#Broken humerus

[pepsinister]

tw: broken frontal bone tw: broken left parietal bone tw: broken right parietal bone tw: broken left temporal bone tw: broken right temporal bone tw: broken occipital bone tw: broken sphenoid bone tw: broken ethmoid bone tw: broken mandible tw: broken left maxilla tw: broken right maxilla tw: broken left palantine bone tw: broken right palantine bone tw: broken left zygomatic bone tw: broken right zygomatic bone tw: broken left nasal bone tw: broken right nasal bone tw: broken left lacrimal bone tw: broken right lacrimal bone tw: broken vomer tw: broken left nasal conchae tw: broken right nasal conchae tw: broken left malleus tw: broken right malleus tw: broken left incus tw: broken right incus tw: broken left stapes tw: broken right stapes tw: broken hyoid tw: broken left scapula tw: broken right scapula tw: broken left clavicle tw: broken right clavicle tw: broken sternum tw: broken left rib 1 tw: broken left rib 2 tw: broken left rib 3 tw: broken left rib 4 tw: broken left rib 5 tw: broken left rib 6 tw: broken left rib 7 tw: broken left rib 8 tw: broken left rib 9 tw: broken left rib 10 tw: broken left rib 11 tw: broken left rib 12 tw: broken right rib 1 tw: broken right rib 2 tw: broken right rib 3 tw: broken right rib 4

tw: broken right rib 5 tw: broken right rib 6 tw: broken right rib 7 tw: broken right rib 8 tw: broken right rib 9 tw: broken right rib 10 tw: broken right rib 11 tw: broken right rib 12 tw: broken cervical vertebra 1 tw: broken cervical vertebra 2 tw: broken cervical vertebra 3 tw: broken cervical vertebra 4 tw: broken cervical vertebra 5 tw: broken cervical vertebra 6 tw: broken cervical vertebra 7 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 1 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 2 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 3 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 4 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 5 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 6 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 7 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 8 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 9 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 10 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 11 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 12 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 1 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 2 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 3 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 4 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 5 tw: broken sacrum tw: broken coccyx tw: broken left humerus tw: broken right humerus tw: broken left radius tw: broken right radius tw: broken left ulna tw: broken right ulna tw: broken left scaphoid bone tw: broken right scaphoid bone tw: broken left lunate bone tw: broken right lunate bone tw: broken left triquetral bone tw: broken right triquetral bone tw: broken left pisiform bone

tw: broken right pisiform bone tw: broken left trapezium tw: broken right trapezium tw: broken left trapezoid bone tw: broken right trapezoid bone tw: broken left capitate bone tw: broken right capitate bone tw: broken left hamate bone tw: broken right hamate bone tw: broken left metacarpal 1 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 2 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 3 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 4 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 5 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 1 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 2 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 3 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 4 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 5 bone tw: broken left proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 5 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 1 tw: broken left distal phalanx 2 tw: broken left distal phalanx 3 tw: broken left distal phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 5 tw: broken right distal phalanx 1 tw: broken right distal phalanx 2 tw: broken right distal phalanx 3 tw: broken right distal phalanx 4 tw: broken right distal phalanx 5 tw: broken left innominate bone tw: broken right innominate bone tw: broken left femur tw: broken right femur

tw: broken left patella tw: broken right patella tw: broken left tibia tw: broken right tibia tw: broken left fibula tw: broken right fibula tw: broken left calcaneus tw: broken right calcaneus tw: broken left talus tw: broken right talus tw: broken left navicular bone tw: broken right navicular bone tw: broken left medial cuneiform bone tw: broken right medial cuneiform bone tw: broken left intermediate cuneiform bone tw: broken right intermediate cuneiform bone tw: broken left lateral cuneiform bone tw: broken right lateral cuneiform bone tw: broken left cuboid bone tw: broken right cuboid bone tw: broken left metatarsal 1 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 2 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 3 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 4 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 5 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 1 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 2 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 3 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 4 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 5 bone tw: broken left proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 1 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 1 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 1 tw: broken left distal phalanx 2 tw: broken left distal phalanx 3 tw: broken left distal phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 5 tw: broken right distal phalanx 1 tw: broken right distal phalanx 2 tw: broken right distal phalanx 3 tw: broken right distal phalanx 4 tw: broken right distal phalanx 5

tw: bruising

just had a bad accident

#this would be funnier if tumblr didn't make me break it up into paragraphs

[wombywoo]

Hello!!

I wanted to ask if you would be willing to share how you go about finding the references for the injuries you depict in your work? Your pieces where the CoD boys are sporting injuries, fresh and old, are always so lifelike and to my untrained eye seem entirely medically correct.

I have been trying my hand at drawing the boys retired and resting as well, but I’m finding it difficult to decide what work injuries to add and how to find the respective references.

How do you decide what injuries to portray? And how do you go about finding the reference material?

Your huge fan, amustikas

Oooh ok ok! I'm gonna post my answer publically because I think others would find this interesting too!

To preface, I am definitely NOT a medical professional, and as such, a lot of the stuff I choose to depict in my art is not so much..ah, medically accurate as it is....aesthetically pleasing 🤭

I'll start with scars, as a lot of us enjoy slashing up Simon's face with them, lol. Generally, I'll do a cursory google image search for the type of scar I'm looking for (be warned, these can be graphic) with searches like 'burn scar' 'surgery scar' etc. But I find that for things like cuts and lacerations, real-life scars are a bit innocuous and lame 🤷‍♀️ Unfortunately not everyone's skin wants to retain that perfect slash look™️😔

So what I usually end up referencing are costume prosthetic scars ✨

As you can see, they're pretty gnarly:

And you definitely don't have to go this intense, but I find that the dramatic, carved-like appearance of these translate better to art than a realistically healed wound 🤙

The other thing to consider is the prevalence of injuries in the military. From what I've gathered, the most common will be back/shoulder/limb injuries, just a general fucking up of the whole musculoskeletal system in general due to constant overuse 🤕 Hearing loss, shrapnel/blast/burn injuries are also common, as well as all the negative psychological effects :') goooood times (not)

I think it's neat to look up real-life examples of these things, but it can get a bit intense if you're squeamish...

