#spine compression fractures

[ryanthedemiboy]

If NASCAR can make stock cars (this means chassis and shape that are the same as yours) that can go 200mph and wreck head-on and do a dozen flips in the air, and the worst that happens is a concussion, with the car even still almost intact, then you can make a street legal car do the same at 40% of that speed.

Here's one of the wrecks btw. He was taken to a local hospital for observation, not even a concussion (NASCAR reports injuries to everyone for transparency), and he raced the next week. (Although he did have a couple bruised eyes iirc)

He climbed out of the car almost completely under his own power.

[chicagoneuropain]

Living with Fibromyalgia: A Guide to Managing Chronic Pain

What Is Fibromyalgia?

Fibromyalgia is a chronic, often invisible condition that affects how your nervous system processes pain signals, characterized by central sensitization, where there’s an abnormal increase in the excitability of neurons within the central nervous system. This leads to enhanced pain perception in response to non-noxious stimuli (causes that actually don’t cause any tissue damage and pain) like light touch or gentle pressure, temperature changes, mild sounds, light, normal joint or muscle movement, pressure from normal clothing, and mild smells.

People living with fibromyalgia often describe it like this: "It’s like my whole body is bruised—but there’s nothing to see."

Clinically, fibromyalgia is understood as a neuropathic pain condition, meaning the pain doesn’t always originate where you feel it. Instead, the nerves amplify ordinary sensations into chronic, widespread discomfort.

For many patients we meet here in Chicago, getting a diagnosis is the first time their pain is taken seriously. That moment—when pain is really understood—can be the beginning of real healing.

Common Symptoms of Fibromyalgia

While fibromyalgia looks different for everyone, some hallmark signs tend to appear again and again. You may recognize:

Persistent muscle pain and tenderness

Fatigue that doesn’t go away with rest

Brain fog ("fibro fog") — trouble focusing or remembering things

Headaches or migraines

Sleep disturbances

Sensitivity to temperature, touch, or light

And here’s the tricky part: many of these symptoms mimic other conditions, which often leads to years of misdiagnosis or dismissal. We hear it at times:  "My labs came back fine, so I figured it was in my head." or "I thought I was just getting older." But you know your body. And if something feels off—if the pain, exhaustion, or fog is interfering with your daily life—you deserve clarity and care.

What Causes Fibromyalgia?

The honest answer? We're still learning.

But science has made strong progress in understanding the possible triggers and mechanisms behind fibromyalgia. It’s tied to an overactive nervous system, specifically how the brain and spinal cord process pain and sensory input.

Some contributing factors include:

.Widespread Pain Without Structural Damage: often described as deep, aching, or burning. ➤ This “pain with no clear source” is a red flag for central sensitization, as seen in fibromyalgia.

 Coexisting Central Sensitivity Symptoms: Non-restorative sleep; Cognitive fog (“fibro fog”); IBS-like symptoms (bloating, constipation, diarrhea); Sensitivity to sound, light, and temperature ➤ Their presence suggests widespread CNS involvement rather than isolated pathology.

History of Trigger Events: Often preceded by Emotional trauma (abuse, PTSD, grief), Physical trauma (car accident, surgery), Severe infection (e.g., EBV, Lyme) ➤ These are known to alter pain processing networks and activate glial cells, setting up for central sensitization.

Personal or Family History of Functional Somatic Syndromes: Patients or close relatives may have Irritable bowel syndrome, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS), Migraine, Temporomandibular joint disorder (TMJ) ➤ This pattern suggests a shared vulnerability—possibly genetic or stress-related—to dysregulated pain and sensory processing.

The key idea here is central sensitization. Your nervous system becomes hypersensitive, overreacting to even mild pain signals. And when that switch flips, it’s tough to turn it back off without proper treatment.

Diagnosing Fibromyalgia: Why It’s Often Misunderstood

Fibromyalgia doesn't show up on standard blood tests or imaging. That’s why diagnosis relies heavily on symptom history, patient interviews, and ruling out other conditions. But let’s be real—this leads to frustration. We’ve worked with countless patients in Chicago who’ve seen multiple specialists, only to be told:

“Your tests look normal." "Maybe it’s anxiety." "Try yoga or sleeping more."

And while movement and sleep hygiene can help, they don’t treat fibromyalgia. Not alone. So, if you might be reading this article to finally make sense of the untraceable pain and strange sensations that no test seems to catch, we completely understand, as this whole condition is just as mysterious but hiding in plain sight, only revealed with a different approach to diagnosis. At our Pain Management Clinic in Chicago, we take time to understand the full picture—your physical symptoms, emotional toll, lifestyle, and medical history. Because your pain is real. And it deserves a diagnosis that leads to action.

Treatment Options for Fibromyalgia

Treatment isn’t one-size-fits-all. And it’s rarely a “quick fix.” Instead, we help you build a multi-layered, sustainable plan to improve your quality of life.

Common treatment approaches include:

Medications: Certain antidepressants and anti-seizure drugs can help regulate pain signals and sleep.

Physical therapy: Customized movement to reduce stiffness and maintain flexibility.

Psychological therapy: Especially CBT, to manage stress and improve coping tools.

Neuropathic pain interventions: These may include advanced options like ketamine therapy, which has shown promise for chronic pain syndromes.

Lifestyle changes: Diet, sleep patterns, and gentle exercise (like yoga or swimming) can be foundational.

We work alongside you to test, tweak, and tailor what actually works—for your body, your schedule, your goals.

Tips for Managing Fibromyalgia Day-to-Day

You don’t have to “push through” pain just to prove you’re strong. Living well with fibromyalgia is about learning to support your body, not fight it.

Here are daily strategies that make a real difference:

Pace yourself: On good days, it's tempting to do everything. But overdoing it can cause crash days. Listen to your limits.

Establish routines: Consistency in sleep and meals helps stabilize your system.

Track your symptoms: Notice patterns—what flares your pain? What soothes it?

Prioritize rest and hydration

Join a support group: Whether local or online, talking to others who get it is powerful.

We often say: “Don’t aim for perfect days. Aim for manageable, meaningful ones.”

When to See a Pain Specialist

 If your pain lasts more than three months… If it’s disrupting your work, relationships, or confidence… If your doctor keeps saying, “Everything looks normal”—but you don’t feel normal…

It’s time to see a specialist.

Chronic pain, especially neuropathic pain, requires a nuanced, expert-led approach. You deserve a care team that believes your story and is equipped to help you heal.

Final Thoughts: Living Better with Fibromyalgia

At our Pain Management Clinic in Chicago, we walk alongside people just like you every day. People who’ve struggled for answers. People who’ve been told to “just deal with it.” People who are tired of waking up exhausted.

Fibromyalgia doesn’t define you. It doesn’t end your story. But it does ask for something different—more understanding, more patience, and more strategic care. At our Pain Management Clinic in Chicago, we walk alongside people just like you every day. People who’ve struggled for answers. People who’ve been told to “just deal with it.” People who are tired of waking up exhausted.

We don’t promise a magic cure. But we do promise to listen. To personalize your care. To stand beside you as you take back your life.

Because living with fibromyalgia is hard. But living better with it? That starts with one real, human conversation.

And we’re here when you’re ready.

[htxpaincare]

Is My Pain Normal?: Understanding Neuropathic Pain and Why You Shouldn’t Ignore It

Persistent tingling, stabbing, or burning sensations? You might be living with neuropathic pain. Learn what it is, why it happens, and how we treat it at HTX Pain Care.

Introduction: It’s Not “Just a Pinched Nerve” – Your Pain Deserves a Closer Look

If you’ve been brushing off tingling, shooting pain, or strange electric shock-like feelings in your hands, feet, or back, let me stop you right there—your body is trying to tell you something. And it’s not “normal.” These aren’t simply signs of aging, overwork, or “just stress.”

I’ve met many patients who delayed getting help because they assumed these sensations were trivial or that they had to “just live with it.” I want you to hear this from a pain specialist who’s treated thousands of cases: neuropathic pain is real, diagnosable, and treatable.

So let’s talk honestly about what’s happening inside your nerves, why that pain lingers, and how we at HTX Pain Care approach treatment with compassion and precision.

What Is Neuropathic Pain?

Neuropathic pain occurs when your nerves are damaged or not working properly, causing them to send faulty pain signals to the brain. This can happen even in the absence of a clear injury.

It’s a pain that doesn’t always make sense—it may flare up suddenly, persist after a wound has healed, or worsen with seemingly harmless contact like bedsheets brushing your skin.

Unlike short-term pain that protects you, neuropathic pain can become chronic and exhausting.

Why Does Neuropathic Pain Happen?

Your nervous system is like an intricate highway of electrical cables. When these cables fray, misfire, or get inflamed, pain signals may fire uncontrollably. Common triggers include:

Diabetes (often causing diabetic neuropathy)

Infections like shingles (post-herpetic neuralgia)

Trauma or surgery (nerve entrapment or damage)

Spinal cord injuries

Nerve compression syndromes

Autoimmune diseases

Cancer or chemotherapy

Idiopathic causes (yes, sometimes we can’t find a cause—but the pain is still very real)

In some cases, like Small Fiber Neuropathy, people experience widespread pain and autonomic symptoms (such as changes in sweating or heart rate), often without obvious nerve test abnormalities. Many of these go misdiagnosed for years.

