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coffeedrgn87 · 2 years

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Hello my lovely caffeinated friend 💖 may I request a Dronarry drabble with the prompt "jungle"?

Darling!!! But yes, of course, you can. Please know that your request hit me in all the right places, so thank you so much for that. I did watch Daniel Radcliffe in "The Lost City" a couple of days ago, so your 'jungle' prompt was spot on. Also, thank you so much for getting me to write my first Dronarry; I will treasure this request forever. With my muse juices running high, you're getting a bit more than your average drabble, but somehow I don't think you'll mind all that much.

*** CW: mild injury ***

Gently swaying palm fronds made up a lush canopy of gleaming leaves, offering Draco bright snatches of sun and the sky beyond. Ropy vines dripped off tall trees and curled around shorter trunks in suffocating loops, and Draco was half-tempted to unsheathe his machete and cut loose one of the smaller vines so that he could use it to strangle Ron.

Instead, he glanced at the map in his hand, then turned his head to glower at Harry.

“Tell me again why I shouldn’t hex his balls to the top of that tree or transfigure him into a monkey so he can finish all those half-eaten fruits here?”

Harry smirked.

“Because we care, Draco, because we care. Also, you do love his balls, as much as you like to curse them.”

Draco rolled his eyes, grumbling about how dating Gryffindors had turned him soft.

A colourful bird screeched in the distance, and a shiny black lizard scrambled up a tree. Somewhere, several armies of frogs sang in high-pitched whirrs, deep bonks, and insect-like chirps. A green snake appeared, staring with its beady eyes, but before Draco could move to hide behind Harry’s sturdy frame, Harry addressed the vine snake in Parseltongue. The sound sent Draco—Voldemort lodging at Malfoy Manor had permanently cured him of his love of snakes—into a temporary trance.

Harry nudged him, then took his hand, and they continued down the narrow path together. As the map had promised, it led them to a waterfall that fed into a lagoon pool with hidden cliffs and rocky outcroppings. Water ran in rivulets over rich soil, and a puma stalked prey from the shadows — thankfully, it didn’t seem interested in them. Stands of tall bamboo flanked the lagoon, and twisting tree roots created bumps in the path. Cashew and fig tree branches were heavy with fruit, and a green praying mantis clung to a leaf. Mosquitoes swarmed around them, but Harry’s protective shield deterred them from coming near. Although it didn’t currently rain, thick water drops pooled in stems and dripped off large leaves. Brief flashes of sunlight reflected in the lagoon’s crystal-clear water.

An exotic bird called, wings fluttered somewhere, and monkeys hooted and shrieked. Crickets chirped, and branches and leaves slapped against one another as animals leapt through the trees. The air was thick with the mixed scent of growth and rotten vegetation. Natural plant odours, animal musk, and the occasional floral scent mingled with the over-sweet smell of decomposing fruit, mud, and wood smoke. With the high humidity levels, the air tasted of water and felt thick on Draco’s tongue. He licked salty sweat off his lips and sighed.

“Honestly, Potter, you’d think his phobia of spiders would’ve done something to trigger his sense of survival by now.”

“There’s such a thing as restraints; you do know that, Malfoy, right?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but instead of responding, he pushed ahead, moving along the narrow path that guided them around the lagoon. Part of Draco longed to strip naked and jump right in, but he wasn’t in a rush to get intimately acquainted with a bunch of blood-sucking leeches, so he resisted. Instead, he swiped his bandana across his sweat-dripping face and cursed when a low-hanging branch of wet leaves slid across his bare forearm. The moss underfoot was spongy, causing the ground to sink in with each step Draco took.

He made it to the other edge of the lagoon and then allowed Harry to move ahead and clear the way with a jolting catch of his machete. Hard bamboo rubbed against Draco’s chest as he tried to forge a path through the foliage and lukewarm dew from a waterlogged leaf poured all over his head, drenching him thoroughly.

“Circe’s mother’s saggy tits!” he cursed.

Harry’s rumbling laughter echoed through the jungle, and Draco thought about hexing him, but the comforting spray of the waterfall misted his skin, and he instantly felt better.

The feeling didn’t last long.

To continue, they had to climb, and the rough burn of vines against Draco’s palm felt like the plant was attempting to take his skin off. Sweat and grime chafed his skin, and the underside of his perfectly manicured nails was black with grit. When accidentally sinking his hands into the damp, skimpy undergrowth that covered the hill, Draco wanted nothing more than to apparate back to the resort and book a week-long spa break. But, alas, Ron—convinced he’d identified someone from the Auror office’s Most Wanted List—had followed a group of tourists and was now nowhere to be found. Harry’s super-strength tracking spell had given them this map, but getting to Ron meant crossing the island’s jungle. To say that Draco wasn’t amused was the understatement of an entire millennium, but as much as it pained Draco to admit that there was very little he didn’t do for Harry…and Ron.

It took another three and a half hours of arduous trekking through less than pleasant terrain, but eventually, they made it, arriving at the ancient ruins of a lost tribal village. They stood in the centre of half-crumbled buildings, pitted steps and staircases, and weather-worn pillars surrounded by dead clumps of grass.

Meandering tree roots broke up cracked blocks of stones, and vines and other foliage weighed down on caved-in roofs. Faceless stone statues filled Draco with an eeriness he couldn’t shake, making him shudder. He kept close to Harry, walking past the inscriptions and stone carvings. He was curious, wanted to decipher them—it was the Curse Breaker in him—but his mind couldn’t focus, couldn’t create the peace and quiet he needed for his work. Still, when Harry stopped abruptly, Draco promptly walked into him.

“I think he’s in there.”

