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hopeformankind · 10 months

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Open Starter.

Every kingdom, in itself, needed a man that could be considered a Devil.

A man that could send people to their deaths, carry the weight of unending casualties on their shoulders and still press on without falter. A man that could dig his nails into the very goal he fought for and never let go, not once, for anything else-- a man that could do everything necessary to keep clinging to it.

A kingdom needed a Devil that wore the skin of a human to be able to make the toughest choices that no one would dare make-- it was an ideal situation to have everybody come back alive... but it was never realistic. What was needed was realism, not falsities and lies that could lead to so many being killed just to try to reach that ideal scenario. The Walls, with his Wings of Freedom slathered in the crimson of the lost soldiers, had Commander Erwin Smith of the Survey Corps.

Erwin Smith was a man that many considered to be untouchable and downright unstoppable. He was the one who made the Long-Distance Scouting Formation. He was the one who knew of a possible traitor in their ranks and someone that, too, wore human skin just as he did to slaughter his soldiers. He was the one who continued their advance against the Armored and Colossal Titans to get Eren Jaeger back, the one that exposed the corruption of the nobility and the false King on the throne, the one that executed their plans to kill Rod Reiss's deformed Titan, the one that led their mission to retake Shiganshina.

But, it was at Shiganshina that this all had devolved into insanity.

Young recruits led to die against the Beast Titan, whole squadrons pelted with speeding rocks and the air turning red from the blood mist, dust and smoke and even remnants of flames pluming upward to the cloudy skies as the hot steam of the Colossal Titan, houses completely displaced and left as mere scraps in the remnants of the District. So many casualties. So many screams.

He was a man many wouldn't consider human-- a man who hid his humanity deep down to make the choices that many wouldn't dare try, locked up his emotions and held them tight if it meant using his logic and rationale to calculate what they could of every scenario. And many would say he was a betting man, gambling the lives of everybody as if they were mere pawns-- but he wasn't a man who toyed with the flames of life as if he were God. He wasn't a man that hid behind his soldiers, no. He would always lead the charge-- no matter what, on his white steed as his eyes as solid as ice would survey everything of their situation and guess on what needed to be done next. Despite Erwin's own feelings of himself, he wasn't truly a con-man.

Perhaps he tricked himself into believing his goal was to fight for Humanity-- perhaps he'd lied to himself and believed he lied to others, but when it came to the graduation ceremony and the very end, he spoke the truth to the best of his ability. Casualty rates were high. There was the biggest chance that none of your friends, nor you, would make it back alive. And yet, for some reason, people still joined their cause. And in the end, Erwin refused to let his soldiers die alone-- he joined them right to the very end, and was the first to be struck and trampled in his charge under the hooves of many as he was left lying in the mud. He held not just his own dreams to such level of importance, but the dreams of the collective as a whole. Their faces were still etched into his mind-- and in this moment, as Erwin Smith lied on the bed he'd been originally laid to rest upon by Hange and Levi, he still remembered all of them.

No human should've been able to survive anything like that-- a speeding rock to the body would kill anybody, and it should've killed Erwin. But, for some reason, a Scout that still believed in him that survived the charge had let him live. Maybe it was out of desperation-- maybe it was out of Floch's explanation of what they needed: a Devil, to help lead them, or even out of genuine loyalty to Erwin-- either way, the Commander, left in that abandoned home in Shiganshina was alive. Barely conscious... but alive. Alive, raging against the dying of the light and continuing to keep his nails buried deep in the emptiness of his old cause to try to scavenge for something new.

Only someone as mad as Erwin would try to find the Commander-- the sounds of footsteps creaked through the old home as Erwin's body barely twitched when hearing it. With all of that blood loss, how his guts nearly fell out of him, any man would be left comatose if they somehow miraculously lived, but even so, he still heard things-- the calls of birds, the wind rushing past the buildings-- many things, so this new sound of footsteps going through the abandoned house was easily noticed despite his catatonic state. Erwin's fingers twitched on his chest, his eyes moving in his head as if to try to pinpoint those footsteps, figure out who they belonged to.

Someone had come for him for some reason or another. Perhaps to pay respects-- though he couldn't understand why, with everything he'd done. The bodies of those in his suicide charge had long since decomposed by this time, outside Wall Maria, and those killed by the Colossal Titan were no doubt left as remnants of ashes and soot within the Walls. Maybe Humanity did succeed... but at what cost?

The door creaked open, and the Commander could only brace himself for whoever would enter. His fate was in their hands.