SafeSearch is OFF, the horrors are REal 😳

So yeah...I tend to tone things down, all things considered...😅

For this particular piece:

I researched broken humerus injuries and treatment 👍 Poor boy 🥺(Yes, I am aware that I consumed entire articles and did a shit ton of research about this just to go ahead and put a female's x-ray in this fucking picture sdfghjkl rip💀😭)

But here you can see the actual process for applying the brace for this particular injury:

Neat, eh?

When I draw Johnny with a knee brace, it's usually a real authentic one you can buy on amazon:

Product placement blast!!!💥✨ Bezos, where is my cut?? 🫰

As for ones like this:

I tend to just...scatter some wounds around and patch them up accordingly, lol. Bruising around the eyes is common with any head injury, and surgical stitching will offer a nice puckered skin effect mmm 👌 (I swear I'm normal abt this)

I'm sure the medical malpractice lawsuits are stacking up for me now, but again--it's usually more about the ✨visuals✨

My parting advice would be--go nuts! Feel free to maim and mutilate and mangle to your heart's content 🥰

Thank you for the question, Amustikas! I love your art as well 💗🫶

#asks #there's something...pleasing...about drawing wounds.... #no I will not be reflecting on this 😤 #tw injuries

[twinsfawn]

#hyperspecific poll #crucial julescore twinsfawn lore

[macgyvermedical]

I have a question.

I took a wilderness first aid course in college, and I remember that you can reduce one type of shoulder dislocation in the field, and one you absolutely cannot, but i can't for the life of me remember if it's an anterior or a posterior.

Can you tell me which is which? (at this point I wouldn't try to do it without getting recertified, but it's just frustrating to not remember).

It's anterior.

You can reduce anterior shoulder dislocations in the field because the way that it dislocates means it is less likely that other bones in the shoulder are broken. Meanwhile, with posterior dislocations, its a lot more likely that the clavicle or scapula or the humerus itself is fractured in a way that would make reducing the dislocation dangerous.

#whump reference #writing reference #dislocations

[fruitcoops]

Ok so this post is from a while ago but i just saw it and am wondering if you would want to write something based on it? Or just about trauma response in general?

Fic O'Ween Day 8: Shiver. Credit to @lumosinlove for the SW-verse and @noots-fic-fests for the header + prompts!

TW for trauma response to canon injury (Remus')--flashback, panic attack symptoms; and broken bone.

Call for stretcher on standby before moving out. Careful on the patch by the bench—always extra slippery. Check pulse and breath, then pupil constriction. Pen light in the shirt pocket. Players take a knee to make space. Use your body to block the camera in the right corner.

Remus knew what he was supposed to do. Of course he did. He just…couldn’t move.

“EMTs on standby!”

This was a strange feeling, not moving. It wasn’t even that—a choice. It was a complete and total absence. What was the opposite? Stillness? He didn’t feel still. He didn’t feel as if something had taken the place of motion. A gap had been scooped out of his belly, and nothing had come to fill it. It was simple emptiness where there had been adrenaline five seconds before.

“Lupin, catch up on Vance’s left!”

Had his ears always rung at that pitch? Funny. He hadn’t noticed.

“Lupin!”

Perhaps they had. Perhaps someone in the crowd had brought a whistle. There were an awful lot of people crowding the rink.

“Hey—” Weight and pressure collided with the back of his neck. Remus felt something in him go dim, powered off. “Kid, let’s fucking go! Are you asleep out here?”

James’ feet were flexing in his skates. Restriction of the tibialis anterior from the pain. Vastus medialis, following. His knee bent and bowed inward. If he kept the writhing up, there would be strain on the gastrocnemius and soleus. Remus blinked hard. James’ legs tended to ache after practice. The man got calf cramps like nobody he’d ever seen.

“Jesus Christ,” the hand on his neck muttered. It moved away. Pressure released.

“Rapid breathing, strain in the calf,” Remus blurted. His eye twitched. Blinking took incredible effort. “He’s going to try and stand up. Stop, James, stop it—”

Careful on the patch by the bench. He sidestepped without a second thought. In two strides, he was looking at James’ flushed and sweaty face. “Holy fuck, my fuckin’ arm, on fucking fire—”

“Pots.” His neck was burning up under Remus’ two fingers. Ten seconds, 25 thumps. “150 bpm,” Remus informed the nearest trainer. The pen light was ice-cold in his fingers. “James, give me a big deep breath.”

“Loops—”

“I’ll count to four while you breathe in, and then we’re gonna let it out for four.” His own voice reverberated back to him from a thousand miles away. Ice dampened the knees of his khakis. James gritted his teeth; his nostrils flared. “One, two, three, four. Good job. And four, three, two, one. Nice, buddy. Pupil activity normal, breathing unimpaired. You said it was your arm, right? Up or down?”

“All of it,” James panted. “All—fuck me, Loops, don’t talk to me right now—”

“Almost done, J. Wiggle your fingers.” A faint roaring had started up in the back of his mind. It crept into his eardrums and down his back. Something trickled down his spine and tiptoed through the marrow of each rib. James’ fingers twitched. “Great work. Alright, they’re going to slide you onto the stretcher now. Keep taking those big breaths for me.”

Black, Dumais, and Walker were all hovering in the corner of his eye like crimson-and-black bloodstains. They blurred together as the roaring grew louder. Remus staggered to his feet. His pen light wobbled in his fingers, and he shoved it clumsily into his back pocket. Black stepped forward, quiet as a ghost on his skates. “Is he okay?”

“Um—I don’t—” The left edge of his vision blurred into grey. “I don’t diagnose. Possible elbow dislocation. Or radial or ulnar break. Likely not the humerus.”

“But is he okay?” Black pressed. The stretcher was so yellow against the ice it hurt to look at.

Remus’ throat squeezed. “Yeah, he’ll be okay. Probably out for a couple games. ‘Scuse me.”

Christ on a crutch, he was going to throw up if he didn’t get out of here right fucking now.

Black wasn’t looking at him anymore. Walker was talking to James as they loaded him up and began rolling him off the ice. Dumais…

Dumais was staring at him dead-on. Remus swallowed hard, and saw him lean over to whisper at Moody.

Would he—could they fire him for this? He thought he did okay. Pulse, pupils, penlight, ice patch. Four for four. He had been slow getting off the bench, but that was an abnormality. Nothing they needed to be concerned about for the future. There wouldn’t be a repeat performance. There wouldn’t, there wouldn’t.

He couldn’t feel his knees.

Moody was walking toward him.