Frowning, Draco looked at the building Harry had pointed out, then glanced down at the map — Ron’s location glowed a bright gold. A sculpted archway led into a cave with dark, mouldy rock walls. Ash scares marred the stone, and dead leaves lay scattered on the ground. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees and overgrowth, and Draco cast a wandless Lumos Maxima to brighten the place. Ropy vines were trying their hardest to break down the stone entrance, encroaching through it, while hardy grasses, ferns and scrub brushes diligently concealed the entrance. Harry walked on, and Draco followed, ignoring the wind that slipped past them and the grasses that slid against each other. A flutter of wings made Draco jump, and somewhere in the distance, a tree creaked in the breeze.

“Harry, I don’t like this; it’s a trap.”

Harry turned his head to look over his shoulder, brow arched.

“One jungle, and you’re that slow on the uptake, Malfoy? Of course, it’s a trap. Whoever snatched Ron wants either you or me or both of us.”

Draco grabbed a fistful of Harry’s shirt and tugged, pulling Harry to a halt. They’d walked about twenty feet into the cave with Draco’s bright sphere of light following them dutifully. Pressing his chin into Harry’s shoulder, Draco hissed.

“Why are we playing their game?”

Harry laughed softly.

“Are we, Draco? Are we really?”

He walked on before Draco had the chance to answer the question or consider its implication properly. They walked past uneven stone walls fissured with fingerlings of tree roots, dirt, and dead leaves animals had tracked in or had been blown in by the wind. Twigs cracked under Draco’s heavy-duty boots. He ignored the claw marks on the stone and the bats that roosted on the ceiling. Water dripped from cracks and tree roots, forming tiny pools and puddles. Somewhere an underground river gurgled, the sound echoing through the entire cave. The passageway led them to a larger cave where stalagmites protruded from the ground and stalactites hung from the high ceiling. A flashlight beam illuminated in the darkness across the cave, and Draco spotted hieroglyphs and other cave paintings. He waved his hand, sending his light sphere across the room.

When he did, a flash of green flew at him, but Harry blocked it with an almost lazy wrist flick.

“Really, Casper? An AK? Got nothing more entertaining for us?” he baited.

Draco frowned at the name. It sounded familiar, but before he had the chance to properly place it, a flurry of offensive spells flew in their direction. Draco almost automatically moved to stand behind Harry, who wandlessly conjured a gargantuan protective shield. Nearly all of the spells bounced off. One made it through, but Draco identified its aura and reached into its core to plug it apart. It promptly fizzed out.

Draco ducked behind a massive stalagmite, leaving the duelling to Harry, then lifted his arm up into the air to direct his light sphere around the cave. It circled, illuminating various corners of the spacious room, and on its second orbit around, Draco spotted Ron. Iron anti-magic shackles kept him in place, and thick vines kept him tied to a stalagmite. Judging by his appearance, he’d clearly tried to get free but had been unsuccessful. Draco’s heart lurched, but he forced the emotion away. He needed a cool head to get across the room.

“Potter, cover!”

“Got it.”

Placing his life in Harry’s hand, Draco made his way across to Ron, moving between obstacles as much as possible. Meanwhile, Harry pretended to yawn.

“Casper, at least make this fun for me; they didn’t promote me to Head Auror for nothing.”

Draco shook his head.

Sometimes he truly wished that Harry would stop baiting all his duelling partners. He even did it during practice, which drove everyone and their mother insane. Well, except for Ron and himself, of course. They’d long since learnt to accept Harry’s quirks for what they were — his ability to finally be himself. He duelled because he was exceptional at it, not because some prophecy forced him into it.

One last obstacle and Draco was at Ron’s side, drawing his wand to enervate him. Ron’s head jerked, lolled a bit, and Draco instinctively reached out to support it. Ron’s eyes flickered, and with a clouded gaze, he squished his eyebrows together. He glanced around as if looking for answers, and Draco’s determination to keep his emotions out of it until they were back at the resort, disappeared. He touched Ron’s face, mouth, and lips, inspecting every inch and healing several minor cuts with whispered wandless spells.

“Draco?”

Ron sounded groggy. His voice was raspy, and he fumbled for words, um’ing and ah’ing as he stuttered. Draco didn’t understand any of it. He focused on healing the cuts and cooling the bruises, gently tilting Ron’s head to the side and pursing his lips. He knelt in front of Ron and wand still in hand, swished it to cut the vines and vanished them. Next, he unravelled the magic that fuelled the magic-binding shackles, and when he’d dismantled it, the iron chains fell away.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Despite their predicament, Ron flushed at the term of endearment, and Draco smiled. He gently combed his fingers through Ron’s messy ginger hair, then leant in to press a lingering kiss on Ron’s swollen, dry, slightly cracked lips.

“Think so.”

Ron murmured the words into the small space between them, and Draco kissed him again, this time with a little more intent.

“If you two are done making out?”

Draco closed his eyes. He swallowed a groan, then bit his bottom lip.

“One of these days, I’ll hex the wanker.”

Ron guffawed.

It sounded gruff, and his voice cracked several times.

“You wouldn’t,” he mumbled, hissing when the tip of his tongue made contact with a small cut on the inside of his lip.

Draco immediately healed it.

“I wouldn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.”

“He knows, you dolt.”

Draco smiled.

“I know, but back to you. For the remainder of this trip, you are not to detach yourself from my side. I will need to know where you are at all times.”

Ron smirked.

“On a bit of a power trip, are we?”

Draco chuckled.

“Perhaps. I did hike through a jungle for you, though.”

“Let the record show, as did I.”

Draco turned his head.

“Potter, just fuck off and deal with the scum you’ve got floating in a full body-bind there, he’s stinking up the place.”