#[ i believe in those who believe in themselves | open starter . ]#//ANYONE CAN REPLY!!!!!#//im SO sorry this is long i just got SUPER inspired and BHUAWH #ask to tag tw #death tw #mass death tw #blood tw #injury tw #graphic injury tw #coma tw #comatose tw #violence tw #long post tw

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pineapplesquash · 11 months

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#Vent #vent tw #Sorta??#I'm just yelling here thru gritted teeth #ONE MORE MONTH #ONE MOREEEEEE AND I CAN COMATOSE #or at least just by the end of this week #there is So Much tension in my bones trying to hassle my groupmates into Some sense of urgency #and then also homework #but thankfully the homework is halved from sem 1 #however the group work has been 3x as Stressful #and not even to the fault of the assignment itself #pine babbles

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mylifeisafadingtragedy · 7 months

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#artblr #digital art #oc #drawings #drawing #original art #comatose #coma tw #tw depressing stuff #artists on tumblr

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comment-exchange · 1 year

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300. Every Ghost in Me (Tales of Arcadia)

Title: Every Ghost in Me Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892450 Platform: AO3 Creator: YellowMagicalGirl Work Type: Fanfic Fandom: Tales of Arcadia Rating: T Pairing: Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez, Javier Nuñez/Ophelia Nuñez Word count: 10,188 Warnings: Comatose Character, Possible character death Number of comments: 7 Completion Status: Complete Short summary/description:

Jim and Toby are astronauts sent to the dimension known as D-13, or as the media calls it, the Shadow Realm. Jim’s tether breaks, and he is left alone.

He isn’t alone.

#submission #ao3 #ff #toa #jljxcn #jnxon #10k #tw: comatose character #tw: possible character death #7c #complete #one shot #astronaut au #archive of our own #fanfiction #Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez #tales of arcadia #yellowmagicalgirl #Javier Nuñez/Ophelia Nuñez

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ofdinosanddais1 · 1 year

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My mom, out of nowhere at least five times a week: "You need to be on this very specific diet and eat no sugar or salt whatsoever."

---

My doctor: "So what is your appetite like"

Me: "Oh, I usually eat small meals throughout the day because if I eat a regular sized meal then I get sick. I also know when I need to eat salt and sugar and protein because of very specific cravings I get."

My doctor: "Oh, so you're intuitively eating. That's what I would recommend to someone with unexplained digestive problems and chronic nausea. I think you listening to your body and your cravings has probably been a big help in preventing serious medical problems. I don't see any excessive amounts of LDL cholesterol or salt or sugar in your blood so it's not like there's any proof your diet is poor that can't be explained by digestive problems so let's figure out what's going on."

#fatphobia mention #food mention #tw disordered eating #tw eating disorder #not me who has the disordered eating but definitely my mom #listen to your body #fatphobia #diet culture #if i end up having diabetes i'm never gonna hear the end of it from my mom #i guarantee if i followed her diet then i would end up in the hospital #the keto diet can work for her because it's for her epilepsy but i don't have epilepsy #if i did keto then i would probably die or end up comatose #my body already has a hard enough time digesting shit. i'm not cutting out anything except gluten #and the gluten is because i probably have celiacs #and if i have celiacs then my doctors want me to start right now to make sure my intestines can start healing asap #also i got lucky with my doctors so this is not gonna apply to everyone

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wrxthfulguard · 2 years

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(X) @thankfulmuses

“I’m sick too, but again, if we make any rash actions, then the case gets more compromised... We were supposed to keep the investigation private and in the shadows, but unfortunately, we can’t control what goes outside our circle of investigators... Because of one’s actions, it’s getting harder to track down the suspect, and as a result, more attacks will happen, and we lose any chances of getting leads and evidence for the case because of the unrest they’re causing.”

Don sighed, keeping his wrath under control.

“Look, all I can say is... That we need help getting leads, that we don’t need to apprehend all the Hellhounds in Hell, just the suspect themselves... We just need evidence, a lead... Anything that doesn’t keep the case open long into the upcoming cleanse... I’m not a professional detective, but I’m doing everything I can to help.”

#thankfulmuses #wrathful personified (IC)#v; fighting and surviving (main)#fictional racism tw #event; a dose to comatose

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heyslutsitswinter · 2 years

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Mail was halted huh? Fine then. Bridget being the utter image of maturity and “playing” fair, she got to work on her next big banger.

Several drones started to fly throughout the Pentagram, unnoticed at first, after all, everyone flew Voxitech’s drones all the time. But these weren’t made by Voxitech, though at a first glance the models looked similar. And these drones here to stalk, or anything of the sort, these carried bombs. Holy water bombs at that.

They flew over to mail stations, each one landing on top of the buildings thought didn’t instantly explode yet. Each postal office in pentagram city, each one got a bomb, she waited for a good few moments, looking at her watch,

1....2.....3!