Remus just barely managed to stumble back onto solid ground in the wake of the stretcher before Moody caught up. Barely. The flex of his hands was starting to hurt. Sweat and chemicals and terror washed his nose with acid.

“Lupin?”

He could feel plasticky foam on his cheek. It itched. Stung.

“Hey, kid, you with me?”

In the distance, his mouth coughed out a mumble. Fingers snapped under his nose. He couldn’t bring himself to flinch. If he flinched, the hands on his body were going to wrench his life out through his shoulder.

“Walk with me.”

Pressure on his upper back. A lurch.

Pale wood door. Heavy lock. Cold handle. Man door hand hook car door. Jules thought that was the funniest ghost story in the whole world.

“Sit.”

It was less of a sit, more of a controlled fall, and the easiest thing Remus had done in the past half hour. Something heavy fell over his shoulders.

“Hand.”

Man door hand hook car door.

Rough hands took one of his own between them. His wrist was full of gel instead of bones. Cooling gel? Ice pack. James was going to need—“Ice packs. Pots needs ice packs.”

His palm was clammy when it pressed to the base of his own throat. “We’ll have some ready when the docs are done.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. “160 bpm.”

“Take some breaths.”

An inhale sounded gaspy in the underwater buzz of the rink. An exhale rushed out all at once. He felt a little push to the back of his hand, and his fingers curled over his collarbone. The heel of his palm was solid against his sternum. The hollow of his throat gave slightly under his thumb. “130 bpm.”

“Keep going.”

“My neck.”

Extensive damage. Rhomboid. Deltoid. Trapezius. All the way into the splenius, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the hit or the dislocation or being pinned. A seat of salt poured into his mouth. He could taste it, the inside of a glove and the chemicals they used to clean the locker room mats. His head throbbed, pounded, he couldn’t see.

“145 bpm.”

“What’s wrong with your neck?”

“Strain potential whiplash impact.” Words tripped over each other to explain with complexity the situation did not need.

The hand over his own vanished, leaving cool air. Fingertips pushed gently against the sides of his neck. “Keep breathing, Lupin.”

A thumb ran along the outside of his spine and the floor came into focus. Prodding, palpating. Gentle despite the rasp of calluses at his nape. Steady, not gripping. He could pull away if he wanted to.

“I don’t feel damage.” A push beneath his ear. “Just some tension. Rate?”

Remus exhaled. “110.”

“Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“You interns and your manners,” Moody muttered. A few blinks brought his face back, all scrutiny and scowls. Remus had learned not to take it personally. “Relax, Lupin. Hand stays there until you’re under a hundred, you hear me?”

“Mhm.”

He was so lucky. He was so lucky. They were so kind to him here. He would try to deserve it.

“I’m sorry.”

Moody stood and pumped some sanitizer into his palm. The sharp tang chased out the bitter chemicals lingering in Remus’ memory. He sat back in his rolling chair, half-watching the game on the corner TV while his glass eye remained focused just over Remus’ shoulder. “Why?”

“Froze up.”

Moody set his bad leg up on a footstool with a grunt. “Rate?”

“90.”

“Where’d you go out there?”

A locker room, two years and a thousand miles away. “College.”

“Bad hit?”

Remus took a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

Moody nodded. “Gonna be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t.”

“Tell me if it is.” On the screen, Kasey made a beautiful save. “You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m sorry.” Sweat was beginning to freeze on his skin; he shivered. He took his palm off his neck and tucked it under his thighs, but missed the pressure above his heart almost instantly. The light blanket over his back wasn’t much more than a thin comfort. “I just—I don’t know. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“You’re young. You learn.”

“James was down.”

“It was five seconds, Lupin.” Moody’s voice wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel, either. “You did your job. Now you know.”

The back of his throat prickled. He managed a nod.

“You know, Heather is a resource for all Lions staff.”

It’s not that simple, he wanted to say. But—it could be. Maybe. Not right now, when he was teetering on the tightrope between two worlds, but soon. He could do that for Moody and James and Arthur and maybe, just a little, for himself.

#remus lupin #alastor moody #james potter #sirius black #pascal dumais #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #angst with hopeful ending #hurt/ comfort #thomas walker #injury

[anitalianfrie]

some cyborg au i randomly wrote (tw: body horror) // 1,3k

After the crash, they have to cut the suit off his arm to access the fracture. Expert hands slice with scissors, quickly and careless, through the leathers while he's laying on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance. He refused to lay on it, in the beginning, but the paramedics insisted. Under his schorched suit, his arm is bloody and mangled, the humerus poking the skin, creating an ugly bulge, red and purple from blood. Exposed wires, broken and fused from the heat, come out from his busted forearm. His fingers are red, crushed, metal poking through the tendons of his wrist and his palm. Sparks are igniting at the level of his shoulder. The woman in front of him is barely quick enough to extinguish them.

In the hospital they tell him that, beside the immediate impact that completely busted the majority of his enhancements on his right side - the hand traction, the strengthner, even the support - the bone shattered through the wires and the metal sheets of his upper arm, causing an internal short circuit. The wires cought fire. His nervous system is for the majority, if not completely, damaged, and it will take time for it to recover, if to recover at all.

They present him with various options. He chooses the one that will allow him to race as soon as possible. It's a new technology, they tell him. Minimal hardware, almost all neurological. The creme de la creme of innovation. They are going to screw his bone back together with a metal plate and fuse some wires at it, made of a new metal, then inserting them in his nervous system. Impulses and wires are going to run through his arm, to activate the movements, and some reinforced plates are going to be placed on his upper arm and his forearm to assure stability. They are going to rewire his entire bike-control system, since it got destroyed in the crash, and substitute the older parts with new ones, more efficients.

It's still an experimental surgery, they say, but every other option includes too much hardware. Hardware that his body will need to get used to, before he will be able to control it perfectly, with the surgical precision he needs to ride. Before he'll able to be one with his bike again.

He accepts.

In Jerez, after free practice, he realizes he can't race. Something is wrong. The arm doesn't respond to his commands, keeps getting stuck. But that's not the problem. It wouldn't be the first time he raced with a malfuncioning arm.

The problem it's all the rest. Something must have broken somewhere else, because his whole body is twitchy. The fingers of his left hand keep glitching, like if there was a bug. The lights on his ribs keep flicking, advising him that something is wrong in his balance system. At one point, blood comes out of his right eye, the one he had to modify back in 2011.

It's too much. He retires from the race.