Harry laughed, but the moment his eyes roamed over Ron, he sobered up and looked concerned.

“He’s OK, yes?”

Draco nodded.

“He’s fine. I’ll take care of Ron; you deal with the vermin who decided to try and ruin our holiday.”

Harry gave a curt nod, reached out to grasp Casper’s arm and apparated. A dangerous-sounding rumble echoed through the cave, and pulling Ron to his feet, he supported him.

“Come on, better get out of here before the place comes crashing down on us.”

Draco was about to lift his wand to side-along Ron when Ron placed his hand gently on his wand arm and stopped him.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

Perplexed, Draco turned to look at Ron, who looked rather sheepish.

He smiled.

“Not at all, darling; I simply love trekking through the jungle. My favourite pastime.”

Ron groaned.

“Please,” he pleaded.

Draco laughed.

“Let’s talk about it once I’m sure every inch of you is just as it should be.”

Ron’s eyes darkened at that, and Draco scowled.

“Honestly, Weasley? Now?”

Ron shrugged.

“Can’t help it; you’re fit.”

Draco whistled, then he shrugged Ron’s hand off his wand arm and after a moment of concentration, they disappeared in a swirl of magic.

#dronarry #draco/ron/harry #prompt fic #prompt ask #for veelawings #coffeedragon writes #drabble what drabble?#CW: mild injury #Draco is a big softie #Magically Powerful Harry

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peachy-amy-rose · 7 months

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Life Update (Please Don't Reblog)

i have dropped out of college so i'll be posting more.

CW: mild injury

It'll unfortunately be mostly reblogs from now on as I have retired from drawing due to a wrist injury. I have also realized that I'm a casual artist and I don't want to make art my career. I learned that the hard way. That is all from me, thanks for reading!

#please don't reblog #my post #life update #cw: mild injury #Don't worry #My wrist is okay #I just don't want to strain it

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orbital-inclination · 2 months

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Narrow Escape! Nightmare and his gang are hot on their trail, oh no!

i originally sketched this out last September for Inktobertale. (for the bones shatter prompt) i felt like finishing it up today. Also playing around with lighting a bit. I have no idea what I’m doing! :) Ink sans @.comyet Dream @.joku US Sans @.p0pcornpr1nce

#the star sanses #ink!sans #dream!sans #us!sans #dream sans #swap sans #ink sans #utmv #undertale multiverse #undertale #cw blood #cw implied violence #cw injury #mild but still #my art

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starry-bi-sky · 27 days

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my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it.

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats.

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.”

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died.

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.

He has no mouth, but he must scream.

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood.

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off.

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts.

Scrappy is just not enough.

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all.

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash.

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings.

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice.

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail.

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it.

Being dead is agony.

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow.

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever.

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be.

Being dead hurts.

#tw mild gore #cw mild blood #cw mentioned violence #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #dp x dc crossover #dead on main #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #cfau #cfau danny #obsessed with the fact that danny just has the WORST fucking time after jason dies and baby i can make it worse #*kills you and makes you a banshee and puts you in an irrevocable state of grief*#delicious angst. danny is having the wORSt time ever lol. lmao even #was originally meant to explore the idea that danny can survive lethal injuries as phantom. which briefly got mentioned.#but i got away from myself. leaning reaaal heavy into the fact that danny's a banshee. At 19 he's got a pretty good handle of himself #but imagine being a fresh out the gate banshee. usually they get time to themselves in the zone to cry until their heart's content.#sorry danny. you have school tomorrow and family sleeping in the bedroom next door #kinda proud of myself. you can kinda see how Rath would've occurred here.#danny is going through it rn #was gonna add a snippet about the city's thoughts on phantom but couldnt fit it in

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 months

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uh. what?

for @steddielovemonth prompt 'love is healing wounds'

rated m | 1,782 words | cw: injury recovery, mild blood, recreational drug use | tags: post s4, hurt/comfort, getting together, fade to black

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

The stitches pulled and he couldn't get comfortable. He almost wished Robin hadn't made him get checked over, but anything that required this many stitches probably would've killed him if he hadn't. At least that's what Nancy said when he complained to her about it.

But now, Steve couldn't sleep, and sleep was apparently very important for healing.

The alarm clock next to his bed said 2:07 am, so calling someone was out. Going somewhere was also out, unless he wanted to go to the 24 hour diner alone.

Fresh air sounded good until he realized he'd have to either go for a walk in the middle of the night alone or sit by the pool alone.

He didn't want to be alone.

His phone started to ring just when he was considering taking a shower out of boredom.

"Harrington residence, this is Steve."

"So formal for two in the morning, Stevie," Eddie's laugh rang through the line and Steve couldn't help smiling. Something about Eddie's energy was contagious, a beacon of light when all he had was the darkness of his room.

"Didn't know if it was an international business partner for my parents. Happens sometimes when they forget time zones." Steve moved to the edge of his bed so the cord didn't have to stretch as far. "What are you doing up?"

"Had a dream about being eaten alive again. This time they managed to eat both of my nipples." Eddie scoffed. "Isn't one enough?"

Steve chuckled. "And you can't go back to sleep because you're scared they'll come take your other nipple?"

"It's a genuine concern, Steve! I have big dreams of piercing this thing and if they take it from me, what do I have left?"

"I think you'd probably just find something else to pierce," Steve shook thoughts of what that might be out of his head before they could take over. "So you can't sleep. You thought you'd call and wake me up to suffer with you?"

Eddie was silent for a moment before responding. "Did I wake you up?"

"No," Steve said quickly, not wanting Eddie to feel bad. "I was awake."

"Nightmare?"

"No, stitches are bothering me."