All at once in a beautiful violent harmony every street with a mail or postal office went up in flames, loud booms the ground seeming to shake up, screams of sinners echoing wildly. This might seem like trying to hide her tracks but it wasn’t, it was a message to every royal of hell.

Try to stop her and she’ll turn the citizens of hell against them. Simple as that.

#IC; Bridget #Verse; A Dose to Comatose #explosion tw #terrorism tw

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generic-whumperz · 8 months

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The Aid: Chapter 3- Say My Name

(Chapters 3 & 4 will flow right into each other as they were originally one part, but oopsie, I accidentally wrote approx. 20 pages, so two parts it is!)

TW: Aftermath of torture & starvation, drugged whumpee + mentions of experimental drugging, suicidal ideation and past non-con (not explicit), whumpee awakening from a coma, probably medical malpractice (med whumpy?), Care-Whumper, pet/ modern-day slavery, asshole whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, fuck this guy), traumatized whumpee, trauma flashbacks, panic attacks, Whumpee being called "boy," and "kid(do)" even though he's an adult

Word count: 4203

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The Aid’s eyes weakly fluttered half-open before closing again. His body reflexively stirred, pulling him back to the waking world against his will; he grunted a sleepy, monotone groan as he lazily repositioned his head.

He felt more dead than alive; the fatigue soaked him through to the bone, yet his psyche defiantly clawed its way back to a muddled consciousness where his mind’s eye stared into a blank space of nothingness as if it was stuck on a reboot cycle.

He internally pleaded with himself, ‘Fuck no, not yet. Let me sleep, come one, give me just a little more sleep.’

“Ah, there he is!” A far-away, muffled-sounding voice said. He felt a slight pressure on the sides of his face.

Hands were on him, but he could hardly feel them; his numb and tingly body could barely register feeling anything. He felt as if a gigantic snake was constricting him—simultaneously squeezing the life force out of him and strangling him in a stupefied haze.

“Comm’on, kiddo, open those eyes for me.”

‘No. Go away. I’m not here.’

He wanted nothing more than for the arms of slumber to wrap around him and drag him back to the deep, murky waters of dreamland where distant voices couldn’t reach him— but his life was no fucking magical dreamland.

The hands rudely slapped the sides of his face. He groaned again, this time louder in a show of disapproval, now irritated that he was externally denied the one thing he craved more than anything.

“Yeah, buddy, comm’on. I know you feel like shit, but I need you up now.” The voice still sounded far away but a little less muffled now.

He turned away from the hands trying to rouse him, refusing to be smacked awake further. His eyelids felt like lead bricks; sluggishly, he rubbed the sleep out with the back of his hand, just enough to peer through slitted lids to get a look at this bastard who interrupted his rest.

A bright light immediately assaulted his vision. He flinched away from it, shielding his face behind the crook of his elbow. He waited a moment before trying to peer again, but it was still too much; the blinding white light made his eyes burn and water. Trying to escape the assault on both fronts, he cranked his neck to the side to bury his head into the pillow—the pillow?

Where was he?

The intensity of the light told him that he was no longer in the basement. The pillow signified that he was probably in a bed, a nice one at that. And the voice sounded masculine, but not like Wyatt Sullivan’s.

Did he—was he—could he be…safe?

“Rise n’ shine, bud!”

‘Who the fuck is this?’

He smothered his face in the pillow, preparing to fight the blinding light once more. This time, he kept his eyes open long enough to see the silhouette of a person standing over him with blurry doubles of the figure on each side. The more he squinted, the better he saw as the blurred doubles began to morph back into the silhouette, although the central figure was still indistinguishable.

“Oh, before I forget,” the same voice said, “I got you another pair of these made for you.” He felt something placed on the bridge of his nose and tucked behind his ears—Glasses!

He blinked a few times; the light still blinded him, but now he could at least observe the world in a slightly better focus. He had forgotten what it was like to actually be able to see things. How long had it been since Wyatt Sullivan crushed his last pair of glasses? It had to be at least several months at this point—several months of misty vision and living life in blurs.

But time was hard to keep track of when you’re shackled in a basement for months.

“Light sensitivity?” The voice inquired as those same hands as before cradled his face and directed his gaze upwards.

He could hardly make out a man's face hovering over him as his eyes adjusted to the lighting and his prescription.

‘Confirmed: Not Wyatt Sullivan.’ The concern and gentle touch told him that much, at least. But there was something vaguely familiar about this man…

“Damn. I’ll have to add that to the notes. Sorry about that buddy, known side effect of an experimental drug you’re on.”

‘Experimental drug?’