And then, one day, while he opens a window, his arms catches fire.

It's an interesting feeling, to have one's arm buring. To feel the flesh melting on your own bones. To smell your own fat burning.

He's rushed to the hospital by Alex while he screams in agony. His right hand is still twichy, his ribs keep flashing, blood keep coming out of his right eye. His arm is on fire.

The have to open him up, rewiring him completely once again. Apparently, something went wrong the first time: they don't know what, or why. The main hypothesis is that they got some detail of the wiring wrong, and since almost all his enhancement are neural-linked, it influenced them all. It would have probably had minimal effect on somebody with more mechanicals on. Somebody more old gen. Somebody like Valentino.

Then, while he opened the window, the bone shattered again, broke trough the wires and metal sheets again, and caused another short circuit. Only, this time it wasn't just a few sparks.

it doesn't get better. All the bugs his system was experiencing keep being there, and only get worse with time. They tell him it might be an imbalance of tecnology, his too new right arm interfering with the older softwares. They tell him it might be the materials used for the new wires. The truth is: they don't know.

In 2022, he realizes he can't race anymore like this. The sparks that keep igniting on his shoulder, the continous twitches, the blood that doesn't let him see. His jaw that keeps getting stuck.

He goes to a doctor, a new one, specialized in this kind of things. Sitting there, one on one with him in his study, white walls and rows and rows of books, he gets told that his right arm is no longer usable. That the tecnology that was implemented, almost all software and almost no hardware, wasn't feesable: it failed too much trials. It was dangerous. It fried the bones and the nerves. The small chances his arm had to recover its functionality are gone.

And not only: the material used for the hardware has an high percentage of rejection. At first, it gets immediately integrated in the body, allowing little to no refractory period, but soon after the majority of people start to have a reaction to it. They show him pictures of the inside of his arm. The bone is corroded, rotting along with the nerves and the muscles and the flash. His body, in an useless attempt of getting out what it percieves it shouldn't be there, has been trying to kill itself.

Of course, the doctors weren't aware of this downside, when they put it in him. It was a new tecnology, after all.

The doctor tells him, with a serious voice, both hands on the desk behind which he's seated, that the only option is amputation.

Marc looks down at his mangled arm, the muscles weak, reinforced with metal and wires to allow him to use it still, control lights blinking up and down for its whole lenght. The piece of metal they weren't able to get out, risking to compromise too much funcionality, that still goes through his wrist. His fingers, kept straight only by metal rods and small plates. It's been a couple of months since he's been able to move them fully. The wires getting out of his open forearm, where the bike control is supposed to be. They took it out when he stopped racing. It was too much of a risk to keep it there.

His arm. What's left of it. Rotten and dying.

He agrees to the surgery.

There's not much he can do about it anyway.

Three days later, fresh out of surgery, he looks at his new arm. It's not a marvel of tecnology: he insisted on having an older model, a mainly mechanical one, that couldn't interfere with his other systems. Even when they told him it wouldn't happen, that they would update all his softwares, he refused to change his mind. A new neurological path gets estabished, one apt to replace his nervous system. It has the same updates as the rest of him, the oldest ones he could get without risking major bugs.

The metal shines under the sterile lights, against the white sheets. he moves his fingers, and for the first time in God knows how long, they do exactly what he wants them to. They will need constant manteinance. System updates, eventual rewiring, oil in between the joints. That's the main problem of menichals: they need work. Old racers used to do it constatly, back then, up until the 2000s. But nobody ever had a whole limb replaced.

Marc looks at this new part of him, delicately sawn to his shoulder, wires white and red and blue inserted into his skin, connecting it to the rest of him, making him funcional again.

Marc looks at his new arm, and cries.

#motogp #cyborg au #marc marquez

[judgingskeletons]

Would you judge the bones on the covers of Gideon the Ninth? I honestly assumed you may have already, but searching your tumblr has shown me nothing (though, tumblr). Thanks!

Oooo I don't think I have judged Gideon the Ninth, might have intended to in the past but put it off cause of the chaos! I’m just going to judge the four more complete fellows, if I judged Every bone we’d be here for a While, especially as some of the floating bones I haven’t been able to identify...

Top left: slightly dislocated looking left shoulder, missing a ridge near the top of the left scapula, I can’t see much of the pelvis but what I can see doesn’t seem to make sense (could well be perspective plus fog though), otherwise good bone shapes 8/10

Lower left (above the ribcage in the corner):broken skull :( , actually looking at it I think the skull might not be attached :’( , can’t tell for sure but looks like too few ribs, odd bulbous bit where the shoulder joint should be? might be the scapula’s dislocated, might be another bone got mixed in during the chaos, it’s confusing me. Good skull shape and nice vertebrae 7/10

Top right (below the floating skull): besides maybe missing ribs, and what could be a damaged humerus this fellow looks great! 9/10

Lower right: broken skull :( , missing or wrongly positioned first ribs (would be a bit higher than the first set of ribs here), unusually flat scapula, unusually pointy head of the humerus. Really tricky angle for the pelvis but it looks decent! 7/10

This ask has me itching to start reading these books!!!

#ask the judge #judge your bones #gideon the ninth #thanks for the ask #it took me 4 tries to start this judgement cause of deciding How to do it but we got there in the end! #the central figure's skull facepaint is 2/10 got the very generic shape of the cranium but small nose hole. teeth go too far. bad mandible #looks sick as fuck tho #scapula = shoulder blade bone #vertebrae = spine bones #humerus = upper arm bone

[unorthodoxx-page]

A Tale of Spirits thoughts and sneaks

Since Chapter 13 will be posted early this week, then that means early sneak peeks!  This might be the only one though, so we shall see.  I’m going to put it under a cut incase anyone hasn’t read the new update yet.

Like always, this is unedited and subject to change.

SNEAK PEEK (Katara POV)

“Leave them!” Aang shouts.  “We need to find Appa!”

She pulls in a breath, “Aang.  I can’t-.”

Aang doesn’t wait for her to finish.  He turns, walking past the injured sandbenders without a single look back.  She looks at the broken and unconscious men with a growing pit of despair.  She can’t leave them, but they don’t have enough water to drink, let alone for her to heal these men.  One lets out a pathetic groan and her heart crumbles even further.  Sokka gives her a hopeless look and follows after Toph and Aang.