"You wanna come over? I found my hidden stash. Might help with the stitches," Eddie offered.

Steve probably shouldn't. He was on some pain meds already and if he got too fucked up, he'd probably cry. That's what happened last time he had some of whatever Eddie was selling.

"I'll come over, but probably shouldn't have anything. Robin would kill me if I end up in the hospital," Steve gave a half-truth.

"Yeah, she's terrifying. I'll leave the door unlocked."

Before Steve could tell him that was a bad idea, he hung up.

********

When Steve got to Eddie's, he let out the breath he'd been holding the entire drive. Eddie was sitting on the porch, alone, his guitar by his side.

Maybe he'd been playing already, or maybe he planned to play to help distract Steve from the way his skin felt like it was too much.

He got out of the car and waved when Eddie looked over at him with a smile.

"Didn't think you'd get here so quick," Eddie didn't bother standing up, Steve just knew to go sit by him.

But the steps on the Munson's porch were rickety at best, "temporary" according to the government officials who had stuck them here because they didn't think it was worth putting them in a home across town, and Steve's eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the dull glow of the light by the front door. He missed the top step and immediately fell, barely catching himself on the wood of the porch.

Eddie was helping him up immediately, doing his best not to make his own injuries worse.

"Shit, you okay? Wayne tried fixing it, but it just keeps getting loose."

Steve felt a stinging pain on his side, and when his hand grazed over the worst of his bites, he felt something warm and wet on his fingers.

"Shit," without looking, he knew he'd torn his stitches. "Eddie, I need a towel or something."

"Shit, that's a lot of blood. That's a lot of blood. It shouldn't be that much, right? Like even tearing your stitches, it shouldn't be-"

"Eddie." Steve poked his arm, stayed as calm as he could. He bled easy, so sometimes even small things looked worse than they were. "Towel."

"Right, yeah. Should you come with me?" Eddie shook his head. "I mean can you move? Should you stay here?"

"I'll sit here until I have a towel. Don't wanna get blood on the carpet."

"Got it."

Eddie still seemed unsure about leaving him, but must have noticed how much blood was soaking through Steve's shirt and rushed inside. He was back in less than a minute, a black towel in his hand.

"It's clean. It's the one I usually use for my hair, but I didn't get to fold it from the dryer yet. Um, just put pressure on it."

Steve knew what to do, was used to putting pressure on wounds, but appreciated Eddie trying to triage it anyway.

"You got a needle and thread, right?" Steve asked once he took his shirt off and put pressure on the bite. It was already bleeding much less, a positive sign that maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

"I mean, I do. I don't have medical tools that have been sanitized properly."

"You have water to boil and vodka?"

"Steve. I'm not fucking performing a medical procedure on your stomach," Eddie shook his head. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"I trust you."

The words hung heavy between them, despite the fact it wasn't exactly news to either of them. They'd been through it all together, why wouldn't he trust him?

"Okay, let's get inside and I'll get everything ready."

Getting inside was easier said than done. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the pain had really started to set in and every breath felt like knives stabbing into him.

"Deep breath, Stevie," Eddie said as he sat him down on the couch and helped him lay back. "I'll get you something for the pain."

"Something" was an edible, and Eddie seemed hesitant to give it to him, but all reservations Steve previously had went out the window as he felt his hands shaking from the pain.

Eddie prepared everything while the edible kicked in, checking in with Steve every few minutes to make sure he hadn't passed out or started bleeding again.

When the room started to feel blurry and his head felt light, Steve smiled over at Eddie, who looked nervous.

"Ready for your magic hands," Steve wiggled his brows.

Eddie made a strangled sound before leaning over the wound and wiping some of the blood away gently so he could see where to stitch him back up.

He worked as quickly as possible, humming softly to distract himself and Steve from what was happening.

Steve was high.

He was high and he was feeling good despite the needle in his skin.

He drifted for a bit, couldn't be sure how long, but eventually, Eddie was touching his cheek and making him open his eyes.

"Think you should stand up so I can wrap a bandage on it. Then you can try to shower off some of the blood if you want. Wayne got one of those removable showerheads. Feels fancy," Eddie said as he moved the hair off of Steve's face.

"Help?" Steve managed to ask.

"Yeah, I can help you with the wrap and start the shower for you," Eddie nodded.

"In the shower?" Steve asked.

Eddie paused. "I can keep us dressed?"

"But." Steve huffed. "Blood."

Eddie couldn't help but laugh at his confusion, Steve's lips pouting out and his eyes squinting. "Okay, okay. If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it. You're high as shit, man."

"I'm standing right on the ground," Steve waved his arms around him. "Or is the ground standing on me but the other way?"

"God, this is the best. Okay, let's go."

"Wait!" Steve grabbed Eddie's arms. "You should know something."

Eddie raised his brows in question. "Go on."

"I'm very in love with you. And also kinda hard."

Eddie blinked, not processing. Now he felt high.

"Uh. What?"

"I have an erection." Steve made a disgusted face. "Hate that word. Sounds so middle school sex ed."

"It is." Eddie shook his head. "I guess I meant more like, how and why and what the hell do you mean by it."

Steve giggled. "I said you had magic hands and I was right."

"Dude, I was literally giving you stitches. I am failing to see why that would make you hard."

"It's cuz you're so gentle and your tongue sticks out when you're trying to focus. And also I started thinking about what you'd do if I couldn't move," Steve sighed dreamily. "You have handcuffs."

"Okay. Let's pause." Eddie let out a small hysterical laugh. "You want me to help you in the shower because you love me? Do you even need help?"

"Probably. But I also want help. And also you're a helper for me."