Symptoms: What Does Neuropathic Pain Feel Like?

Here’s the thing—it doesn’t feel like the pain you’re used to. Neuropathic pain has a character of its own. It may show up as:

Burning, stabbing, or shooting pain

Numbness that feels “deep” or icy

Pins and needles (paresthesia)

Hypersensitivity (even a breeze can hurt)

Electric shock-like jolts

Pain that worsens at night

Twitching or muscle cramping

Feeling like you’re wearing a glove or sock when you’re not

Worsened balance or coordination issues

Why Awareness Matters – Especially for the Aging and the Unaware

Here’s a pattern I often see:

In reality? Their nerves are degenerating, and the pain is not psychological or inevitable. It’s neuropathic—and very treatable.

And it’s not just seniors. I’ve seen young adults with post-viral neuropathy, women post-chemotherapy, and athletes with nerve entrapments all suffering quietly because no one told them what neuropathic pain feels like.

How We Diagnose It at HTX Pain Care

Every patient’s pain story is different and deserves detailed investigation. At HTX Pain Care, we use:

Nerve conduction studies & EMG (to measure electrical activity)

Imaging (MRI/CT scans) to rule out compressive causes

Quantitative sensory testing for sensory threshold mapping

Skin or nerve biopsies, when necessary

Thorough clinical history & neurological exams

We also screen for underlying conditions like diabetes, vitamin deficiencies, autoimmune disorders, or prior viral exposures. Identifying the “why” behind the pain helps us personalize your treatment.

How We Treat Neuropathic Pain at HTX Pain Care

You deserve relief—and we believe in layered, patient-specific treatments backed by the latest science. Here’s what we offer:

1. Medications:

Gabapentin or Pregabalin

Duloxetine or Amitriptyline

Topical agents like lidocaine or capsaicin

2. Interventional Treatments:

Nerve Blocks: https://htxpaincare.com/injections-blocks-specialist/

Steroid Injections: https://htxpaincare.com/pain-center/

Spinal Cord Stimulation (SCS): https://htxpaincare.com/pain-center/

3. Regenerative Therapies (as applicable

4. Lifestyle & Supportive Therapies:

Physical therapy, anti-inflammatory diet and sleep restoration

5. Patient Education and Emotional Support

When to Seek Help

If you’re:

Feeling unexplained burning, stabbing, or numb sensations

Losing sleep due to pain

Finding your balance, mood, or daily function declining

Frustrated that nothing seems to help

It’s time to speak to someone who listens and understands.

Conclusion: Relief Isn’t Just Possible—It’s Within Reach

Pain can be isolating. But you don’t have to endure it alone or assume it’s your “new normal.” If something feels off—whether it’s your skin feeling “weird,” your feet always tingling, or your sleep becoming unrestful—trust your instincts.

At HTX Pain Care, we combine empathy, science, and experience to help people like you reclaim comfort, control, and quality of life.

Let’s start a conversation. We’ll listen. We’ll investigate. And we’ll treat you with the respect your pain deserves.

[meownotgood]

all I need. / arcane herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is gender neutral (no anatomy is described, just that viktor is inside them), monsterfucking, mind meld, stomach bulge, size difference, marking, yearning, dom / sub undertones, praise, very slight degradation, aftercare. (pet names used for reader: little dove, little lamb, pet, love, my dear, beautiful, beloved) word count: 12.9k

read on ao3

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The Herald of the Arcane closes two giant palms around your waist, the faux air around you shimmers, compresses — and he promptly lifts you to settle your weight on his thigh, as though you weigh absolutely nothing. 

You could partially attribute it to the softening of gravity. He's carved out a slice of the arcane for just the two of you. A pocket of unreality that sizzles with color, envelops you in its embrace, and fractures in the edges of your vision like broken stained glass. 

The Arcane Herald, for all his clear omnipotence, has tracked you back down to your shitty little apartment on the corner of the Zaun-Piltover bridge. He tapped the door with his knuckles, and ducked underneath the doorframe to casually push into your apartment. You have to crane your neck at a near-painful angle to look up at him. You can't help but find it funny. A nine-foot-tall amalgamation of Hextech and magic and sinews twisted to an eldritch whim still knocks, before he enters your home. It was his home too, once. 

But the two of you are currently somewhere else entirely. 

"AN EDGE BETWEEN THE BOUNDS OF CORPOREALITY," Viktor answers; he reads your thoughts as if they're an open book, an effortlessly analyzed constellation sprawled beneath his fingertips. "DO NOT BE AFRAID. I COULD RETURN US TO THE MORTAL PLANE, IF YOU WISH." 

He sounds like an angel. Reminds you of an artificial God in necromantic clothing. 

His voice echoes, collapsing in on itself. It sings through your mind with the pure strength of the arcane. A melody resounding. There's a hint of his old tone, buried deep beneath the layers of power and magnitude. The abyssal reverberation opens its maw and swallows Viktor's familiar voice whole. 

You shake your head in reply. 

The Arcane Herald's false eyes stay steady on yours. Golden suns. Pupils ringed, spirals of anomaly-light curling within like whirlpools. A shiver shudders up the notches of your spine. It's as though you're being watched by multiple sets of eyes, instead of just two. The third arm jutting out from his back twitches violently, before strings of zodiac-runes fill the phantom space around you. 

No, you aren't entirely afraid. Viktor can sense any underlying fears. Blossoms of wilting crimson and snapping venus fly traps, sprouting throughout the flourishing garden of your mind. 

Still, when he curls his palm in, fluidly digging through the soil of your sequestered emotions, he can feel your affection. The resonant brush of old roots and bright, vivid petals. 

You might've been scared, once. You must've been terrified when you thought Viktor was dead. And it certainly must be unsettling to finally come face to face with the aberration that's been wearing his skin. If you were to run, he couldn't blame you. His new form is effortlessly strong. Large, when compared to a mortal. A vessel capable of bending the structure of reality to his perfectly architectured will. 

Viktor was prepared to sweeten your mind with pleasant memories. Perhaps you'd react better to a more desirable version of him. A cosmos-filled remembrance of soft touches and softer whispers, framed by promises made of sugar cubes and thick honey. He would bare what remains of his humanity, if you asked. 

Instead, as Viktor catches your eyes for the first time in forever, he watches you murmur his name — less of a question, and more of a confirmation. Viktor. You sound shaky enough to topple and break. It's you. It's really, honestly you. 

He steps a bit closer, a bit further into your apartment, the way one would attempt to corner something skittish. Crackles of lightning spark from where his feet meet the hardwood floor. You stumble in, fox to open bear trap, and you wrap your arms around his middle. Damp and teary cheek pressed into his side hard enough to leave an imprinted gear-shape behind. 

He held you. What else was he meant to do? Allowing himself to be drawn here is an abandonment of his purpose in its own right. He hardly cares, barely considers how inconsequentially quaint this is. The Arcane Herald — the arcane's chosen vessel of calamity, once compelled to turn all of humanity into crumbling husks on a dead and faultless world; Viktor permits you to sob against him, as his hand delicately caresses the soft back of your head. 

Viktor finds that right now, hours later, there is not a single droplet of fear present in your storm-bound system. Only pure, cascading delight. 

You shift closer on his lap, you lean into his touch when he steadies a splayed palm to the bare small of your back. As the scene stabilizes, bubbling ripples of magic smooth out, until you and the Arcane Herald are held in a perfect crystal ball of transcendental abnormality. This is how Viktor's hold on your mind describes it, anyway. 

"I HAVE MISSED YOU," Viktor coos. The deafening boom to his voice drowns out the subtle traces of tenderness. "YOUR PRESENCE IS… WELCOME." 

You've no need to speak. He reads your reply before you can voice it. I've missed you, too. 

Fate is a perpetual predetermination. Atlas holds the sky on his shoulders, and Viktor carries the glory of an entire arcane galaxy in his palms. Orpheus turns around for Eurydice, and Viktor chases the bittersweet comet-trail right back to where he first left you. 

There isn't much sense in this. It goes against his pragmatic vision for pure evolution. He knows humanity is far from him now, a shadow he left with his first death. Indulging in its traces clashes with his goals. Clashes with everything the Hexcore sought to make him into: a chrysalis stripped of emotion, weakness, love. 

In the first seven minutes after death, as the body turns cold, brainwaves replay the moments where they felt most warm; Viktor spiralled through every softly-braided memory of you, in the seven days he spent cocooned; the sound of your breathing, his breathing. The press of touch to touch, like soft snow against snow. His hex-ridden heart doesn't beat. He thinks he's seen your face behind his eyes for every hour of the seven months he spent evolving, searching for enlightenment all alone. 

He is always alone, at the very end of everything. 

Destiny weaves its cosmic thread through the magic he carries in his veins, and against all odds, it brought him here. To you. He remembers flickering through tangibility like a ghost, an apparition haunting the halls of Zaun and Piltover. Crawling home as though he never truly left. 

Viktor has missed you the way dry earth misses rain, the way an entry shot misses an exit wound. The way electricity longs to be harnessed, and divinity craves to be worshipped. 

He's weaker than he should be, for you. You are a lingering flicker of sentiment, a part of the fragments he swore to crush beneath his newfound palm. The sun-strong radiance inside himself that he can't manage to snuff out. 