There’s a sharp crack and a strangled cry echoes through the empty air.  Katara whips around and her heart stops at the sight of the spirit over an injured man.  “Did you…?”  She can’t say it.

His eyes cut to her.  “No,” he says.  He moves to the next and flips the man on his back.  “Set the bones and flip them over.”

“But,” she says, “I don’t have enough water-.”

Leo rolls his eyes and places firm hands on a broken humerus.  His fingertips feel the length before he tugs sharply, and Katara flinches at the soft crack.  The spirit tugs a water sack from the unconscious man's belt and moves to the next.   “Set the bone,” he repeats, “you don’t need water for that.”

“But-.”

“Look,” he sighs, “I thought you wanted to help?”

“I do!” she frowns, “but we don’t have anything to stabilize the bones with!”

“Leaving the breaks as they are for who knows how long won’t do them any good either.”  Another crack floats through the air.  “At least this way their bodies will have something to heal.  So I’ll ask you again,” he looks at her with a flat and unforgiving stare.  “I thought you wanted to help?”

Her mouth opens but Leo doesn’t wait for an answer, just flips the next one over and checks the wounds.  Katara stares at the broken bodies around her and sets her shoulders.  She’s a healer, she can do this.  Katara falls next to a young sandbender with a badly broken leg.  She touches the wound as lightly as possible and releases a breath when her fingers touch unbroken skin.  Katara’s hands hover over the leg in a familiar motion and she stops.  She’s only set a broken leg once, and that was under the tutelage of master healers at the North Pole.  Her hands tremble and she pulls in slow even breaths.  You can do this, she thinks.  She positions her hands firmly on each side of the leg and pulls.  The boy shouts, the pain too much for his unconscious form, but Katara pushes past it.  The bone falls into jagged place and she drops back with a shuddering breath.  She did it.

“Hurry up,” Leo says.  “We’re going to lose the others at this pace.”

Katara gets to her feet with a nod and moves to the next.  The two of them move quickly through the small group of broken benders.  Katara pops the lasts one’s shoulder back into place and pulls in a heavy breath.  It was draining work to set all those injuries, physically and mentally.

“Let’s go,” Leo says.  He attaches the stolen water sacks together and swings them over his shoulder.  “We need to catch up.”

“Are you really going to steal those?”

“I only took half,” Leo answers.  He starts walking and Katara is forced to follow him.  “All our supplies were on Appa, and the only water we have is one we can’t drink.  They’ll be fine.”

Leo keeps a brisk pace as they walk in silence toward the small forms of their friends.  “What do you think happened back there?” She asks.  “Maybe a crash?”

His shoulders pull up and he doesn’t answer.  

#Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #Avatar The Last Airbender #rottmnt #tmnt #atla #atla fic #atla fanfic #atla fanfiction #fanifciton #fanfic #crossover #crossover fanfic #crossover fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #a tale of spirits #sneak peek #ao3 fanfiction

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 24 - "I'm doing this because I care about you."

To anyone looking at this from the Dungeon Meshi tag - if you're anime-only, HERE THERE BE SPOILERS! If you've read the manga, the MAJOR spoilers are for Chapter 28 - plus a scattering of spoilers for later. This is a scene rewrite! Like the first time we've posted "just canon but from a different POV" also! We are counting internal monologue for that dialogue, and we are having Fun with it.

Watch your step, and we hope you enjoy.

From the instant that Marcille draws the first line of dragon's blood, she knows that she's gone too far to back out now.

There's a dreadful, solid certainty lodged in her chest as she brings her staff down, again and again. An awful sort of knowing, of

It's a unique kind of draining. Mana sickness is one thing, but this is another. Each line draws at something deep, deep inside of her soul, drawing more from her than she ever thought a spell could drain. She wants, so badly that it hurts, a sharp, desperate need for this to work. She dips her staff's handle in dragon's blood again, and she ignored the awful feeling of being bled to the bone. She's only ever theorized about dark magic before, never put it into practice herself - every line feels wrong, sickly, diseased, her staff scraping along the flagstones and funneling awful vibrations into her hands.

Every line she draws feels like a wretched, sickly sort of pain. Like picking at a wound that's only halfway scabbed over, half-clotted blood clinging to her fingernails as she picks at where her skin meets a gash, and scraping off the tiny, disgusting pieces of not-quite-scab onto a piece of paper. It's the worst thing she's ever done, and she hates it, every step of it, with a bubbling sense of revulsion that it feels like she'll never be clean of.

If she doesn't do this, then Falin will be dead. And Marcille doesn't want to live in a world where that's true.

She doesn't know how many runes it'll take, really. She knows the pattern, and that's enough - she just has to finish it. One rune, then another. She doesn't need to know how long.

The world, for what feels like a long time, is just her and the runes.

One, then the next. The future doesn't matter. The past is gone. She inks rune after rune in rotting, thickening blood, pausing to re-ink her staff when it runs dry. The only thing that matters is the next rune in the sequence, and it doesn't matter how long it takes. She has a thousand years to live ahead of her, a thousand years to spend doing anything she wants - she doesn't care how many of them she has to spend doing this, if it gives her Falin back. One rune, then the next.

Marcille reaches to dip her staff in dragon's blood a last time, and stops.

The circle is done.

Marcille is already horribly, horribly tired.

More than tired, really. Exhausted, a bone-deep ache in her chest like she's worked out a muscle she never knew that she had. She feels like she's on the brink of passing out, staring down at a circle of dragonblood runes that she's worn her staff's handle down to fraying roots from. The purpose in her chest that was so strong barely a minute ago is fading, flickering. Fatigue knocks into her like a truck, and she's swaying on her feet, struggling to cling on to consciousness.

She knows, more than she's ever known anything before, that she has to finish this.

She thinks of Falin, and she steels her will to move forward.

Pelvis, femur, humerus. Twelve rib bones, easy to tell apart. The vertebrae, the hands and feet - calcaneus, metatarsal, metacarpal. Eight carpal bones in the wrist, hamate, triquetrum, pisiform, lumate, trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, scaphoid. Falin's wrist bones are shorter than hers, shaped different in a way that's both subtle and the most obvious thing in the world. It's all she can do not to stop and stare at them, hypnotized by the broken remains of her friend - tallman bones, white and clean, so unfamiliar compared to Falin's soft frame, so much like the ones she's already seen buried.

She doesn't know what she'll do if Falin's soul has already left her body. She can't allow herself to entertain the idea of it. Falin will live, because she has to live, because she needs to- because Marcille can't let her die.