"What does that even mean? Where's Robin when you need her to decode what the hell you're talking about?"

"You're a helper for me! Because you help me be better about asking for help! And then you help!"

"Okay, that's. Good. I'm still not sure what's happening."

"You're gonna help me shower. I'm gonna try very hard not to come. We sleep?" Steve looked around Eddie out the window, like he was checking if it was still night time. "And then in the morning I wake up and get yelled at by Robin."

"Why would she-"

"The stitches. And the telling you I love you thing. She's gonna be real mad about that."

"Why?" Eddie felt like he was losing it. What was even happening anymore? How had he completely lost control of the night?

"She wanted to help me do a speech thing."

This was just getting more wild.

Steve needed a shower, and he needed sleep. Eddie needed a minute to gather his own thoughts.

"Shower. Sleep. Talk in the morning." Eddie raised his hand to cup Steve's neck. "Robin murders you after we talk."

"Deal." Steve's face sank, but he quickly perked back up. "But shower?"

"Yes, shower. Go, horndog."

Steve laughed as he half-limped to the bathroom, clearly feeling some pain even with the drugs in his system. Eddie followed and resisted touching Steve as much as possible.

Which ended up being about two minutes.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddielovemonth #love is healing wounds #injury recovery #cw: mild blood #post s4 #hurt/comfort #getting to know you #tending to wounds

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blinkpen · 4 months

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so this started as quick warm up type doodle nonsense, but then i kept going bc it really does work just as much in reverse, and by then i had a groove on, as you can see,

(with the earnestness of a child waving goodbye to a substitute teacher they really liked) thank you toxic lesbiaannss!

(as soon as the toxic lesbians walk off into the sunset, the sun itself explodes)

#mog art #artists on tumblr #monster girl #demon #cyclops #demersa #grimstone #obsessed with these bitches lately #smoking cw #drugs cw #eye injury cw #body horror mild #blood cw #let me know if i missed anything!

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reborn-from-taxes · 2 months

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Ghost god

#hua cheng #heaven official's blessing #hob #mxtx #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #mild body horror #cw: gore #eye injury #cw blood #wu ming #i hope i tagged this right

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drarrily-we-row-along · 1 year

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Infected

"No," Harry shouted, cradling his injured arm close to his chest like Draco was the most unreasonable brute to ever live, like Draco was the one who had hurt him in the first place.

"Harry-" he started.

But Harry shook his head, stepping around their kitchen table, keeping the table between them. "No!" he repeated, "you're going to hurt me."

"For fuck's sake," he sighed. "You've brought this on yourself."

His husband's bottom lip protruded, wobbling precariously, "It's not my fault," he whined.

And it was ridiculous just how hard it was for Draco to resist the urge to give in and just give Harry whatever he wanted when he pouted like that. "Harry, I told you not-"

"It's not my fault!" he interrupted.

"It literally is!" Draco argued, taking counter measures to try to catch the other man.

He shook his head, darting out of Draco's reach and moving into their living room, putting the couch between them this time.

"Harry. I told you to leave the next door neighbor's new dog alone. I told you that he is an asshole and that he was going to tear into you."

"But it's not my fault!"

Draco rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips, "You literally walked up to the fence and reached over it for him!"

"It's not my fault that he is so bloody adorable!" Harry whined. "What was I supposed to do? Just let it continue looking so cute without touching it?"

"Yes," Draco said reasonably, "as a matter of fact."

"I can't," he pouted.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Well, now you have to deal with the consequences," he said, waggling a potion at him. "We need to get this on your arm so that you don't get an infection."

"But it hurts," he whined.

"Harry," he said, ignoring the way his pouting made Draco's gut twist uncomfortably, "it will only hurt for a minute, then it will be better. It's probably hurt more in the time you've put it off than it will just having the wound healed."

His husband slumped, looking defeated.

"Come here," he cajoled, sitting down on the couch and waiting.

After one more second of indecision, Harry made his way over and plopped down next to him.

He held out a hand and Harry gingerly placed his forearm, wound up, in his palm. "That looks like it hurts," Draco said sympathetically.

Harry nodded.

"Okay," he murmured, tapping lightly with his wand to numb the area slightly before pouring the potion on the wounds. He watched as the wounds knit themselves together, Harry wincing and hissing his way through the healing process. Then once the wounds were closed, he cast a spell to clean his arm. "There," he said lightly, "good as new."

Harry pouted at him.

With a little laugh, he brought Harry's forearm to his lips and pressed a kiss to where the skin had healed. "And a kiss to make it better."

"Thanks," he mumbled a little shy, even after all this time together.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, "I love you, you know."

"I love you too. Thanks for fixing me up."

Draco smiled at him, "My pleasure, love. Happy to keep you safe," he added softly because it was true. Getting to love and take care of Harry was the great joy of his life. And it was something that he happily did until the day he died.

---------------

Read more of my fics here.

#love #soft #fluff #silly #husbands #healer draco #cw for mild injury #drarry #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #one word prompt #ewe

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mythical-illustrator · 10 months

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@staycalmandhugaclone

Art master list

Another one for their wonderful story. This time Wolffe and Doc. (Two in one day because I'm on a roll and hyped on caffeine 😅)

Inspired by the PTSD/flashback moments in Found footage when Plo and the Wolf pack take doc in...after injuring her

Clone armor 😩

(let me know if I need to tag for anything. I tried keeping it vague in terms injuries)

#my art #star wars #bad batch x reader #fanfiction fanart #cw wolffe #star wars wolffe #doc 99 #why is clone armor complex #blood #warning injuries #mild violence

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blitz0hno · 20 days

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Drabble about the whole mikotosys-night-terror chronicles cuz I don't get to write much.