And now that the Arcane Herald has you, he isn't certain he'll ever be able to let you go. 

The anomaly's bubbling aurora-light frames you, a halo glimmering at your edges. You've already discarded all of your clothing; you were meant to be cherished, he reasons, as he observes how your chest heaves with subtle, panting breaths. You quiver with mankind's most potent emotion: desire. 

You impatiently shift closer. Your forehead lands against the nape of his neck, where his cape is tattered and magic-blown. Viktor's hold on the arcane shudders around you. 

"Viktor," You sigh out, like it's simple, an exchange between lovers; like he's the man you once loved, not the shattered remnants of him; like you aren't dangerously close to the biomechanical half-God nearly responsible for the subjugation of humanity. You sit pretty on the Arcane Herald's lap, perfectly designed to be coveted. 

You laugh, half-amused, half-in-disbelief. Viktor's featureless gaze bores into you, echoes of light glittering on his golden, spiked crown. He tilts his head, curious. As if he's asking, What's wrong? 

"I have an otherworldly threat to all of Runeterra in my fucking apartment," You answer, exhaling. "Gods." 

His voice pounds inside the fabric of your thoughts. 

"TO BE PRECISE, YOUR MIND IS LINKED WITH A THREAT TO THE FUTURE OF RUNETERRA, WHICH EMPOWERS YOU TO COMBINE WITH HIM INSIDE THE ARCANE." 

"Ah. We're tangled up in a cavity of magic?"

"YES." 

"I wasn't sure if it was…" You shrug, and reobserve the space around you. Magic pulses from every angle, smearing color in messy brushstrokes. It begins to burn your eyes the longer you look. "I don't know. Some sort of illusion, I suppose." 

Viktor hesitates, burning eyes flickering faintly. "ARE YOU… ALRIGHT WITH THIS OUTCOME? WOULD YOU PREFER IF WE DID NOT CONTINUE?" 

You shake your head, smiling. "Come here." 

You reach for him. You're holding his face in both palms, as if he's a statue, porcelain and intricate. A stone-carved, cherubic effigy. Markings dot either side of where he's been split. Small, star-shaped divots. One beneath an eye, another above a mouth. 

With how large he is, you have to prop yourself up more to let your breath ghost the space between his eyes. The main cross-section of his mask is cool, as smooth as solid steel, while his hidden first-face is rough, rigid. Reminiscent of crumbling marble. 

You kiss him. Gods, you kiss him and Viktor can feel it, even though such a thing shouldn't be possible. You press your lips to the star beneath his false, forever-closed eye, and it glints like amethyst, shimmers like a constellation. You pepper kisses to the gold etchings underneath his sun-strong gaze, where his tears were once midas-touched. 

Viktor is sure his blasphemous, forged-by-violence form does not deserve this, but he still leans into your touch when your lips trail pleasurable arcane-abundant explosions down the golden veins of his neck. 

"LITTLE DOVE..." Endearment clicks through the steady gear-sequence of his reverberant tone. 

Starry pupils unchanging, Viktor's gaze can only regard you emptily. But, in an expression of tenderness, he drags his huge palm up your bare side, caresses your soft skin and admires the subtle intricacies of your flesh. Your birthmarks, your scars. Everything he still remembers. The curve of your waist, the section of your ribs. He feels your fingertips, as you trace where the gears of his back brace are permanently fused to his breastbone. Viktor trembles, somehow. 

"Vik," You parrot, words warm on his neck. You kiss his nape, then his jaw, then the flat faux-steel of his face. 

Energy radiates off of his touch in persistent waves. His palm paths up your spine, and surges of death-defying magic fill you — tenacious, resurrection-burned electricity. 

You make yourself tall, propping up onto your knees, so you can gently press your forehead to his. Viktor scans your expression. Your eyes flutter shut; he wants to preserve their softness the way one would pin a fragile butterfly's wings. Once again, you aren't carrying a hint of trepidation. When your gaze finds his own, you're admiring him. In all of his chilling, daunting, inhuman glory. 

Some faint, gnawing contradiction opens a hole in Viktor's chest, and makes him wish he would've done anything to deserve it. 

"THE OUTCOMES LAID BEFORE ME…" Viktor begins; your persistent breaths leave fog on his cold mask. 

"THE OPPORTUNITIES DEFINING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN… I THINK… TOGETHER, WE COULD HERALD A NEW VISION. WE CAN BE THE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN TENDER PURPOSE." 

A small smile plays on your lips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "I'd follow you anywhere, Vik. I trust you." Your jaw grits. I still trust you. 

And then, you sigh. "But can we just be us? Just for tonight?" 

Viktor buries what he truly wishes to say in between his makeshift ribs and beneath the star-filled madness in his core. And what are we? 

"OF COURSE," He answers, instead. 

His huge hand finds your own; arcane-infused power ripples from his palm, untamed. Still, your digits fit perfectly between the gaps of his, as Viktor laces your uneven fingers together. Strong, with weak. Your gentle flesh, and his rigid, purple-gold, bony digits. 

He gives your hand a soft squeeze, brushes his thumb along the back of your palm to a wave-like rhythm. 

"I HAVE LONGED FOR THIS. TO INDULGE IN YOUR COMPANY. TO UNITE YOUR MIND WITH MINE." 

More so, Viktor has craved to remember the shape of your touch; and converging with the arcane has filled him with a knifelike sensation, unrelenting and hungry; it's given him an insatiable desire to consume. 

(Viktor recalls when he first held you, your body curled up against his, his unnaturally long limbs awkwardly spread so the both of you could fit on the ragged couch in your tiny living room. The distant hum of both twin cities fills the space: huffing pipes, whirring airships. Back then, a large living space wasn't deemed necessary, considering the two of you planned to spend most of your shared time at the lab. 

It's achingly intriguing — your persistent attachment to a dead man's belongings. You've been watering his plants, in his absence. Small pots of succulents and flora line the kitchen windowsill. A spare cane leans against the dining room table, still exactly where he left it. Viktor — the arcane-enthralled Viktor — thumbs through his newfound grip on your mind, listening closely for the echoed answer. 

Your distant thoughts murmur to him, It's because it makes me believe you might still be coming home. 

The Arcane Herald feels his third arm twitch. He says, I do not understand. 

You crane your neck, unaware, glancing at him from where your head leans against his forearm. Understand what? 

Why you continue, why I can remain an object of your affections. Viktor twists a small anomaly sphere between his fingers, webs of the arcane clinging to his gold-tipped digits. Stray flecks of magic spark like lightning. You consider how it'll feel when he must press this sphere inside your mind. 

I am not the man I once was, he says. Perhaps some would describe me as… inhuman. A monster. Your mind reveals you have dwelled on such rumors, yet you show no fear. 

You answer simply, Because it's you, Viktor. I could never be afraid of you. 

Viktor considers this, as your fragile emotions pool within him — he curls in on himself at the bottom of the ocean, drowning in the midst of all that you are. An endless surge of affection and guilt and voracity, in hues of blossom-pink and cold-silver and delicious-orange. 

He gazes at you calmly, before the anomaly sphere fizzles out of existence with a flick of his fingers. 

There is perhaps… a less painful method of transmitting the arcane. Shall I explain?) 

You clumsily squeeze Viktor's large hand back, and a sharp jolt of magic resoundingly kisses your skin. When you reach above you, cupping his face in your free palm, Viktor nuzzles into your touch like a giant contented cat, the thrum of the arcane gently purring from him. 

He caresses from your side to your spine, numb digits pressing tenderly to vertebrae. You're acutely aware of how large his palm is. How huge the Arcane Herald is compared to you, how pathetically small and stupidly human you must look in his lap. You swallow hard, arching into his touch. 

Gods, you've missed Viktor more than anything. You want to be his. You want the Arcane Herald to covet you in the blasphemous way a fallen angel loves a mortal. Without reason, with sets of six broken wings and bitten tongues and storms of chaotic maelstroms, as you make a mockery of what he was made for. 

"Viktor," You breathe, tone low, as though whispered beneath an altar. Arcane demigod, my archangel. "I need you." 

Viktor lifts you with ease, both of his hands finding your waist, propping you above his lap. He supports your weight as you drown him in kisses, pressing your lips to the statuette side of his face. 

His voice laps against the sides of your mind, like waves against a dock in a storm's aftermath. 

"I NEED YOU MORE THAN MERE EMOTION COULD EXPRESS. BUT THIS BODY IS… UNCONVENTIONAL. I DO NOT WISH TO BREAK YOU." 

"I'm not fragile, Vik. I can take it. I want to take you." 

At this, his eyes seem to soften, sharpen. Radiant suns filled with pure warmth, utter zeal. 

Third arm tilting, bending at its metallic joints with a dull cracking sound, he grabs your face in his huge, firm claw. 

His tone echoes, seraphic. "PERHAPS YOU SHOULD BEGIN BEGGING, THEN." 

And you do. You whine softly when Viktor's large palm squeezes your leg, his thumb teasingly rubbing your inner thigh — your voice threatens to break, while you recite scripture. "Please, please, don't tease me anymore. I fucking need you, Viktor…" 

It's easy, simple, instant — the calculation the Arcane Herald effortlessly solves, enabling him to immediately determine a new course of action, a mirror to your potent emotions. 