She lowers her staff, and she starts to chant.

She's doing this because she cares about her. Because she can't live without her. Because the very idea of trying to go on without Falin, after all this effort to find her, after all this effort to bring her back, is poison on her tongue, fire in her veins, a sickly death in the pit of her stomach. She's doing this because she cares about her, because she wants to talk to her again, because she wants to talk with her, to eat with her, to sit shoulder to shoulder with her as she talks about magic again.

She's doing this because she cares about Falin, so badly that it feels like her heart's started to rip itself apart in her ribcage - because she wants her back, because she wants to talk to her again, because she needs to hold her hand again and press her palm against her cheek and tangle her lanky, bony body around her soft tallman chest and hold her so tight that nothing else exists in the world. She's doing this because she needs Falin, with such strength that it nearly feels like she's drowning in her own skin with every moment she's away from her. She wants, so badly that she can barely keep herself from crumpling on the spot under the sheer weight of it.

Falin. Falin. Falin.

She chants her name in her head with every repetition of the spell, wanting, hoping, begging for this to work. The drain feels like she's cut a hole in her very soul, like she's bleeding out her lips with every word she speaks, like she's slicing holes in the vessel that holds all of her being. Falin, Falin, Falin - her soul to her body, the dragon's flesh to her bones, anything to make her whole again, anything to make her well again, anything.

She draws from the well, again and again, driving herself on sheer, desperate desire. Falin, a silent cry beneath the chorus of the spell. Falin, a desperate wish whispered into the darkness of the dungeon. Falin, Falin, Falin, she cries out, again and again, blind and deaf but for the runes carved into the stone. Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin-

Marcille is more exhausted than she ever has been, more exhausted than she ever knew was possible to be- she tastes bitter blood on her tongue as she chants. She draws from the well deep inside of herself, draws until it's dry and then beyond that, desperation and need driving her on and on and on. Falin, Falin- she digs deeper, deeper, past the well and into the ground beneath. She wants, she wants, she wants-

"Falin..." she starts. The words flicker on her tongue, abruptly uncertain and unclear. She knew what she was saying only a second ago, but now she struggles to put anything to words. The chant fades out, the words leaving her tongue - she can't remember why she was chanting them anymore, can't remember what she was doing. Her limbs feel weak, bowing under her body's weight, her willpower abruptly draining. Her fingers loosen on her staff, suddenly void of all drive they once possessed. She looks down, bleary-eyed, at rusty red runes drawn for a purpose she can't quite remember, and for a moment, there is nothing to her thoughts but the dull echo of a desire nearly entirely devoured.

And then she is unconscious, and she thinks no more.

#whump #my posts #febuwhump #febuwhumpday24 #febuwhump2024 #i'm doing this because i care about you #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi spoilers #marcille donato #resurruction #fear of death #fatigue #writing #my writing

[comfortingcatharsis]

X smooths their hand rhythmically over Y's upper arm, touch sure and gentle. Spreading warmth follows it, like the heat of sinking into a hot bath, leeching deep into the limb. Tension also gradually leeches out of Y's frame and they uncurl slightly from their defensive stance. Their arm is still closely-guarded though, clamped tight to their side, and the tell-tale pinched corners of their eyes nevertheless belie their pain.

Their breath comes easier though as X finally lifts their hands away.

Emerging from their concentration, X gives a tired smile. 'There, I've stabilised it. It's not healed, mind; I'd say the equivalent of maybe a week's-worth of natural healing- the bone still needs another month at least to knit fully- but this should be just enough you can bear to walk out of here without it jarring too badly at every step.'

Y nods, keeping their good hand cupped protectively beneath the opposite elbow, and cautiously tests the arm's movement. They break off with a wince. 'Doesn't- ah- feel a whole lot better when I do that-'

'Don't let's get ahead of ourselves,' X stays Y with a hand on their chest. 'You're going to want that immobilised for a while yet- like I said, I can only give you a head-start; the rest of the slow and steady way is up to you now. Go rushing things too much with magic and they tend not to stay healed.'

Y leans tiredly back against the tunnel wall again. 'I know. Aches though, even just sitting here.'

X hums in sympathy and chances one last brief caress and pulse of warmth into the broken humerus before pulling the more mundane tools of their trade from their pack- curved length of bark for a splint, moss to pad it, broad fabric strips to use for sling and swathe, and a tincture for the pain.

#whumpy text post #original whump #magical healing #field medicine #broken bone #fantasy whump

[blackwolfstabs]

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 22

DUALITY

What might've happened before Wayne Bailey woke up around broken glass and hunted his she-devil in disguise.

“Sam!”

Tara’s voice awakened her unconscious mind, faded among the ringing that grew louder and louder.

“Sam!”

Her voice wasn’t as muffled this time, and Sam was able to open her eyes. At first, she didn’t remember where she was or what happened, but when pain radiated through her muscles and stinging filtered beneath her skin—where fresh air seeped between her sliced flesh—it all came flooding back.

Through the blurriness, she could see Wayne’s unconscious body lying where they had landed from falling off the balcony. Broken, shattered glass was littered beneath them, and she could feel where some of the shards had cut through her clothing to stab her. The exposed skin of her arms and torso weren’t immune, feeling those intensify the longer she was lucid. The wooden strip that had collapsed onto her side was still there, promising a bruise to patch her ribs, if it wasn’t there already, while the entire side of her body that she fell on throbbed a deep pain. 

But then, the wood plank was moved, and a soft hand replaced it.

“Sam, can you hear me?” 

Tara.

Sam blinked, her eyes sliding to the corners to find her baby sister’s concerned face, but all she could manage to answer with was a nod. 

Tara hovered over her, unsure of whether or not it was safe to touch her for the fear that she might be more hurt than she looked. Her eyes jumped back and forth from her sister to Wayne, anxious that he would wake up any moment and take his chance to kill them both. “How bad are you hurt? Can you move?” she quizzed.

The other swallowed with a small jerk, the poignant, metallic taste of blood seeping into her taste buds. Tara was right, even though she didn’t say it directly. She had to move, so they could finish this. 

All of the shit done that couldn’t be taken back. All of the insults and threats that couldn’t be wasted on anyone else. All of the torn-up dignity and respect that couldn’t be put back together again. 