Post trial 2: Mikoto, still deep in denial (although deep denial doesn't mean ur as unaware as you let on/feel all the time), cries himself to sleep again. He hates the long-time habit, but thinking about his life up to this point, especially now... It makes sense, and unfortunately a lot more starts to make sense too.

It was happening again.

Mikoto was laying on the bed in his cell, staring at the ceiling. It was the only time he knew which way was up these days.

And today had been long, and stressful.

Why must he be this kind of person?

Chained up and interrogated.... Es trying to explain why the words "I saved you" echo in his mind.... a fuzzy ringing in his ears overtaking seemingly every conversation he had with the warden; Mikoto did his best to be attentive but was purely pretending. He was sure he dreamed the crime he was accused of, sure of it. It wasn't real, he couldn't do that! He had a future to look toward, and even if some people in his life were holding him back, his urge for quick relief had been but a horror-movie fantasy. A place for his brain to put his anger so he couldn't find it.

He had always wondered where his emotions went when he made them disappear. It didn't look good that nearly every moment now felt like a dream, either.

Answering questions with pen and paper had been particularly difficult. He didn't remember much of that either. He remembered the first couple questions. He remembered waves of frustration flooding his train of thought. He remembered feeling sick when he realized it was over and he thought he had only answered two or three out of the twenty questions.

Mikoto had started off this strange "Milgram" experience intrigued, but the more he thought about the events that led up to this "reality show," the more scared he got. He had always been a forgetful guy, but felt confident enough in his ability to keep track of important things. School, work, home duties, everything was always nearly lined up in his thoughts. Sometimes he had strong feelings about a task, but he was easily able to power through. He was oddly proud of that ability, from his adolescence up to his office job.

Sure, he had been picked on for living outside the city and never going anywhere. But he was reasonably popular with girls and very on top of his grades, which made other students like him well enough he supposed. No reason to feel lonely with how busy he was anyway. Taking care of home with his mom and sister, making sure he remembered to eat and study before shifts, and cramming for tests had all paid off, hadn't it?

He had a career he was passionate about, an end goal, and a stable job at a famous company. Although this job was... Not as glamorous as he had hoped. Nonetheless, he had worked so hard for it. He wouldn't just throw it away.

Not even when his meal times got shorter and shorter.

Not even when his boss made him redo weeks of work on a whim.

Not even when 60 hour weeks turned to 80 hours.

Not even when he broke down and cried after coming home to an onslaught of texts informing him of a deadline being shortened yet again.

He needed to sleep. Without sleep, he became irritated easily, and hiding it with a polite smile always left him with a permanent lump in his throat, as if he could burst into tears at any moment but wouldn't let it happen. When it all got too loud, Mikoto knew how to put it away for later.

Now was later, and he was crying.

He wished people listened to him. If they got to be cruel with no consequences, chain him to one thing or another, tell him to come and sit and stay until 3AM doing paperwork, he should get a say too. A say in how he was spoken to, in his rest, in his mind, anything.

But he second-guessed himself every time, coming up with nothing and doubling down on his polite diligent worker persona.

His chest heaved as he sobbed. How pitiful and pathetic, if they saw him like this. And to think everyone was scared of him now, not only because he apparently really killed people, but now more things he didn't remember were coming up. Torn up clothing he had tried so hard to laugh about reporting to Es; but all the morning he couldn't stop himself from crying, even through his mask. He had heard from others in the past that he talked in his sleep, but the noises? The shredding and screaming and destroying?

That was all new.

And embarrassing.

And mortifying.

Mikoto had no memory of any of it. He thought and thought, but only recalled feeling overwhelmed, perceiving the stares and the body language around him as tense, and the rush of anxiety which was renewing itself again. Out of habit, he searched for the smile he always tried to force through the tears, even now that he was alone.

Another sob.

Alone.

And everyone knew it. His boss, his mom, his baby sister, his peers EVERYONE watched him go it alone, pushing and pushing and succeeding at any cost to himself. But that was the goal, too, to be left alone. Not screamed at, following the rules in place, breaking them if it meant a more pleasing outcome for his current audience. His breath picked up as he remembered every comment, every stare every sneer every nitpick EVERYTHING others did to belittle his hardest work. His sweat, blood, and tears turned into a cycle that kept piling more on his back.

He held his hands against his ears as his sobs turned to a choked wail. Again tonight, he felt like he couldn't stop himself. "I HATE THIS! I'm not smart enough to even remember what I do, not strong enough to even control myself! FUCK!"

Again his uniform shirt felt far too tight. The restraints he had become more used to were suddenly like snakes whose every movement he could feel through the fabric, writhing on his skin. Mikoto screwed his eyes shut and begged to disappear, pulling at the jumpsuit.

Then John screamed.

He tore, he ripped, he fell off the bed and threw himself against the wall as if it would give him more force against the restraints. He couldn't stop. He knew it was his fault, and he knew why it was his fault, but they were hurting Mikoto all the same.

John forcefully wiped the tears from his face. His breathing was ragged as he felt himself grabbing at his hair. This was bad.

He couldn't calm down. Mikoto was beyond upset, he was terrified. John's own anger and Mikoto's fear had them in a frenzy, their hands pulling at anything they could grasp. What could he do? He had to help Mikoto. After all, it was John's fault, John's anger, John's actions that caused him this agony. Mikoto wouldn't hurt someone like that. He couldn't!

"I COULD. I DIDN'T WANT TO!" A shriek escaped his mouth. John didn't feel like that words were his. He took a deep breath, one hand still keeping his hair in a death grip.

The other was over his mouth. John had heard enough of what the other prisoners were able to hear. He was sure that they would be punished if they were any louder; or maybe Mikoto was sure.