He watches you pant, purposefully waits with his palm gently caressing your thigh, until you're sufficiently teased, and practically shaking with want. Viktor's third arm digs its pointed talons into your cheeks. He dips a hand between your legs, and promptly shifts into utter depravity. 

"SUCH A DELIGHTFUL MESS YOU HAVE MADE FOR ME…" Viktor coos; he uses his gold-tipped thumb to collect your glistening arousal, to get you dripping and dumb on his long, delicate digits. You tremble hard, knees wavering like branches ready to split in the wind. "YOU GIVE IN SO EASILY TO INSATIABILITY, MY LITTLE LOVE." 

Words won't come. You can only whine: "Viktor…" 

And Viktor's reconstructed body tenses, every emotionless inch of him caught in your equinox. He can feel the pitter-patter of your heart, the thump of your warmth, resounding throughout his viscera; your sun, to his night. 

Despite the limitations of his newly metamorphosed form, and the utter clearing of his mind, he's getting off to this. To the quiver in your breath and the way you plead his name — pleading for him. All for him. 

"I CAN FEEL YOUR DESPERATION." Viktor's voice is everywhere, echoing against the boundaries of the anomaly. His familiarly accented tone chips at the walls of your mind with a delicately honed chisel. He flicks his thumb over where you're swollen and desperate and oh-so sensitive. There's stars in his touch, as he rubs in slow circles, in smooth galaxy swirls. 

Now, says the whispering echo, the sweet outline, the caress of Viktor's kindest tone against your brain. How do you wish to be taken? 

"Anything-" You retort, breathless. "You can do anything you want to me." 

The Arcane Herald's resounding laugh is nothing short of maniacal. 

"YOU ARE SUCH A NEEDY CREATURE. ABSOLUTELY EAGER TO BE FILLED." 

Needy. This word sounds exceedingly saccharine. 

His third arm acts with a mind of its own, squeezing your face a bit tighter. Lightly shaking your head back and forth as if you're a toy. The sharp end of a claw playfully traces your puffy bottom lip. 

"WE COULD MAKE USE OF THIS SILKEN, PLIANT MOUTH. KNEES BENT BEFORE ME, MY PALM STEADIED TO YOUR THROAT AS I SLIDE MYSELF ONTO YOUR AWAITING TONGUE. YES?" 

"Y-Yeah," You find it hard to focus, hard to think, hard to keep your eyes steady on his mechanical gaze — were his pupils always such perfect, artificial, phoenix-bright circles? "But I want- want you inside. Please." 

Viktor hums a rich, pleased noise. He spreads his long legs a bit wider, the anomaly begins to flutter around you in endless cosmic spirals; a thrum, thrum, thrum of restless magic; Viktor's cock unfurls, curls out from his pelvis as a thick, rippling, dripping mess — 

But he keeps your gaze focused on his own, clawed third arm holding your chin tightly. 

"EVERYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY DESIRE, YOU WILL HAVE." Energy surges from his form, careens up the tingly river of your spinal column, in turn. "I WOULD CROSS GALAXIES AND REALITIES FOR YOU, MY DEAR. I WOULD BRING THE GODS TO THEIR HEELS." 

Eager pressure mounts in every corner of your nervous system. You swear under your breath. 

Once his third arm finally releases you, your gaze is trailing downwards. Past the delicate curve of his waist, live-wire magic threading through the indents of his body like visible veins. Past the V shape of his pelvis, and the unnaturally jutting handlebar-edges of his hip bones. 

To be anatomically correct, the Arcane Herald's cock is most akin to a thick, wet tentacle. It's ribbed with gold ridges like the rest of his body, bolts and gear-shaped ornaments lining the underside in place of where octopus-suckers might be. A slimy, clear liquid thickly coats its surface. The appendage is thin at the end, the very tip as thin as your pinkie finger, but at the base, it gets twice as thick as your forearm. 

"Hah," You gasp, too dumbfounded to breathe more than a disbelieving huff, "Shit-" 

"WE WILL PROCEED AT YOUR PACE," Oh. The booming echo behind his tone sweetens itself into madness, and what's left of his voice sounds utterly affectionate. Nervous, only slightly. "I DO NOT WISH TO… FRIGHTEN, NOR HURT YOU. YOU MAY TAKE AS MUCH OR AS LITTLE AS YOU NEED." 

"I want you," You're answering, assured. "Right now." 

Viktor tightens his hold on your waist. 

Arcane resurrection hasn't merely made him anew. It isn't a mere matter of placing a puzzle back where it belongs: the pieces of his amber eyes, his sinews, his skin dotted with little brown stars. He is a different form of alchemy, all together. 

How much of him is still him, and how much is lost due to Hexcorization? 

He imagines prying himself open, pulling apart his ribcage after the arcane left him raw, chewed up and spat back out. The cavity of his chest shimmers like the mouth of a kaleidoscope; he knows this, it wouldn't be the first time he's been split in two. He'll place these newfound emotions right where his heart should be, until they sing in runic shades. Until they sprout and flower: his personal, tender contradiction. 

Would he remember who he once was — who you've truly been waiting for, then? 

There lies the truth of it. He wants to give you everything you've been waiting for. 

As he begins to lower you down, you feel the end of his cock flick against your entrance. Lavender-hued fluid laps against you, diligently getting you slick and slimy. You can't help but close your eyes, boneless as you hug him tightly, collapsing against his large, all-encompassing form. 

Gravity warps around you, it presses into your skull. Viktor gently pushes you back by your shoulder until your gaze is forced to meet his own. His third arm clicks. A halo of shimmering sparks and glowing symbols and precise code begins to frame him, demanding in the way it hungrily commands the anomaly's magnetism into itself. 

Carefully, his palm is placed onto your cheek. Gazing down at you, he caresses your skin with his thumb. As if you're made of velvet, a soft blossom on the wind. 

"LOOK AT YOU," The Arcane Herald purrs. The anomaly shimmers, your mind warps; and for a brief moment, you're a distant observer, gazing at yourself and Viktor from an outside perspective. Gods, Viktor is huge, and you, bare and pliant on his lap, look so terribly pathetic. 

"SUBLIME," Viktor corrects, head tilted inquisitively. The connection between your mind and his strains like a knot pulled taut. "YOU ARE PERFECT. VERITABLY GLORIOUS." 

He grasps your chin, his free palm presses flat to the center of your chest. Your eyes glaze over, shifting into empty spotlights of stormy stardust — and you're seeing through Viktor's eyes, your head swimming as you're made to admire yourself. 

Everything is covered in a film of murky, iridescent light. The edges of your figure are sharpened and saturated. Viktor doesn't see in color, more than he perceives an image as flowing droplets of static-rich energy, of equations surrounded by blooming halation. Diamond-shaped artifacts settle in the boundaries of his compound vision, reminiscent of the pattern on the rim of the Hexgates, or the matrix used to spark a Hexgem to life, or the configuration that gleams all around you: the anomaly, breathing in constellations. 

Viktor watches as the lithe tip of his cock ever-so gently presses in — and you're watching, too, observing the spread of your shaky thighs, and the heave of your chest as he presses his palm between your ribs. You are captivating, in this way. Beautiful. All of your details create a painted picture of perfect tandem. Your shape, your skin, your hair, your eyes, your everything. 

Or perhaps Viktor's thoughts are too closely entwined with your own. Splendid little human. All mine. Can you see why I adore you? 

With how fucking thick he is, and how unexpectedly small you're realizing you look, in comparison — is he even going to fit? 

You're barely given time to consider. You whine when you feel the first ridge, a tiny gear-shape embedded into his tip; with your bottom-lip quivering, you realize you don't need to beg, you just need to imagine. I want more, you think, and Viktor, buried deep in the threads of your mind, obliges. 

More, you're given more; you watch through his vision as his cock begins to ease inside you, a sizable bulge already pressing at your lower stomach. He splits you open, nice and slow, so you can get used to the way he fills you. 

And even though you barely have a third of the fat, writhing tentacle inside of you, you're already utterly full. It flicks and convulses, exploring your walls, slickening your thighs with droplets of glowing, purple spend. You can feel every ridge. The ribbed, golden rings. The protruding bolts. The four-pointed star-shaped studs. 

Gods. 

You're throbbing. Thudding around him to a heartbeat-strong pulse that beckons him in and pleads for the wraith-like Arcane Herald to fuck you. To ruin you. 

"BREATHE FOR ME," Viktor murmurs. He pulls his hand from your chest to softly brush his knuckles over your jaw, and you slam back into your own mind with the force of a thunderbolt. "YOUR PLIABLE SOUL… IT FLICKERS LIKE AN EVANESCENT FLAME." 

Light prickles from where his touch once lingered, sparking against your chest. Gasping, you glance down. An imprint of him is left behind on your skin. Five large fingerprints sprawled between your ribs, one for each finger and thumb, textured with web-like strands, shimmering when they catch the radiant light. The soft, golden whispers of the arcane. The Herald of the Arcane's signature. 

With this tangible mark, you belong to him, now. 

Viktor answers your thoughts. "YOU ALWAYS HAVE." 

Always. Though, within the space he has carved for the both of you — reality split apart, a dissected capsule — you are closer to your lover's husk than you've ever been before. 