The hands withdrew from his face, and his head slumped back to a comfortable position as he closed his strained eyes. He heard the unmistakable swish of a zipper followed by the man noisily shuffling things around and the dulled, tinny cling of items placed on metal. The noises were hard to ignore; they sounded unnaturally loud, echoing in his skull and making his ears ring. He grunted again to show his annoyance—he was too exhausted for words and didn’t have the mental faculties to string together a sentence.

The clamor ceased for a moment. “My, aren’t we grumpy?” The man seemed amused before continuing on. It was now clear to him that this noise was an effort to subtly keep him awake, but it wasn’t subtle in the slightest. Message received.

“You’ve been out for a week, been in a coma from blood loss. You almost died—well, you did die, but I was luckily able to revive you-”

‘Oh yes, lucky me.’ He would have rolled his eyes if they were open; it was a good thing he kept them shut. He sighed quietly to himself.

The man continued making a commotion as he spoke, “You went into hypovolemic shock, but it wasn’t anything a good ole blood transfusion couldn’t fix. Well, that and some tranexamic acid and emergency handy work from yours truly. Got yourself a nasty stab wound in your right shoulder, a broken rib, several infected wounds, a sprained ankle, and a broken wrist that I had to put screws in; looks like your Master is back to his old habits. You’re also underweight and, according to your bloodwork, malnourished, which is causing some other issues. You’re not looking too hot, but I think you’ll pull through. It's good that Wyatt’s friend stopped by that night and found the two of you. You were both knocked out and covered in blood down in the basement. You two get into some kind of fight?”

A “fight” implies that two people are equally participating in attacking each other; he and Wyatt Sullivan never “fought”; he was battered, violated, and tortured. Regardless, he couldn’t remember any of it; how could he when his head felt like a swarmed bee’s nest. He could hardly register the man’s words—his supposed retelling of events that led him here—let alone form any kind of response.

“Try to open your eyes again now,” the voice directed. To The Aid’s surprise, he was able to open his eyes completely without the blinding light consuming his vision. He blinked slowly, inspecting his surroundings, trying to regain his bearings.

He recognized the place as his old room—his room in the house. The room Madame Eleanor Sullivan gave him when she first acquired him; the room Wyatt said he was not worthy of having because mangy mutts didn’t deserve rooms.

He couldn’t make out much in the room besides the dresser to his left, and the closet and bathroom door frames across the room (the doors were taken off the hinges, being one of the first “privileges” his new master stripped him of). The room felt emptier than he remembered it. To his right was the wide, rectangular window with the blinds closed, the ceiling light was off, and the only glow in the room came from the small table lamp on his nightstand—the lighting was restricted due to his poor eyesight, no doubt.

“Haven’t been in here in a while, have you?”

Was the mix of confusion and relief on his face that obvious?

‘Who are you?’ He tried to study the figure as his eyes adjusted to the room’s dim lighting at a snail’s pace, but he was still drawing a blank.

The harder he tried to think, the more his head became engulfed with an insectile buzz.

‘The bees…in my brain…’

“Remember me?” The man noticed his blank stare. After a moment of not saying anything, the man continued, “Dr. Paul, Paul Richards.”

The human pet doctor.

He hummed and nodded slightly, the best he could manage. He considered attempting to croak out a “yes” when he quickly realized he couldn’t feel his tongue and wasn’t sure if he could talk.

“Do you remember your name?”

‘My…name?’ He was sure he had a name—everyone had a name—but even that escaped him.

“Don’t bother; he forgot his name a long time ago.”

The Aid’s eyes shot to the left, where the voice came from, and he saw the outline of Wyatt Sullivan in the doorframe. He didn’t need to see the features; he’d know that outline anywhere. This wasn’t the first time he looked upon this blackened silhouette in low light and a less-than-present state—they’d met many times like this.

If he wasn’t so woozy and out of it, he was sure that he would have started panicking. He didn’t remember what had happened, but if the two of them were both found knocked out in the basement as Dr. Paul had said, he knew he would be punished for all of it and that Sullivan would be wringing his neck the second Dr. Paul declared him well enough to take another round of beatings.

“Oh, Wyatt, I’m sure he knows,” Dr. Paul said playfully. The Doctor leaned over him and gently cupped his face to study his eyes more closely with a penlight clasped in the other hand as he carefully shone it at nose level to observe the rate of his eye dilation.

‘This feels…nice.’ He couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the hand this time; it was comforting and tender and made him feel like someone actually cared about him. The only hands he could remember touching him were harsh and inflicted pain.