He just didn't know anymore.

"They were killing you," John whispered, voice strained. "Even if you didn't do i-"

The words caught in his throat, and John's breath hitched as he felt the world start to blur around him.

"I do remember that I wanted to," came a choked whisper from Mikoto. "I wanted nothing more. Those people - those men... My life was hell. I was too slow with turnarounds no matter how long I submitted before the deadline. They called me day and night like a dog to their side. And th- the way they spoke to me and my coworkers - realizing their contempt toward the working men alone but god the WOMEN-" He sobbed loudly, burying their head in his hands. "The- these are the people our baby sister gets to meet next. The ones our mom married, the ones who lie and cheat and demand and force- they should be GONE they SHOULD. BUT- but I never thought-" he trailed off, curled into a tense ball. He could hardly feel John anymore -

Oh god.

He could feel John.

Like another person in the room, he felt another presence almost by his side. Another sob turned into a laugh at the absurdity of it all. The warden had no dog - Mikoto did.

And it was himself.

And that's why there was another "him," blaming his newfound self for Mikoto's plans and actions.

He felt terrible, in a hundred different ways. "John, it wasn't your fa-" Mikoto stopped mid-sentence, torn between guilt for his other self and the terror of realization hitting. He pressed himself against the cold wall and breathed slowly as he could, suddenly overcome with a clammy, nauseous feeling.

It wasn't a dream.

Mikoto had been sick in his cell once before, during a particularly bad panic episode. He had cleaned it up well and told no one, but somehow he was still met with looks of concern and pity and fear ten times over the following morning. Damn thin walls. The already isolated prisoner was not about to let that happen again. He slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and grit his teeth as the room spun, wanting only to sleep. If only he could shut down, wake up in his apartment and cry about his shitty day at his shitty job surrounded by shitty people that his shitty singular self did not kill.

The weight of that possibility leaving forever made him feel like he would never eat again.

John felt the pressure mounting in their head and body, powerless to help. Just behind front, able to listen to the perspective he'd been wishing to hear for so long, and unable to do a damn thing. After all the begging to be acknowledged, he still hadn't saved Mikoto. Not by a long shot.

They were both stricken with panic by now, John beginning to pace around the cell and breathing deeply to the point of pain. Anything to keep from spiraling, from causing a mess, from snapping again, from hurting someone or even needing them.

And then they froze, a third voice that felt equally unreal catching their attention. Difference was, she and another were outside themselves , and outside the door to their room.

"He's at it again..." John heard Kotoko sigh faintly, breathing shallow as he stood at a standstill. He was so at a loss that he forgot to be angry at her treatment of Mikoto. Mikoto wasn't a killer. John was. Leave Mikoto out of it, let him live without this pain. It's why John was here to begin with! Did he fail? Did he drive any other help away?

"Ugh. I'll wait here, as you requested. Give him this." John heard a small acknowledgement from Es as they took the mystery item. He flinched, bracing himself.

Were they chaining him up again? Drugging him? What did he get Mikoto into now??

Whether he knew it or not, Mikoto was feeling the same guilt towards John, ashamed for not having noticed and feeling cowardly for running from him.

"John..." Es brought the protector to attention, gently holding out a water bottle. He hadn't even registered that they opened the door. He stared for a second, feeling shamefully and ridiculously dog-like, but took the offering. "How did you know..."

"Because Mikoto puts on airs," Es replied plainly. "He would have forced a posture that was more relaxed, perhaps greeting me as 'Guard-kun.'" Their voice went up a tad as they imitated Mikoto's tone, first amusing and then startling John. Was the switch that obvious? Had he ruined any chance of Mikoto being normal again?

"So you can... You can tell. We really are that different?"

"Afraid so," Es replied. "John, do you two... Do you know how DID happens?" They stood across from him, gauging his reaction. John seemed to be struggling to stay grounded as he explained.

"We never thought we had any sort of amnesia... We once read that it happens when... Oh," John sighed. "I have no idea what happened. But I know... I know..."

"When a child is hurt badly over a period of time, in their very early stages-"

"Yeah I know how it goes." He snapped like John, but John felt the words come from elsewhere. The voice also sound absolutely defeated, the truth having come to reveal itself.

"Mikoto...?"

"..."

Mikoto felt.

He was aware, he knew what he was saying, but his voice was bitter and monotone. He didn't know what to feel. He just felt.

"I don't fuckin know anymore," he sighed. Es was not entirely convinced it was only him - his voice was cold, and while quieter than John's, Es wasn't even sure they had heard Mikoto curse before. Of course, Mikoto was subject to change as any other prisoner, and his demeanor almost reminded them of Fuuta's current state.

Mikoto took a deep breath, standing a little straighter. "I... Suspected it, when I heard about it from some class, and then forgot about it. But yeah, when a mother and a father hate each other, and possibly you, very very much... I know how it happens." His eyes darkened. "Life got better, I think, when Dad left. Mom wouldn't talk about him, and she'd get mad if I even said something that she thought he would... But I could tell she missed him. My baby sis seems okay for her age, on track development and all, but despite all the responsibility I could handle I could never quite get it right."

Es nodded thoughtfully. "So you were ridiculed and blamed for things you weren't even aware was upsetting to your parents? Did they take things out on you, because you were older?"

"I... I guess. I never thought it was that bad," Mikoto sighed. "But living on my own, I started to feel more and more disconnected. More angry, more paranoid... And I started having nightmares. I forgot about those for awhile too. When it started affecting my work, I even tried to forget I was stressed at all."

"Or rather, your mind helped you forget," Es mused.