You hold onto Viktor's shoulders tightly, grabbing fistfuls of his tattered cape. There's a persistent hum. Building magic, a whirlpool around you, a supernova in his body; warmth settles in your core, winter in your bones. Energy ripples through his cock in a long wave, firmly throbbing inside you, and you shudder, you shake. 

"EXQUISITE… YOU ARE PERSISTING SO EXCELLENTLY. SO GOOD FOR ME…" Viktor caresses a palm up your side in approval. The glowing flames in his gaze begin to soften. He holds you steady, as your warmth eagerly pulses around a little under half of him. 

"I can feel- hhah, it's so much…" Your words break, unsteady and weakened. 

You, for all of the confidence Viktor knows you have, are reduced to a sputtering, needy mess, quivering on his cock. Delicate as a thin sheet of autumn ice. 

The Arcane Herald must admit, he enjoys this pathetically docile side to you. He wants to keep it, possess it, until you're his. Only his. 

"YOUR BODY IS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO THIS ABUNDANCE OF ARCANE INFLUENCE. ALLOW YOURSELF TO BECOME LESS RIGID. PERFECT. BREATHE DEEPLY. I HAVE YOU." 

You take in deep, controlled breaths, while a large palm begins to drag up your heaving side. 

Viktor touches you the way Icarus once touched the sun; an inventor against destiny, soft, fake feathers and warm wax. He is a monsterous imitation of heaven, too. 

He hardly cares if he's burning on the inside, if the Hexcore's diagram defines his biology as unwarmable, untouchable. Just for tonight, he wants to be some devout imitation of humanity, a metallurgical replica that comes to life under warmth and love, not a profane shell hollowed by the lack of it. Just for tonight, he'll let himself be weak for you. 

Breath nearly caught, you lean your forehead into his chest, and you're unable to resist pressing a reverent kiss to the golden outline that frames his breastbone. His brace, forever welded into his thorax. It's unexpectedly smooth, sensitive. Faint spellbinding threads brush your lips like wind. 

Viktor isn't yet a God, but he wonders if this is what it's like to be worshipped. 

Crests of magic exhale around you, frothing waves of brilliance, as if he's expelled a steady sigh. He grasps your side firmly. You're dizzy, golden rays of light filling your gaze, before they thin — and you realize you're somewhere else, viewing the beginnings of a vision. 

Galaxies stretch as far as the eye can see. An infinite expanse of everything. Shooting stars and divine light ripple through the atmosphere. You're cupped in a giant palm — in Viktor's giant palm, his cosmic form a refracting rainbow, an angel with astral wings. Viktor is the sun and the stars and the moons and the asteroids. You are safe, content. Designed for reverence, the perfect piece to his orbit. And so, you revere. 

The vision fizzles into nothing when the clasp of your hands makes the endless, starry abyss flutter with fondness. 

Viktor glides his palm down, finding your waist. In his wake, your side is softly seared with his fingerprints. 

Another dream lets itself in. 

This one is… different. 

Tender blades of sunlight burn around the figure that resembles Viktor; a memory, a representation. (A large, arcane-touched palm to your back.) The Viktor you once knew has moonlight-pale skin and a bobbing Adam's apple and a gap between his teeth when he smiles. You always grow soft with the sight of his smile. (A hand to your shoulder. The small of your back. Your neck. Your stomach.) 

Recollections flicker inside your brain like flipping through an old photo album. Delicate palms fit with worn calluses, and freckled arms made to be kissed, and hair you dreamt of running your fingers through, soft and wild like chestnut sparrow feathers. He is blinding starlight, even in the moments where he's been made to shatter like glass. Even with fiery amber in his eyes and blood on his palms and a chrysalis, surrounding. 

You picture trailing your lips over both legs, from his thighs to his knees to his ankles. You picture pressing your teeth to the bony curve of his clavicle. You picture kissing and kissing and kissing him, a moth to his flame, the kindling to his spark. His lips are soft, his tongue presses a star into your mouth, and you honestly don't care what's become of him because he is still Viktor, your Viktor — 

By the time the Arcane Herald is done reaching into your mind, imprints of his fingertips are left all over you. You're absolutely covered in golden fingerprint-blotches. Light dappling your skin from his firefly touch, like the glow of the sun between leaves. 

Viktor tilts you towards him by your chin. "YOU ARE WHY HUMANITY ONCE CREATED DIVINITY. I ADORE YOU."

His voice dips into a tone you almost remember. Soft, gentle, human. 

You offer him a crooked smile, canines bared. You're breathing hard again, hips impatiently shifting. "You're so, s-so lovely, Viktor. You are. I want to see you. Just like this. Just as you are." 

Viktor's gaze briefly flicks across your form. He admires the sheen of sweat on your skin, newly marbled with marks, his touch. Proof of his selfishness, his illogical tenderness. Your soul appears to burn steadily within you. A bright flame in ocean-deep shades of blue and silver and jellyfish-purple. Persistent like the click of gears, as smooth as the glide of a pen, hazy like ash in a misty, bright sky. Perfectly, utterly you. 

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Viktor asks. The repetition and ricochet of his voice is noticeably just a hint quieter. He gently glides his palm over the marks on your side, arcane ornaments decorating your bare skin. "I COULD SHOW YOU SO MUCH MORE." 

"I'm sure." You sound desperate. "You're perfect." 

Only for you, Viktor reasons. Only in the lingering afterimage of your gentle influence. 

Affection swells in his hollow center. The same shape as when he first saw you, when he finally came home and held you in his arms, while he analyzed the glimmers in your mind of hope and love. And a distinct lack of fear; you trust him, for all of his godlessness. For all of his endless, infinite loneliness. 

As foolishly feeble and perhaps impossible as it is, Viktor honestly, achingly wants to kiss you. 

Like a sunrise. Mouths touching like a bite into responsive, begging flesh. Perhaps while you taste his starlight, or perhaps with no need to subdue this new form: the arcane-touched chimera he's evolved into. 

My softest paradox. For the betterment of the purpose the arcane chose for me, perhaps I should renounce these frivolous emotions. And yet… No, I cannot abandon you. Not when you are in need of me. Not when I need you. 

Droplets of anomaly-moisture, as well as condensation caused by the sex-slick heat in between your bodies cascades down Viktor's golden accents, making them shimmer. He slowly shifts to hold your cheek in one giant, careful palm. Sparks of faint light stipple from his touch like fireworks. 

In a hurry, you prop yourself up as much as you can manage. You grab his face to pull him closer, his body bending to meet you, so you can press breathless kisses to his cold jaw. 

With the way the Arcane Herald is buried inside you — a result of his wavering focus, or maybe your own — the anomaly's aurora-light begins to morph, a shaken-up snowglobe. His cock pulsates with a glowing swell of stimulation. You grind your hips clumsily, groaning against the sunken curve of his false cheek as you lightly bounce on the fat, dripping tentacle. It resounds with a terribly wet, obscene sound, purple liquid now dripping all the way down to your knees. 

Allowing your mind to interlace with his is, at this point, purely instinctual. The tightly knit walls of Viktor's headspace purposefully weaken to let you in. 

Oh, and his mind surges. 

You're enveloped in a raging wildfire, his desire a flickering flame at the very edges of your fingertips. It's hard to breathe. Hard to form coherent thoughts as the Hexcore — Viktor's new heart — whispers within every facet of him. It amplifies his own inclinations, works concurrently to augment his magic and strengthen his cognition. You aren't used to its overwhelming pull. Your thoughts and his and the arcane's potent echo meld together, like several messy brush strokes on the same canvas. 

Please, you plead. Pure pleasure and gnawing endearment thrum from Viktor's discordant thoughts, with the strength of a laser beam to your brain matter. 

You deserve to hold the solar system in your palms. He'd give you the planets and their rings and the kiss of the stars; you are his perfect, exquisite catalyst. 

The Hexcore replies, writes its own poem, to the tune of humming runes and swirls of hazy imagery: you, on your knees. You, with your tongue wrapped around Viktor's fingers. Viktor tipping your head up with the end of his cane, or slipping his palms down your collar, or sinking his teeth into your nape. Viktor's newfound, huge body pinning you into place, while he presses the claw of his contorted third arm to the base of your neck. His large, ornamented hand splays across your back, leaving fingerprint-wings on the skin between your shoulder blades as he roughly pounds you from behind. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull. 

Oh, but this is what lies within your unveiled desires, says the jeering echo in your head. Resounding, shattering, Viktor's softly accented tone unfurls into a meadow of a hundred voices, speaking all at once. Will you be satisfied when your mouth is full of me? When you are grinding your feeble hips against your hand, your palm filthy and wet, while you sputter and pathetically drool around the luminescent mess of my spend? Of course. You are quite simple to please. 

Or perhaps I should push you underneath me, pleasure myself and myself alone with the assistance of your thighs, or your stomach, until you are begging for me to take you. To ease inside you, filling where you are terribly neglected and utterly wanting. Admittedly, I would find contentment in this… watching you plead. Until your skin becomes marked with slick fractals. The most potent brush of the arcane. 

"Vik- Viktor, please…" 

Can you feel- 

"I CAN FEEL HOW WARM YOU ARE," Viktor murmurs, interrupting your thoughts. You rest your arms on his shoulders, searching for leverage as you grind your hips down. "I CAN SENSE YOUR EAGERNESS. YOUR VULNERABILITY. HOW YOUR MIND, BODY, AND SOUL BEG FOR ME IN SYNCHRONIZATION." 