“Poor kid, he’s done a number on you,” Dr. Paul’s voice was low and close, meant for only him to hear. The Doctor noticed how he had clung to a gentle touch and recognized it as a telltale sign of prolonged mistreatment and abuse—as if his current physical state was not telling enough. The famed inner-circle doctor worked exclusively with human pets; he had seen his fair share of ones that were beaten and neglected, but most shied away from any hand, even one that was meant to heal.

But The Aid and Dr. Paul were no strangers.

“He’s just nice and drugged up, high as a Tasmanian wallaby in a wild poppy field! Just gave him a nice cocktail of hydromorphone, diazepam, and my secret sauce right before he woke up,” The Doctor’s voice was louder now, meant for all present to hear. He left his hand on The Aid’s cheek in a small act of comfort; the good Doctor could tell he more than needed it, accurately surmising he was touch-starved.

The Doctor smiled at him—no one had genuinely smiled at him in a long time.

“Can’t feel a thing; can you, bud?”

‘Nope, nada, zip.’ Nothing but that glorious hand on his cheek—that soft hand filling him up with the warm n’ fuzzies that erased all memories of pain and made him feel like he was in love. The tension from the zizz of the bee swarm in his temple dulled, joining the rest of his body’s numbness.

‘Damn, these drugs are good.’

“You spoil him,” Sullivan grunted, taking a few steps into the room, annoyed with the Doctor’s coddling.

“Hm, well Wyatt, if you didn’t stab him to death, maybe I wouldn't be so inclined to give your boy a bit of narcotic comfort 'cause lord knows you don’t take very good care of him.” The Doctor said this in a chipper tone, knowing he could speak his mind without fear of Sullivan’s fist or harsh tongue.

This was a luxury that The Aid was never afforded but loved to witness whenever he could. Men like Wyatt Sullivan were rarely hushed or made to confront the consequences of their actions. This “incident” wasn’t the first time the Doctor was called on to clean The Aid up after Sullivan left him in a bloody pulp and needed someone to fix his mess. The relationship between Sullivan and Dr. Paul leaned towards tense and edgy, like all of Sullivan’s relationships, but this was one he needed to maintain. This rewarded the Doctor with getting away with things most others couldn’t.

Sullivan expelled his agitation in a single, drawn-out huff that was louder than needed to be, his obnoxious way of publicly letting his frustrations known.

“He has a roof over his head and a bed; that’s more than many have,” Wyatt deflected.

The Aid was abruptly stricken with immortalized images that presented themselves in the form of slowly flicked-through single-frame stills in a View-Master-

-The dirty mattress stained with his blood.

-The creaky basement ceiling with exposed rusted pipes hanging from it.

-Sullivan straddling him.

-The cold metal collar locked around his neck.

-The thick chain tethering him to the support beam.

-Sullivan’s dirty fingers wrapping around him.

-His fucking “litter box.”

-The drinking bowl of discolored, rusted water.

-Sullivan’s thumb hooking his waistband and pulling down.

-A bloody knife.

-A Quaker Oats cereal bar just out of reach.

-Sullivan mounting him from behind.

They flashed through his mind like he recalled details of a long-forgotten nightmare as Sullivan’s argument implied that his living conditions counted as proper housing and were something to be thankful for. A mixture of anger and fear swelled in his gut, making him feel nauseous and light-headed. His body tensely froze; he forced out low, shuddered breaths, activated by the surge of emotions brought on by the influx of unbearable memories.

“Unfortunately, I do think you are right. However, of those less fortunate, I do not believe many of them to be abused house servants with gaping stab wounds, broken bones, or cuts and bruises given to them by their Master,” The Doctor retorted, removing his hand from The Aid’s face and pulling the blanket down to reveal his stabbed shoulder and upper torso wrapped in bandages.

“His right side is pretty mangled. There isn’t much we can do for a broken rib other than let it heal on its own. Luckily, it didn’t puncture any organs or break through the skin, but it can still happen if it gets jolted or further aggravated.” Dr. Paul hovered his hand mid-way over The Aid’s rib cage, “The break is about here.”

Dr. Paul moved the blanket to expose The Aid’s right arm propped up on a pillow to keep it elevated, revealing a taped-down IV sticking out of his forearm and a wired pulse oximeter placed on his index finger.

“This will take about two to three months to heal fully. Hopefully faster with the experimental artificial stem cell and osteoblast bone regrowth injection that was administered during surgery.” The Doctor grinned, gesturing at The Aid’s wrapped and splinted wrist.

“You are on the frontier of modern medicine. May even wind up as a case study in a medical journal somewhere!” Dr. Paul keenly proclaimed, sounding pleased with himself.

‘Yes, I am the poster boy for wellness,’ The Aid thought sarcastically.