All of the lies and schemes that Sam would rip apart herself for the sake of her family and her bloodline…

“Yeah,” she rasped, and moved to prepare herself to get off the floor. Agony rippled beneath the surface of her entire left side, making her hiss as she raised her upper half. The movement had what felt like an invisible knife driving into the side of her head. She bowed it with a grunt, bringing her hand up to hold it.

“Sam…”

“I’m fine, Tara,” she nearly growled. She then lowered her hand to reach across her torso and pull a large piece of glass out from her side that was embedded. A pained whimper forced itself out of her as she threw it aside. She lifted her head and looked up at her sibling. “Are you okay?” Immediately, she was drawn to the large blood stain that painted her stomach.

But Tara nodded anyway, her adrenaline overriding what she knew she’d feel the next morning. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered and took another glance towards the fake detective, “but we gotta go.”

Her older sister silently agreed and pulled her knees in to steady herself. “Fuck…” She clutched the slash Ethan had given her just below where her clavicle and humerus conjoined. Having to balance herself on three limbs, she realized just how shaky and exhausted her body was.

“Are you good?” 

“Yeah.” But she pushed it aside and forced herself to her feet, having to tug a few more shards of glass from her figure along the way.

Meanwhile, Tara was navigating her way through the destruction, careful with her footing but even more careful with her volume. Her eyes studied Bailey’s seemingly lifeless body, circling him in search for what she knew would make his ending swift. “Sam,” she whispered in a hiss, “Where’s his gun?”

“We don’t need his gun.”

Her voice came from farther across the theater, making her look up to find her back turned and staring down at the floor. Her brow hardened as she stepped around the glass to move towards her.

Samantha blinked down at the black eyes and pale face that held her name in its shadow. The cracks and aged material that made up an entire mastermind. The sole object that everyone wanted her to bow down to and muzzle her true intentions for another’s. “He wants a legacy, he’s gonna get one.” 

She picked up her father’s mask, the one she had insisted she would never be seen in. And she wouldn’t be seen in it, because the only person who would tell see her would be dead by the time the sun rose.

Tara stood a few paces away, staring at the way her sister seemed to blend the idea of herself and her unstable bloodline into one. “What are you—?”

“Do me a favor, okay?” Sam interrupted, her voice cool and calm, as if she no longer felt any of the pain that once twisted her tongue. As if something stronger than the passion for pain corrupted her half-blood into a full-blood. She sounded like a killer—the serial killers that always kept a level head and spoke with so much control, it was chilling. Like her father. A purebred wolf.

The spitting image of Billy Loomis, who lived inside of her.

The mastermind’s daughter turned around and paced up to her little sister, who stared at her, gingerly holding the wound in her stomach. She then held her phone out with Detective Bailey’s contact glowing on the screen. “I think it’s your turn to ask the questions,” she said, insinuating the revenge the younger deserved from the humiliating and traumatizing phone call she was forced to endure. The one that served as her ticket into this mess of a franchise. The older Carpenter nodded. “You know what to do.”

Tara blinked down at the phone, before raising her eyes to find a dark streak in Sam’s. She took it, then glanced down at the mask, watching it as her older sister moved past her and towards the stage. “What are you gonna do?”

Samantha stopped with one foot on the first step of the staircase leading up. She turned her head over her shoulder, the blood leaking from her bicep giving her overall appearance a daunting aura that influenced her words.

“I’m gonna handle the rest.”

i had to cut this one short bc i'm running low on time to finish this challenge, but i really wanted to put more into this one! whatever, i hope it still serves well. maybe i'll rewrite it someday??

All my best! Stay frosty ♡ - parker

#scream #scream v #scream vi #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #wayne bailey #billy loomis #ghostface #ao3 #ao3 author #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #30 day writing challenge #duality

[delusional-mishaps]

day seven: go all out

warning ‼️ accidental broken bones, play fighting

jet pants, eyes narrowed as they stare at horror, ears twitching to catch every little shift he makes.

their living room was a mess, furniture thrown haphazardly around in the scuffle. they're pretty sure their coffee table is broken.

horror lunges, reaching out. they jump out of the way, his claws dragging thin welts over their flesh, but the skin doesn't break.

their teeth clamp around his outstretched arm, biting down hard to keep hold—

CRACK!!

they both freeze, staring at each other with wide eyes.

"shit!" jet yelps, letting go to look over the bone that had cracked in their mouth. they cringe, ears lower.

"sorry—fuck, sorry!" they fumble, rushing to the kitchen for food. "i got a little too into it, i guess—i'm really sorry!"

"it's fine," horror responds with a nonchalant shrug, as if his arm wasn't broken...

jet scoffs, tearing open a packet of magic-infused skittles to hand over to horror.

"it's not fine, i broke your arm!" they huff. horror rolls his eye, swallowing down the whole packet with one mouthful.

"i scratched you. a lot." he defends.

"but you didn't—you didn't break my arm."

horror only hums, the cracks in his bones mending with the healing sweets.

"don't gotta make a big deal of it." horror snorts, showing off the mended bones. "good as new."

jet frowns, prodding at his humerus as if to prove to themself.

"besides," horror continues. "it was kinda hot."

"horror!?!"

#badsansuary #jester writes #horrors week is done now.. and i need to figure out a dust design 💀 #i adore Black Void dust hes so silly.. but dust with a hat is hot. and then just regular dust is nice too :( #sighhh. hhighhh... #anyway gang #horror sans #self insert #horror x self insert #once again i have forgotten how i tag these #<- me every day

[happymoxxy]

hey baal ready for some broken leg jokes that would “Pull your leg” It’s from a book And it’s for you and it’s your punishment for being such a asshole Throughout three years (Disclaimer: I understand no one likes jokes but this is for Baal’s torment)

1. My brother was just fired from his job at the bank. A customer with a broken leg came in and asked if he could check his balance...

so he pushed him over.

2. What do you call a kid from chernobyl with a broken leg?

a glow stick

3. What do you call a deer with one eye and a broken leg?

I have no eye-deer

4. Why shouldn't you joke about broken legs?

Because it's not Humerus

5. How do you take care of an adult chicken with a broken leg?

You make them chicken soup.

Baal: this is cruel and unusual punisment.

#ask box #baal ask

[ignoremyworld]

ACCIDENTAL DATE

PART 2/?