Despite relinquishing his humanity with the acceptance of his new body, the way a cicada sheds its exoskeleton — despite embodying a dangerously corrupted representation of life; (praying mantis, disguised as the orchid) — despite the truth of the matter, he was meant to dismantle you piece by piece, he was designed for control and gloriousness and revolution, Viktor thinks, softly, that he'd gladly follow where you lead. 

An old, once-loved name is nothing more than an emotional foible. A thread he held onto, because it happens to fit his whims, happens to mean victory. But Viktor feels radiance in his chest when you begin panting for him, gasping out pleas of Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, framed by broken noises as you fuck yourself on him. 

It's so wet. There's so much arousal and thick purple lubricant between the two of you. Squelching and dribbling down the golden accents of his length. 

Gods, you're trembling on his lap, hands shaking as you grip his shoulders. The ripples of your thoughts are a soft melody, in his. I need you. Need you to save me. He would, without question. He'd hold you to his skeleton until your bones are a part of his bones. He wants to catch you in silken thread and arcane-webbing, while he sinks sharp fangs into your skin. 

It happens swiftly, now — 

Viktor's jaw unhinges with the sickening sound of breaking bones. The bottom half of his mask splits down the middle, opens horizontally to reveal an abyss, a black hole; a giant maw with rows of sharp teeth, two large, curved canines, and a long, slithery tongue. Forked like a snake, golden at the tip, gradienting into a dark shade of raven-purple. It drips with a sheen of thick saliva. 

A firm palm grasps your chin. He pulls you a bit closer, until you're straining your neck to look up at him. Your heartbeat catches. The burning suns of his blank pupils bore into your own fluttery gaze. Both tips of his tongue brush your lips. Politely prying, before possessively slipping into your mouth. 

You moan when his tongue licks a heavy stripe over yours, kissing you in earnest. The taste of him as he explores your mouth is all-encompassing. Strong, vibrant, he tastes like nebula and void. Like crimson and moonlight. Ever-so slightly metallic, akin to licking aluminum, like pressing your lips to a supernova. 

His saliva is thick and pervasive. His tongue is unmistakably slimy; you whimper, and when you swallow, allowing the bitterness to slide down your throat, Viktor breathes a deep, satisfied noise — like the rumble at the bottom of the ocean. 

Divinely transcendental, his voice continues to resound inside your mind. 

"GOOD PET. YOU ARE UNEQUIVOCALLY GOOD FOR ME." Viktor laps against your tongue, both forks trapping it before they teasingly graze your canines. You swear light glints on his sharpened maw, and his faux mouth upturns slightly, faded star-mole following along, and he's just barely smiling. 

"SO FASCINATING, WHEN YOU BECOME THIS EXCITABLE." 

You're shaking so hard, you've no need to move your hips. 

Gently, Viktor's long tongue presses a bit farther, forcing faint gags from your trembling system. You're overwhelmed, placed between his gaze and his pulsing heat inside of you — and the way your mouth is utterly full of him. Your lips wrap around the thickest part of his tongue, his taste spilling into your throat: a warm knife, pure sharpness. 

You beg with your eyes, pupils fat moon-pools. The colorful, surrounding anomaly satellite-pings approvingly. 

"YOU ARE ON THE CUSP OF CRYING. HOW PRECIOUS. TELL ME, WHO IS IT THAT YOU BELONG TO?" 

You, your head is rebounding. I'm all yours. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, a panicked butterfly trying to get free. Here, in the depths of your emotions, you crave to be devoured. To be held lovingly between his teeth, to have his searing, arcane-infused touch bruise your bones with his imprint. Pulling you apart, layer by layer — skin, muscle, soul. 

You'd let him take you anywhere. You'd let him carve his golden-hued love into your marrow. 

I will. 

Pure endearment overfills his chasmic void, left where the Hexcore landed in his chest like a meteor. 

Viktor collects these thoughts in a bottle, holds them somewhere close and contradictory: 

Ah, my dear, where shall we go first? You have not seen the gilded sunset over the mountains in Shurima, nor the blossoming of the trees in Ionia. Runic teleportation is only strenuous on the mind the first time you experience it. I want to dance with you atop the highest, star-filled peak in all of Runeterra. If not in another life, perhaps we can still embrace this one. 

"COME. SHOW ME, LITTLE LAMB." When Viktor finally pulls his tongue from your mouth, he's licking a fat stripe from your jaw to your cheek, leaving your skin slimy and cold. "I WISH TO SEE YOU BROUGHT TO PANTING, PLEASURABLE CHAOS." 

His tongue curls back lazily, and his jaw snaps shut, leaving his masked, expressionless face behind. Viktor's head cocks, owl-like. You don't appreciate being taunted; your brows furrow, and you hurriedly reach up, grabbing onto the gold arches on either side of his face. 

They're somewhat akin to antlers, handles. A crown. You've decided to refer to them as horns, either way. Smooth to the touch, and perfectly palm-shaped. 

Viktor laughs, purrs. "YES, GIVE IN TO IMPULSE- TAKE WHAT YOU NEED FROM ME, FALL TO YOUR ENCOMPASSING EMOTIONS…" 

So, you grind into him, breathing faster, holding on for leverage as you pathetically circle your hips. Viktor brushes his large palm up the small of your back, charting the map of tremors in your spine. You dig your nails into both golden horns, even though you're certain their firm surface won't give. Weakly, you exhale in frustration. 

"Vik- I can't- I need you, please…" 

That's all it takes. 

Finally, finally, Viktor grabs your side and slowly thrusts into you. 

Gods. Viktor must be a seraph, the arcane's depiction of the divine, tall and ornate and carved from steel; inhumanly angelic, a synthetic machine — because he feels absolutely heavenly. 

The first arch of his body into yours has you gasping. The Arcane Herald, as attentive as he is resolute, methodically falls into your rhythm. He grinds up when you grind down, and you can suddenly feel him everywhere. You can't think through the pulse of his magic, the arcane fervently fucking into you; you can only fall against him, utterly limp. 

"HOLD ONTO ME," Viktor murmurs. Head leant into his chest, you can feel his large body vibrating with the words — the thrum of his heart, the steady song of the Hexcore. 

You're given a moment to catch your breath. You whimper a stuttered cacophony of words. Please. More. 

Your thoughts are a crisp, babbling river Viktor longs to cup his palms into and drink from. More, more, more. 

Such a filthy little creature, he rebounds, though he knows his current headspace is just as deplorable. 

Viktor begins to fill you with all of him, easing you down so, so slowly — until you've taken all of the fat base of his cock. There's so much of him, and it's a slick, awfully tight slide when he starts to shallowly press in and out of you. 

"AH-" 

The anomaly wavers to the tune of his stutter. 

"YOU FEEL… IMPOSSIBLY ADDICTIVE…" He groans, the sound deep, resonant. "ABSOLUTE PERFECTION… MY LITTLE LOVE, FULLY FILLED WITH ALL I HAVE TO GIVE THEM…" 

The energized air around you blossoms with green flora, golden blooms. You sob in delight. You can practically feel him in your stomach. 

Honestly, you weren't sure what Viktor was deriving from this, if his new form could feel anything at all — but right now, he sounds completely wrecked. 

Not that you're any better. 

All you can do is grab fistfuls of his cape, as the Arcane Herald guides you, ruins you. His hand firmly presses into the soft flesh of your side. He's so much larger, so much stronger. (Delicious contrast drips from this; Viktor remembers pressing your shapes together, fragile on fragile, your face held in his sweat-soaked palm as you run your fingers through his hair, and everything is blisteringly soft —) 

For this Viktor, it's a simple, effortless task: the way he lifts you up and down to fuck you. Pulling you until you're taking half of his dripping length, only to fill you with its staggering thickness, enough for you to feel the friction of every ribbed ridge. Every golden bolt. You moan softly, and he smoothly bounces you, as though you weigh nothing. 

Static encompasses your mind, like storm clouds rolling over. His cock curls, the tentacle writhing to bully a spot inside of you that has you seeing a spider web of constellations. Viktor huffs, every slight groan causing the rainbow-hued arcane to bubble around the two of you. 

He slips out for a moment when he pounds you a bit too clumsily, the slick plap, plap giving way as he slides over your bare skin. Utterly wet, his cock flicks, laps at your sex. The tip traces V patterns and rune-shapes right where you're sensitive and throbbing. You drip for him, as expected. Needy. Empty, so desperate to be full of him again. 

He caresses your head, leans into your mind to check on you. You've barely processed his ping of, Are you alright? before your thoughts are shaking him back and forth and pleading, Please, more. 

In a simple, smooth movement, he eases back into you, pushing every ounce of air from your lungs. 

Shooting stars shimmer in your peripheral, a candelabrum of bright, palpable tenderness. The Arcane Herald's hidden affections, on vivid, fireworking display. Viktor's third arm click-click-clicks, and a rune matrix halos him, blurry and blue. 

You fuck each other desperately, then. Your broken moans meld with Viktor's electrifying, shuddering hum. You press against him with no distinct rhythm — and it's clear Viktor's resolve is faltering. A crack forming in the flawless shell of his facade. When you're involved in the equation, it's a feeble facade, really. 

