I done to ya. All yer life you been hurtin’. ‘Cause of me.”
Tears fall from your eyes. You cup his face, stroking your thumb on the apple of his cheek. The scruff from his beard pricks your skin, but the discomfort is welcome. “You’re real and here. That’s all that matters to me. You weren’t the one to carve up my back or break my nose. The world did that, to both of us.”
You move closer to him and cradle his neck until your noses almost touch. “I’ve been dreaming of you all my life, Daryl, scars and all. Your life--our lives are told on our bodies. Every scar a story of the time before we met. I want to write a new one. Together.”
He stares at you in the orange lantern light, and a few tears fall down his cheeks. Heart in your throat, you stay silent, watching him watch you. You lose yourself in his eyes, the soft way he gazes at you, unblinking and searching.
“I wanna kiss ya,” he mumbles. “I jus’ want ya to feel somethin’ good from me, an’ not all this pain.”
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
Daryl’s hand snakes up your back until it cradles the base of your head. The world goes silent the moment his lips touch yours. The taste of him sets off fireworks in your soul, as if part of you was not truly alive until this moment. You kiss him back, all those years of praying and crying over him coalescing so that you can forge this new path, together.
Some time later, you break apart, lips wet and swollen from endless, slow kisses, kisses trying to make up for decades spent apart.
“Was tha’ alrigh’?” Daryl asks, biting his bottom lip.
You smile for what feels like the first time in your life. “Not sure. We better do it again. Just in case.”
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The end. Thank you for reading!
==Taglist==
@livingdeadblondequeen @phoenixblack89 @green-eyedladywrites @in-this-minute @takeabreathdeath @ravendixon @gypsytraveler86-blog @xojdmasf @daisy107 @angelrenee239 @sleepyamaya @no-tresspassing @carol @taintedxkisses @bl4ckt00thgr1n @glitch0o0 @micheleamidalajedi @lonelywolfheart @jad3djay @catholicraisin @harringtonstudios @brittney69 @littlelovebug98 @aureolinb
==
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basilpaste · 5 days
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〔You Dream of Giving Up.〕
(the following piece contains a brief depiction of drowning. please stay safe!)
post-canon osis thing because i got normal about it.
〔You dream about drowning.〕
〔You dream about everyone drowning. Of watching heads dip under water, of struggling bodies giving in. You dream about not being able to do anything, because the water is also filling your lungs. Of crying out in pain and making no sound, burning from the inside out even though you're freezing.〕
〔You dream of giving up.〕
〔You jerk awake, choking on your own spit.〕
〔No. No no no!〕
〔You've had this dream before.〕
〔Hah! Hahaha! You're back. You must be. If you had that dream again then you're sure you're back. The sound of splashing water roars in your ears.〕
〔You feel like you can't breathe. You gasp for air but you can't get enough in. No! No. C'mon, Isabeau! You'll just go back again if you can't calm down! And that'll just make everything worse.〕
〔You just. You need to breathe.〕
〔Just breathe.〕
*〔In…〕
〔… and out.〕*
"Shhhhhhhh."
〔!!!〕
〔Your breath hissed when you breathed out.〕
〔You jam your lips together with force, sliding them roughly against each other.〕
〔Scar.〕
〔Your scar is right there on your face. You still have a scar. It's still there.〕
〔Just to make sure, you glide your tongue along your top lip. You feel the way it lifts.〕
〔The scar is there. And you are here.〕
〔You're free, Isabeau.〕
〔You've been cut loose. Patched up.〕
〔You're something new.〕
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