The Aid hadn’t even looked down to examine himself once since waking—he didn’t know if this was either out of the habit of preferring to not know just how bad his injuries were as he often avoided looking at his wounds, or if it was because he temporarily forgot he had a body since it was so numb and he was mentally disconnected from the physical plane.

He lifted his head to get a better look at his wrist—sure, he’d been stabbed plenty of times, but he’d never gotten screws before. He observed his wrapped hand, wondering how gross and swollen it looked under the layers of bandages that made it look like he was wearing some kind of MMA glove.

Would he have an incision scar? Would he regain full movement? Would he be able to feel the screws?

“Well, looks like I've given you plenty of work, just tryin’ to keep you in business, Doc,” Sullivan chucked, standing at the foot of the bed, trying to take the high road.

“As if you were actually paying me. Anyway-” Dr. Paul’s eyes sternly shot up to meet Sullivan’s, signaling that he meant business now, gesturing at The Aid’s shoulder—“This bandage will need to be changed every two days. I’ll probably take the stitches out next week, but he’s been healing slowly because he’s so malnourished and vitamin-deficient. Same with the wrist.”

The doctor stood up, fully extending his spine, sighed, and distraughtly rubbed his temples. “Wyatt, I don’t give a shit about whatever petty squabble you have with him; you need to feed him, especially with the meds he’s on. I need accurate readings for the experimental drugs, which means we need to follow the instructions to a T. If the pharmaceutical company doesn’t think we’re playing by their rules, they won’t credit me for this trial, which means you’ll owe me much more than you can afford.” Dr. Paul paused and took a long, hard look at Sullivan to ensure he understood the statement's gravity.

"This ain’t our first horse and pony show Doc, don’t gotta treat me like some sorta glue-eater who doesn't understand the square root of jackshit,” Sullivan flashed his best rakish grin at the unamused Doctor. The Aid cringed to himself; he hated it when Sullivan tried to act funny and cool, trying to appear more insouciant than he really was.

The Doctor continued, not matching Sullivan’s fake carefree attitude. “I’ll leave a list of foods he can eat—don’t give him anything but what’s been approved since his stomach can’t handle a lot. He’s going to be on a strict medication schedule; he can’t miss a dose-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I ain’t a fucking idiot,” Sullivan chortled passive-aggressively.

‘Debatable.’

Dr. Paul resumed without missing a beat, “I’m also prescribing him some supplements to get his vitamin levels back up, and I’m refilling his prescription for antidepressants, and I’m adding an antipsychotic again. I assume he’s been suffering from psychosis from the solitary confinement you put him in; most wouldn’t do well under those conditions. And no one would do well under those conditions, starved and assaulted.”

The Doctor reached down beside The Aid’s bed and brought forth a clipboard that he thumbed through, taking a moment to skim a page with his index finger.

“The past few evaluations have shown an overall decline in mental stability. He’s reported feeling more anxious and depressed, with increased insomnia, auditory and visual hallucinations, sleep paralysis, and suicidal ideation with each check-up or visit. He isn’t talking, but that’s to be expected as of right now; I just hope he hasn’t gone mute on us from the forced isolation and brain damage from the coma. I mean that on top of all the other shit you’ve done to him.” Dr. Paul’s tone was disapproving and slightly resentful.

All three knew what the Doctor was referring to, but none dared point it out directly anymore—it had become an unspoken rule. Despite Dr. Paul’s impersonal way of speaking about him as if he wasn’t there, The Aid appreciated the Doctor sticking up for him in whatever way he did. Some may have taken offense to such a blatant display of pity, but The Aid welcomed it since it made him feel seen and validated—reminding him that he was an actual person and not just some object to be exploited.

“What you tryin’ta say, Doc, hm?” Sullivan crossed his arms and tilted his chin up, glowering suspectantly at Dr. Paul with squinted eyes.

The Aid felt tension rise in the air as his chest tightened, and he felt a lump grow in his throat. He wearily gazed up at the Doctor, hoping he would look down at him to see the plea in his eyes to not provoke Sullivan further.

“You don’t need to be so rough on him,” Dr. Paul said plainly. “He’s a good kid-”

“He’s not a fucking kid, he’s a slave. And he’s my slave, my property, so I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with him.”

The Aid’s heart sank into his stomach, which twisted in a tight knot. It didn’t matter how often he heard it; every time Wyatt Sullivan called him his slave, his heart broke a little more, and he lost bits of himself he knew he’d never fully recover. He was surprised there were still pieces to break, yet here he found himself cut by a shard once again.