Because Viktor can't hide his softness, his lingering humanity, especially now, with plumes of earnest affection filling the very atmosphere that surrounds your shape. You breathe it in. Viktor's magic tastes like eternity. The chemistry of his endearment settles in your vessel, richly divine. He adores you. Has always adored you. Down to your soul, you've never known anything more true. 

You pant his name in between each breath. You're so lost in him, so focused on finding your peak, you barely notice the accelerating glimmer in the runes above him. Twirling and ticking, their shapes jumbling together like spinning a globe and trying to imagine the place your finger will land on. They're bright enough to blind, if you were to look right at them. 

Arousal drips down your thighs, dirties his lap with every slick squelch. Viktor's head spins — post-enlightenment, it should not be capable of such fatigue, and yet the fire behind his glowing eyes twirls in spirals. 

His hands shake, the inner workings of his viscera aching with something innate. The Hexcore's budding urge to claim, to devour everything it touches like a long shadow. He loves this, loves bringing you pure pleasure to the point of speechlessness and bonelessness. Loves the auroras of affection and the disorderly waves of ecstasy that amalgamate in your mind. He wants to fill you over and over and over. There's a recursive impulse in his reassembled system that delights in the conceptualized tenderness. 

It isn't logical. Sentimentality is far from glorious. 

You should continue the life you have already established without him; he can help the lost souls of humanity without you, as he's done up until now. This makes sense. This is the path laid before him, the plan he was hoping to follow once he arrived here. Three simple, necessary steps. Visit you. Settle his reservations. Leave. 

But it is terribly lonesome without your presence. 

And as far as keeping you at arm's length is concerned, he's already failed, hasn't he? 

If he asked, gave you the choice instead of running from it, would you wish to come with him? 

Viktor imagines voyaging far from the bright skies of Piltover, and the dark depths of Zaun. Inhuman hand folded over soft hand, as he shows you what it means to step into a new reality. 

Everything he has learned and seen sprawls before you, before him, an open map of endless possibilities. He dreams of soothing you to sleep beside a bright, homemade fire. Of bringing you to the edge of the world, or the top of the sky, or the boundary where the earth meets the sea, all with a singular arcane-flare from his staff. The crackle of flame, the hum of the wild. The crash of a waterfall, the echo of your breathing. Viktor will covet every individual intricacy; dragon coveting gemstones, sharp teeth and long talons and unblinking snake-eyes. 

He's usually an embodiment of good luck, despite this. To some. 

Those he has attempted to heal since he left Piltover tend to fear him. They cower, broken limbs shaking, broken hearts pounding fast. Sometimes they shout. Angel. Demon. God. Viktor is none of those things. 

The Arcane Herald presses his fingertips to their foreheads, and watches golden thread knit them anew. 

He could be content with this, he sometimes thinks. No grander goal. No overarching evolution. Just this path, paved by the thin shred of his retained humanity. A flourish of kindness in his soul that the arcane can't smother out. (His blanket-turned-cape, the brooch he wears over his chest, the golden notches in his spine. The same lines on his palms that you once kissed, and his own name; you've always loved the way it feels to say his name.) 

Especially so, he believes he might've found what he was meant for, a bright glimmer to fill the space where his heart should be, when he pictures changing the world with you. 

You've always been like a sunrise. Bright light and warmth, you would lead his way with your firefly-glow. Those he heals would find a new sense of comfort, as you place a steady hand to a tensed shoulder, the way you did with him so many years ago. 

A man falls to his knees in front of him, and he shakes your hand, before he staggers away on his unsteady, golden legs. A young woman pleads, says a prayer to him as his runic halo illuminates the fresh fingerprints on her forehead. She embraces you tightly. Thank you, thank you. Viktor drums golden nails against his staff. A softened look crosses your face. It gets stamped in Viktor's brain with spellbound ink until it's completely memorized. 

As you step inside the luminous ring of his teleportation circle, he gently grasps your hand to keep you steady. The surrounding light swirls. He holds your forearm, and pulls you close in something of a practiced dance. 

You smile at him, his vivid muse. He admires you, unblinking. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles and kisses them with magic. The lilt in your tone is smooth like Janna's breath as you ask, Where to next? 

It hardly matters. The persistent, void-like ache within him quiets down for the first time in an eternity. This kindness — yours, his — softly augments him so easily. 

Viktor feels wholeheartedly content. A gnawing undertone, satiated. Anywhere, he thinks. Let us cross the universe in a single stride. Amateur astronomers, aren't we? 

Together, you'll traverse the desert. The mountains. The sea. He'll carry you home when you're tired from the day's events. He'll stay in with you, even though the arcane calls him onward, even though he has no need to sleep like this, joining you as you rest well into the day. 

His legs hang over the end of your small, temporary cot. Utterly out of place, his limbs are too long, the sheets catch on the gold ornaments around his ankles, and his third arm gets awkwardly pinned against the headboard. And when his purple-veined palm splays flat to your chest, slow whitecaps of energy cresting against your head to manifest a pleasant dream, Viktor notes the way you shiver. Breathy gasps uttered from your lips, please, don't go, as you press your feeble form against his. 

In the end, he'd give you everything you desire. 

This is exactly what you want — to have your oh-so human shape pressed beneath his, Viktor's monstrous gaze burning into you as you pathetically tremble. While he pins your wrists above your head with the sharp talons of his Hexclaw, and purrs so pleasantly when you pant with anticipation. 

Nuzzling into the nape of your neck, everything impossibly close, he bathes you in his giant shadow, in the steady rays of his third arm's divine light. The silver ridges of his masked face are cool against your skin. He wants to spend hours upon days upon years marking his favorite details of yours with his fingertips; wax-warm prints on your hips, your back. Arcane-patterns embossed along your thighs and your stomach, polychrome like painting the cosmos across your bare skin. 

Your imperfections were made to be admired. No, more accurately, you have always been perfect. There is nothing to fix nor change. You deserve everything, and so much more. 

He wants you perfectly sated, softly panting his name every morning and night, each sunrise and sunset greedily spent in one another's company. 

Light's first flecks appear on the horizon, alighting Ionia's quiet autumn trees in ichor-lucent shades. Arms and legs locked around him, rays glittering off of his gilded frame, you take Viktor inside of you in the comfort of your makeshift camp. 

Dusk bleeds into night, and this time, you're stationed in a run-down inn somewhere north of Demacia. 

There's a new form of illusory magic Viktor has been studying. A remnant in a supposedly Targon-sourced tome he bought for dirt cheap in a Bilgewater port. 

Considering Viktor's appearance and especially his stature, it's difficult to travel through busy regions without heads turning. This magic particularly affects the mind. It allows you to finally stay at a decent inn for the first time in ages, under the guise of Viktor being your very human, very normal partner. 

You are supposed to be a married couple. But if there was a noise complaint — 

All this to say — Viktor imagines fucking you in a tiny room with a rickety bed that thumps when it hits the wall and creaks to protest his weight. 

He barely fits, the tiny room and the even tinier bed clearly not made for his inhuman, nine-foot-something height; he has to cling to your body, pinning your back against his chest and your ass to his pelvis. The edges of his golden ribs press indents in between your shoulder blades. You look so pliant when you're under him; fully bare, utterly small. So very delightful. My adorable, perfect muse. 

The moon is full. The glowing, runic halo above Viktor's head mimics the shimmering descent of the night's stars. The light from his eyes burns bright in the darkened room. Two steady, piercing flames. Shadows cast themselves onto the ceiling, framing his third arm, his horns, his crown. They twist and combine and resemble the outline of fluttery, umbral wings. 

Teleporting the two of you would make things simple. Perhaps he could have you in an arcane vacuum, as he's done many, many times prior. 

But it's awfully thrilling to cover your mouth with his large palm, to silently purr in your mind that you must be silent, my little dove, because his voice might shake the room with its unholy reverberation — while his impossibly large body pins you, and while he relentlessly fucks whimper after muffled whimper from your drooling lips. 

Saliva slickens his purple-mottled fingers. Magic pools from his figure, bathes you in tingly radiance. The wrinkled sheets are drenched in sweat and slick and luminescent arcane-fluid. The inn's little room is filled with the Arcane Herald's huge body, his resplendent presence that dapples magic into the atmosphere, and the messy press of his shape against yours, the repeated, methodically wet echo. 

Your swirling thoughts plead, please, touch me here, and Viktor does, exactly in the manner you like. Softly. Lovingly. Until you're swollen and sensitive and needy. A purple thumb greedily slips into your mouth, toying with your tongue. With your hazy cognizance bared to him, your mind diligently fucked open, he tastes your emotions; bites and swallows them whole. 

You are beautiful, Viktor whispers into your brain. Sublime. Brilliant. Tenacious. Perfect. 

They're premonitions, of course, but Viktor's imagination won't stop singing — 

Your gaze, locked to his while you drown in his flame. Your heart, beating fast. Your soul, a blossom of delicate petals in his palm. He wants you on your knees. On your stomach. On your back. Heat pluming over his maw as he pins you to his face and laps at your dripping, sensitive sex with his long, slimy tongue. He wants to press his spend into your mouth with his fingers, wants to leave hallucinatory kisses across the sensitive skin of your nape. 