CHAPTER TWO: THE APARTMENT

Not proofread

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Eddie awoke to a ringing in his ears and white plaster ceiling tiles. He knows what a hospital looks like. He’s been in enough to know what’s going on by the beeping of the machine next to him. Looking to his left there’s a window. He doesn’t know where he is, what day it is, or what time it is. All he knows is he’s in the most uncomfortable bed and he’s alone.

“Oh you’re awake!” Eddie turns his head to see the person that voice belongs to and holy shit.

This guy is gorgeous.

I mean look at his hair, his eyes, his face, oh he’s got freckles. Eddie is a sucker for freckles

“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up haha” gorgeous man says, rubbing the nape of his neck and looking down to the ground.

“Yeah… uh- where am i?” Eddie asks the stranger “and who are you? Where are my bandmates?”

“You’re at the logansport memorial hospital. Your friends are outside. Oh! And I’m Steve. Steve Harrington. I had just gotten off of work when you were hit” gorgeous guy- Steve, says.

“Hit? As in I got punched or something” Eddie asks, feeling around his face to see if there’s any swelling.

“Oh… uh not exactly. You were hit by a speeding truck” Steve says shyly

“A truck!? How long was I out!?” Eddie panics, jolting upright and looking around.

“Hey hey calm down Eddie, you’re okay. You did however break your humerus bone and fractured your ulna. So no playing that guitar for a while” Steve looks at him. Apologetic in a way.

His lips are full and slightly swollen from Steve biting at them. His eyes are a beautiful hazel and Eddie wants to get lost in them forever.

“Eddie? Hello?” Steve says waving his hand in front of Eddie’s face.

“Ah! Yes, sorry. So how long until I can play my guitar?” Eddie gives Steve a hopeful look and he almost wants to not tell him.

“We- we don’t know yet. It’s a severe break but you’re lucky that it’s just those two bones. Most car crash patients have more bones broken.” Steve says, once again looking to his feet and shifting a bit.

Eddie stops. They don’t know? Aren’t doctors and nurses supposed to know this stuff? He feels tears welling in his eyes. Threatening to stream down his face. Trying to keep his composure he looks at Steve. It’s for nothing though because Steve immediately starts comforting him.

“Hey it’s- it’s gonna be okay right? You just gotta tell your fans you gotta take a break” he says reaching out to rub Eddie’s shoulder.

Time passes and Eddie is released after a few more tests. Steve said he’d go so Eddie could have his privacy but Eddie felt a strange connection between the two. Like a line connecting them.

They walk out into the hospital waiting room and find Eddie’s bandmates. They’re shocked to see him in a full arm cast that’s being held by a sling.

After talking with the doctor about what will happen and when their next check up will be they walk out.

“Do you guys need a place to stay? I have a pull out couch, an inflatable bed, and a spare room. So I’m open.” He offers. Secretly hoping Eddie would say yes.

“No we have a few hotel rooms lined up. However Eddie should stay with you. If something were to happen and we couldn’t get to him in time…” garreth says. Trailing off at the end.

Eddie whips his head around and stares wide eyed at his friends. And then back at Steve. Who is smiling that pretty smile.

“Okay that works! I’ve got extra casting at my place so he’ll be safe with me!” Steve says. A hopeful look in his eyes.

“Okay. That- that sounds okay” Eddie sighs. He knows his bandmates did this on purpose.

After that they part ways and Eddie is off to see Steve’s house. It’s smaller than he expected. Just a little apartment. Two bedroom and two bathroom. Nice kitchen and living room.

“Sorry if it’s a little messy. Work has me stressed lately” Steve says with a nervous laugh.

“No no it’s fine. You should have seen my childhood room. No floor was visible.” Eddie says, looking around. He sees posters and signs and- holy shit he’s got a corroded coffin poster. “Hey that’s me!

“Yeah! I’ve been listening to your music more recently and I like it. I didn’t really recognize you when you were hit. Probably because I was panicking” Steve says blushing

Eddie takes this time to adore the man in front of him. He’s beautiful. His hair looks so soft and his voice is like a poem personified. His stature strong and tall.

Eddie sighs and he can feel the blush running up to his face. “ yeah but I’m glad it was you. Instead of any other person who isn’t a nurse” he says

Steve laughs and starts to show him around. Showing him the spare room where he would sleep and the bathroom. This really is a nice apartment.

Maybe living here for a bit won’t be so bad after all

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hiii! I am back with a part two to this series. Check my masterlist for part one!

I’m having so much fun writing this.

Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

Thank you!

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #steddie #stranger things #eddie #steve harrington #steve stranger things #stevexeddie #modern stranger things #steve #nurse steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson

[whumpacabra]

Day 6: “You lied to me.”

Captivity, failed escape attempt, concussion, broken bones [ribs, arm, hip], head injury, threats

[Follows New Friends]

Wolf was dimly aware he was concussed.

Again.

The sounds around him were words, probably. Everything was muffled and dulled, his body a distant ache. Maybe he was more than concussed - now that would be a stroke of luck.

As Smith’s boot came crashing down on his already cracked ribs, Wolf was snapped back to the present at the crunch of his bones. His left arm was broken, humerus snapped and crooked. His right hip burned hot under the skin, as though there was broken glass he couldn’t pull free. And every breath tasted of iron and felt like fire in his shuddering lungs.

“You lied to me.” Wolf tried to inch away from the voice, but the boot slammed down on his ribs again. “I told you to stay and you said ‘yessir.’ Lesson, number, fucking, one.”

Wolf was drifting away from the pain again, body convulsing as blood choked in his lungs and his broken limbs twitched helplessly. He could taste the ash on Smith’s breath as the agent crouched over him.

“Slow learner.” Smith’s voice dripped with disappointment, muffling as a radio crackled to life. “Anders, call medical. Yeah, I didn’t kill him.” Wolf could just barely make out the white toothed grin above him as his vision greyed and dimmed. “I’m going to make you wish I did.”

[Directly before Revive]

(Part of my Freelancers: Swansong series)

#whump #captivity #escape attempt #failed escape #concussion #head injury #broken ribs #broken arm #broken hip #threats #freelancers #a short one but that's how it be sometimes

[mewtwoandme]

I'm thinking that Mewtwo has a bone to pick with the attempted rick-rollers. They're not very humerus.

I'm sorry if you dislike bone puns.

I think your funny bone may be broken because neither are you

#((Mewtwo...)) #((why did you wake up and choose violence today...)) #((I thought they were funny ^^)) #mewtwo answers #answered ask #woolycatmum