“Usually, people take better care of their personal property. I have leather shoes the same age as him that look just as good as the day I bought them. But I digress. Let’s just make it through these trials, and then you can go back to doing whatever-it-is-you-do-to-him.” The two older men stared at each other in an uncomfortable, overly-dramatic moment. The Aid anxiously clenched the blanket in a tight fist, trying to steady his breathing before either of the two men would notice him having a minor panic attack.

Unexpectedly, Sullivan broke the stare with Dr. Paul and glanced down at The Aid, their eyes accidentally meeting for a second.

‘Shit!’

An eruption of panic coursed through The Aid’s veins as he quickly turned away, his breath quickening further still. Sullivan chucked victoriously at his reaction.

Dr. Paul reached down to The Aid’s clenched fist and felt him trembling—the Doctor knew.

“Shh, you’re okay, Bud. You’re safe,” Dr. Paul hushed in a soothing tone.

‘If only that were true.’

The Doctor glimpsed at his wristwatch, continuing as if nothing had happened. “I have an appointment I need to get to soon. I still need to take out his feeding tube, IV, and catheter and try to get him up and walking before I leave. Wyatt, can you get him a glass of water, please?”

Dr. Paul tore off a single sheet of paper from the clipboard and handed it to Sullivan. “Then, could you warm him up some low-sodium chicken and vegetable soup? This is the list of recommended foods.”

Wyatt scoffed before taking a few steps closer to meet Dr. Paul’s outstretched hand over the bed and snatched the list.

“He’s my servant, not the other way around,” Sullivan scowled.

“Servant? Could have fooled me. Don’t know how much serving he can do for you if you keep him chained up in a basement for months on end. Perhaps we wouldn't be in this predicament if you allowed him to do his duties. He keeps a good house, you know. Your mother was very proud of her home; it’s a shame to see it in the state you’ve allowed it to slump to. He would have never allowed it to get this bad.”

“He’ll have lots to do when he gets a clean bill of health then, Doc,” Sullivan smirked before departing the room.

Dr. Paul turned his focus back to The Aid, smiling genially as he reached down, sticking the clipboard in what The Aid presumed to be some kind of messenger bag beside his bed.

“Still with me, Bud?” The Doctor waited for some kind of acknowledgment before continuing.

The Aid stared off into the corner of the room and appeared to be zoned out. The drugs numbed him, but no amount of them could prevent him from being scared to death of his remorseless master. He heard wordless, distant voices but registered none of what was said after he accidentally looked into Sullivan’s soulless, ghoulish pits he had for eyes.

Dr. Paul gently grabbed The Aid’s still-clenched left fist and softly spoke to him in an effort to soothe him and pull him back to reality. Usually, the Doctor would let the episode pass on its own, but extra time was something they did not have.

The Aid’s fist loosened. Moments later, his gaze drifted back to Dr. Paul’s face, his eyes locked on to the man above him as he murmured indecipherable words. The Aid studied the features of the middle-aged man above him—a clean-shaven, sharp chin; a high, tight jaw; a strong, hooked nose; and small almond-shaped eyes peered back at him behind oval, wire-framed glasses.

His brows creased in befuddlement when Dr. Paul said a word that stuck out to him and came through louder and more pronounced than the rest, a word he hadn’t heard in years.

The Doctor repeated it and gently cupped his face again, this time stroking his cheek with his thumb to grab his attention.

“That’s your name,” Dr. Paul beamed.

“Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

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rookcoppinger · 1 year

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Shoutout to the time my mom contacted my friends to let them know I was in the ICU quite literally dying and homie replies with “take me out of this group chat I’m playing COD” MANS STREAMED COD FOR 12 HOURS AND COULDNT BE BOTHERED TO KNOW HIS FRIEND WAS LITERALLY IN A COMA

#trauma #medical #medical trauma #comatose #coma tw #bad friend #friendship issues

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azulsluver · 1 year

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hiya!!

saw reqs are open... may I request the housewardens with a reader who's comatose, then waking up, and the first thing they say is their name? jdlk I hope that's clear lol.

ty for considering!!

tw: yandere, implied imprisonment, hinted poisoning in Kalim's and Vil's part, use of UM in Malleus.

This was fun to experiment different types of [Name] personality and all.

Riddle

At first he was in denial, the book he was reading discarded on the floor. His fists clench the sheets beside you, capturing the moment your body stirred awake. With his hand placed to cup your cheek, your lips perfectly cared for parted to let out a mumble. He can feel his ears burning up in embarrassment, was he the first thing you thought of? Riddle calls out for you as you did for him, ushering you to open your eyes.

"Riddle?" Your voice is meek, he could barely hear you but it was enough.

"I'm right here, love." His sweet voice rings through your ear, your little gasps nurturing his worried soul.