"It should have stayed forgotten," the prisoner growled. "I can't believe I ruined everything, and I didn't even know it. John wanted to protect someone who forced him to exist because I COULDN'T protect me!" He pulled at the strap over his chest, struggling to keep composure. There was no trace of his fake smile.

"You didn't force anything," Es corrected him softly. "The brain is an organ that adapts to survive. Even had you known, it's not something that can be harnessed and commanded. It's adaptation." It was a simple matter-of-fact, complex as it was. Es hoped they had their facts straight now, anyway.

"So how do we go back to normal?!" Mikoto cried. His hands were shaking now and was sobbing again; he quickly realized how dizzy he was becoming. "I-I need to sit." He lowered himself back to the floor and slumped against the wall, arms childishly wrapped around his knees. He felt nothing but shame presenting himself this way. He was 23, he was a graphic design agent, a working man! He couldn't break down like this! He couldn't have it this bad! Even if he didn't even feel like himself at the moment, even if reality felt completely made up... "There's got- there's got to be a way to fix this."

To his surprise, Es didn't look at him with judgement or pity. The only thing that stood out was curiosity, and they gently sat beside him as they gathered their words. "It's not a matter of fixing, Kayano-kun. You all need... Healing," Es spoke carefully. They figured the nickname would do for now.

"Can't heal from a murder charge," the prisoner scoffed. Mikoto felt reality spin as John spat out his remark. John ran a hand through his hair, smoothing some parts and causing others to stick out awkwardly. "It's still my fault. Those urges, those feelings... They're mine to carry, to protect him from."

"John... maybe you can protect each other. Share the burden. It was one body and, according to Milgram, one prisoner. Maybe if you can forgive yourselves... Milgram will show me a better outcome for you both." That was the best Es could think of to help right now. To think it was upon them to say whether this man was forgivable; he had seen so much of the real world that they themselves had yet to remember, and they couldn't even imagine the stress of his perfectionist lifestyle on top of it all. They wanted to cry from how unfair it all was, but prisoner 009 was the priority right now.

As the warden... They had to do what they thought was best. They almost felt guilty for having Kotoko on standby, even though it was she who insisted. But that didn't mean Mikoto, or even John, was dangerous.

"I know I didn't do the right thing," Mikoto sighed, sitting up as he regained composure. "And it still doesn't feel real. I can almost feel the memory slipping again. It hurts, Guard-kun!" He gripped the sides of his head. Es instinctively reached gently for his hands to discourage him from pulling his hair out, and Mikoto flinched. He hit the barrier between them with his hands as he automatically covered himself.

"Shhh... Mikoto..."

"I'm sorry!"

"You didn't hurt me. I startled you," Es said. "Mikoto, you don't need to remember all the time. That's what your alter John, and any others there may be... Are for," they looked away, thinking bitterly about what may lie in their own memories. "It can hurt to remember, Mikoto. Sometimes it's even dangerous."

"I was dangerous when I didn't remember, too," Mikoto sniffed. "John... He wanted to protect us - protect me - so badly that we hurt a lot of things. Even you."

"Well as for me, Mikoto, my physical health is no worse for wear," Es replied. They were only partly lying - they were exhausted constantly, but John's outburst was long down the list of incidents by now. "I forgive you. Do you... Forgive you? Forgive John?"

"John... I barely know John..." Mikoto sighed, feeling defeated as the words he tried to form seemed to fade from his mind. "But I... I forgive his mistakes. I hope he can forgive me too." Mikoto then felt lightheaded again, but although his throat felt stuck and his chest was tight, his left hand gave a small thumbs up.

Es couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Well, there you go."

Mikoto heaved a sigh, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. "Thank you..." He whispered. He began to cry again, but smiled a smile that seemed to come more from genuine gratitude than fear. "Thank you, Guard-kun. I know... John will be happier now. I'm... I'm really scared. But we don't have to be lonely."

Es stood up slowly, offering a hand to help him to the bed. 009 sat still on the floor for a moment, a small frown forming on his face as he took their hand. "It's... It's John." He whispered, although they were partly holding him upright, Milgram ignoring his presence and giving him away. It felt strange, announcing himself like that, but comfortable too. "I know we can't undo what we did... Thank you for helping Mikoto."

"You deserve help, too, John. Mikoto wants to be there for you, too," the small warden looked up at him with almost a sense of urgency, praying John wouldn't try to take it all on himself anymore.

"Well he can start..." John mused, "by not giving away my cigarettes anymore. How's that?"

"Oh yeah, he did tell me to stop giving those to him even if he asks. I think..." They almost didn't suppress a laugh as they walked the system to their cot; although the situation wasn't funny itself, it was an interesting process. "I think finding those over and over is when he knew he forgot more than he knew."

"Damn right..." John sat down on the bed, the body falling over nearly instantly.

"Goodnight, John-kun, Mikoto-kun," Es said softly, heading towards the cell door.

"Goodnight, and thank you again," John's low voice replied.

As they went out the door, they heard another.

"Oh! Goodnight, Guard-kun!" A soft whisper said from across the room. "...And thank you."

That night was the most restful sleep Mikoto's body had gotten in years. He almost felt like he could finally get used to this. He would never get used to "being a killer," though. He didn't know much about the social perception of DID, so he sure hoped that wasn't a general stereotype.

End.

#milgram #mikoto milgram #john milgram #milgram fanfic #character study #cw vomit mention #cw panic attack #cw rapid switching #?#idk if anyone needs that but it's there lol #cw mild self-injury (unintentional)#switching my be written confusingly but we did our best lol it's confusing on this end too #ambiguous third mikoto #longer than i intended but wasn't sure where it was going anyway lol #freeform yaaaaay #Es 009 siblings for life

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