Tears embedded the edge of your eyes, tugging and blabbering once you see him. All smiles and love, hands grabbing the side of your face to cease your struggles. With a weak body, your wrists felt numb with each pull, a sob wracking your chest as he laid your head on his.

Leona

Sleeping beside you. He was idly snoozing beside your still body, an arm around your shoulder as his head laid on your shoulder. The stillness of it all was interrupted, his body went tense in alert to the sudden movement that disrupted his sleep. His brain had to process your facial features creasing, every inch to your brows furrowing and eyelids fluttering.

"Leona...get off.." He almost busted out laughing, his lips reaching to his eyes as he contains a tearful relief.

Without thinking, Leona brought your body closer to his, you might think he was trying to mold himself within you. "You slept longer than I would."

With a sore throat you managed to scoff, glaring at the man who selfishly handled you with a sense of fear that you'd go back to sleep once again.

"I wish.."

Azul

Maybe he should have gotten you a lighter dose. You've been yapping nonstop lately it was driving him nuts. Azul thought he can handle a day with you not talking, you refused to sleep at some point so he took care of that. But it's starting to worry him the longer you slept, for days turned into weeks.

"Azul!" His fingers stopped moving, tense as he turns his chair around to face the bed. Hollowed, yet you sounded desperate. You called for him?

"Don't fret, I'm here." His tone is soft, getting up to soothe your frazzled mind. You can still taste the bitter potion on your tongue.

Azul can't stop the smile that stretches as he buries his face to your head, you seem to be more dependent on him. How hasn't he used this tactic sooner? He enjoys the way your trembling fingers grip at him, he won't be leaving any soon.

Kalim

Kalim lounges in the room you were settled in. Silk covers half of your body, rows of pillows supporting your weight so that way it was comfortable. The night was young, Kalim is idly sipping on sparkled wine, ever since your absence of life it got lonely. The sweet liquid would run down his throat, he's finding himself to drink more often than he should when hosting events.

"Kalim." It startled him, dropping the glass as it shatters. His eyes nearly widen at your serious expression.

"[Name]!" Yelling your name loudly, you slightly squint at his lightened face. His smile so wide as he runs to you with open arms, your half-awake body not responding as he smothers you.

"It was my fault! I should have had a taster try all the drinks, luckily you're alright.... Just.." He trails off, his breath wavering on the skin of your neck. Causing a near sneer and shiver erupt from you.

"Don't do it again, alright?"

Vil

He let the stories get the best of him. Vil finds himself leaning over your lifeless figure, brushing your bottom lip as he places a kiss in hope you'll awake. A silly yet comforting gesture, he'd rather die than be caught in the act. But something about it felt right. Shouldn't a true loves kiss awaken you? Such fairy tales he grew to love, fantasize that one day you'll wake up.

He came back late at night once again, closing the door behind him as he stood dead in his tracks. You're sprawled on the floor, clutching to the tiles and the blindfold neatly wrapped around your head.

"Vil? Where are you?" It irked him, the same tone when he shoved your medicine down your throat in a fit of rage, scared. The clicks of his heels made you jump now that you're gaining more consciousness.

Vil admitted it was wrong of him to act on his feelings, but he'll have to start all over again to gain your trust. He'll take the advantage of your fragile state so that way you'll learn to not set him off.

Idia

It's gotten worse, the bags under his eyes says it all. Even when Idia is reassured that you are well it was the longing to have you emotionally there tearing him apart. It messes with him every night as he stares at your sleeping figure. You're breathing well, but you won't respond to his rambles and chattering. He'd rather have you to tell him to shut up. Yell at him or anything, is you sleeping better than being with him!?

A pained groan made him scream and drop his console. Idia snaps his head to your moving limbs, hands rubbing at your face tiredly.

"Idia...my head fucking hurts." He trips over himself to be near you, calling Ortho while he's at it. Idia's sobbing as he holds you close, causing more of a headache for you as you numbly look at your robotic arms.

The procedure went well after all.

Malleus

He would've waited weeks, months and years for your return to reality. Every day and night he would come to visit you, care for your well being and make sure you slept nicely. Malleus, with you not responding, has his love for you grow day by day, not once did he felt the burden of loving someone till it wilts. It helps him express better, that once you've awaken you'll see he was the one standing by your side.

"Malleus." Was the first name you muttered, eyelashes blinding you from seeing the fae prince whose orbs shine brightly in the night.

He shushes you, a hand on your cheek as you blink the blurriness away. Fat tears roll down the warmth of your cheeks, teeth clenching as you embrace him. Malleus can only smile as you apologize to never disobey him again, promising better. You can't stand another slumber of nightmares, reliving until he felt was enough.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #malleus draconia x reader #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader

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