(Kisses you can feel in an astral mind cavity, somewhere far away from here. This is who I am beneath the chrysalis. This is how I've always wanted to kiss you: with boundless desperation, pale palms to your cheeks, and soft mouth to softer lips, and starbursts to starlight. Implosions becoming the dust in space.) 

He'll lace his fingers with yours when you kiss the star-moles on his false face. His large, deft hands will pleasure you in every which way while you chant his name, until your voice has gone sore. Viktor. A prayer, a plea, a vow coalescing. And the Arcane Herald will give you what you need, he will hold you and love you and show you everything you have always been worthy of. 

He could take you in a moonlit Ionian hot spring, water splashing as you bounce on his lap, or in a cold cabin in the Freljord, bodies close as you exhale hot, shaky breaths, or just anywhere you could possibly want him. 

Viktor wants to fuck you until his illogical, potent affection spells your neurons, your electrons, and every last letter of your memorized name. 

Your breathing is ragged, now. 

Reality dips back into his palm. The anomaly's shape curls into, into, into itself until it billows out in a cloud of miasma. You grind into his lap pathetically, barely in tune with his own steady thrusts. Every buck of his hips has become smooth, as measured as a metronome, while he stays focused on your building pleasure, on bringing you to your budding collapse. 

It takes all of your effort to fumble your hands into his chestnut hair, your feeble fingers grabbing on tight. The strands are wild and grown out, starting to fleck with a breeze of blonde. They're soft, even still. You whimper, you let yourself be manhandled, bounced so easily on his lap — so perfect for him, so worthy of his endless adoration. 

"F-Fuck," Your muscles go tense; your voice breaks as he presses right there, grinds and slowly drags you onto him to draw out the throbs of pleasure into deep, warm tempests. "Viktor, don't- don't stop-" 

There's potency to the way you say his name, igniting a lingering, desperate instinct or an arcane-induced ripple effect; Viktor's cock swells into fullness, the tentacle's fat, ribbed ridges bullying your sweet spots. It drips with sopping wet pre-lubricant, pumps more preparative slickness into you, in turn; it flutters with chameleon-light, thin electrical currents surging from tip to base in shifting hues of glowing purple to lightning blue. 

"GUIDING YOU TO UNRAVEL FOR ME IS UTTER ECSTASY." Viktor coos, his accent thick, tone stupidly sweet and possessive. Echoing in your ears until he's the only thing you can hear. 

He drives himself into you, purposefully nice and deep. A disgustingly loud groan is coaxed from your panting mouth. 

"OH… LOOK AT YOU. TREMBLING. TERRIBLY CLOSE TO AN ABSOLUTE IMPLOSION." 

You are dazzling. A precious, desperate mess due to my touch… and only my touch. I will bring you to enlightenment in the manner only I can. 

"SO GOOD TO ME, YES? YOU ARE… EXQUISITE. AS PERFECTLY DIVINE AS YOU WERE WHEN WE FIRST BECAME DIVIDED. YOUR MAGNIFICENCE IS… MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN EVERYTHING I HAVE SPENT YEARS REMEMBERING." 

I have missed you more than anything in every reality, my dearest. 

You deserve to be taken care of, to be filled and admired and held in every way you need — and Viktor shudders through the salty brine of guilt, because he knows he left you waiting and wanting for far, far too long. 

It won't happen again. 

He holds you as you arch up, his palm instantly finding the small of your back as you make it as straight as you can manage. Your unsteady palms opt to abruptly hold his face and pull him close. Close enough to let his head press to yours. 

Even with your eyes closed, his unfeeling sun-pupils blaze behind your brain like pockets of wildfire. 

Gods. If he could, he would keep this moment close. A sheathed weapon ready for his right hand, a crux and a complex conundrum. So he will always, always remember how it feels to adore you. 

Finding the next best solution, Viktor contradicts all that he is, mirroring your touch. Holding your small face in his own large palms, as though you're precious, his, with enough pure tenderness to capsize you. 

"YOU SIMPLY DO NOT KNOW HOW INVALUABLE YOU ARE TO ME… NOR HOW YOU REPRESENT TRUE RADIANCE-" Viktor stutters, it nearly sounds like a sigh, "A GLITTERING STAR MORE PERFECT THAN ANY GALAXY I HAVE FELT AT MY FINGERTIPS…" 

Forehead to forehead, pace never faltering, he takes you tenderly, steadily; gently perfect friction fills you with carnality and drowns out all else. You grit your canines. Viktor brushes his palm to your jaw, his thumb over your cheek. Pleasure runs rampant in his shaky hands and the full-on quiver of the anomaly's thinning edge. 

The warmth behind his eyes seems to glaze over. A low noise purrs from him that mimics a set of shaking breaths, golden, gill-like ridges on his neck falling open. Puffing plumes of thickly frosted air, like exhaling in the dead of winter. 

For the briefest of moments, in the weakening softness of the arcane, you can sense the aurora of how this feels for him. 

You are warm, perfect. Your frame shakes like a baby bird, delicate flame, to his fallen-angel maelstrom. Mind unfurling. Minds melding. You adore him in every shape, strong or weak or in any chimeral form he wishes to take. Viktor relishes this. Tastes it with a swipe of his tongue over teeth. You sense it just the same. A strand curling, knotting. Becoming one. 

Everything the Arcane Herald feels sunbeams into him tenfold. Pleasure frantically shivering inside every violently reconstructed atom. Devotion sunflowering out from his wilted-rose center, overflowing and filling the void of his frame. It's so much, too much. Affection strong like getting kissed all over, like worship. (Viktor's gentle mouth and his starlit hands and the way he falls to his knees before you without prompting.) Akin to holding a prayer in one's palms, until knuckles ache and skin splits apart. 

Love is all you can taste, sense. In its purest, most concentrated, most overwhelming form. 

"Close," You manage to pant. Your breath fans over his face and Viktor leans just a bit closer, until your soft lips are grazing the smooth metal. "Vik- please, please, please." 

You're begging like there's even a singular shred of him that would deny you. He won't. He doesn't. 

"MY BELOVED." A lilt falls into his tone, a loving refraction that kisses your eardrums over and over again. "LET GO. YOU ARE ALL MINE." 

Viktor bounces you smoothly; he reaches down, finds where you're sensitive and throbbing and circles his deft, magic-rich fingers there. 

I would break the world in two for you. Fruit split down the middle, as I feed you the lush flesh within. I want you to know you are loved, as your heart knows to beat, and darkness knows to encircle light, and emotion knows to tether itself to a soul. 

Energy dances up your spine, a deep purple glow emanates from beneath Viktor's veins; the Hexcore's glowing insides, light glinting off of a chasm of amethyst. He can feel it, your sensitivity, your eagerness. Threading within him, a pinwheel turning, and building, building, building. 

No, perhaps it's his eagerness. A lingering disruption on the heels of his resurrection, because he was promised freedom from humanity, but he cannot erase the memories that shape him. Because he spent ages in that fucking cocoon with every ache the arcane has ever felt winding beneath his skin: the pain of existence, the pain of overuse, the penchant for a wild rune to corrupt itself into oblivion. 

Viktor hasn't been touched by anything other than pain since the arcane decided such sensations are less than glorious. Inessential. Unnecessary. 

You curl your palm around the sensitive, slightly ticklish base of his neck, fingernails scrambling to dig into the ridges of golden ornaments. You brush your lips between his tear-marked eyes with purpose. As the numbness begins to fade and the light within him starts to flourish, constellations becoming galaxies — your touch is so perfectly soft it threatens to hurt. 

It's exquisite catharsis. The arcane has made him into an unexplainable paradox, a Hexcorized heart that defies itself, a vulnerable vessel that has to relearn the difference between stimuli. It's a perception he wishes to evaluate, with you. To give sun and soil and rainwater and gasoline, so this newfound antithesis explodes into blooms in his hands, all hazy and flickering. 

He's missed you. So, so terribly. This is all the runes that bend to his whim can say, now. (Viktor curls in on himself, prods into his bones and finds the weaker vessel he tried to leave behind. Always there, just dormant. He imagines your fingers running through his windswept hair as he kisses you until you're both stupidly breathless. He tastes like nebulae, you taste the same as he remembers.) He watches radiance shine through the mottled marks on your bare skin: his fingerprints, reactive to the untamed thrum of the surrounding stratosphere. 

Blasphemy be damned, the Herald of the Arcane takes an oath to stay by your side, just as a younger half of him, more foolish, more weary and rune-carved and destined to betray you once promised he would. And he can, now. He can abandon augmentation to show you pure, exquisite entropy. 

The unconscious blending of his mind with yours causes you to hear, causes you to answer as your thoughts resound. 

Viktor- I missed you, I missed you so much- I'd always come with you, I promise. I love you. 

Ironically, or perhaps impossibly, Viktor's own mind responds to yours before he has a true chance to think. 

I have always loved you. Come apart for me. 

The anomaly around you flares to life with a surge, a big bang, a colorful amalgamation of wildflower-hues you've never seen before — and you come undone for him, in a storm of broken breaths and reverent chants of his name. 

You're falling — dying — in your lover's arms, breaking into pleasant pieces, as Viktor brings you back to life a thousand times over. His lap to his pelvis drip, drips with the residuals of your arousal. He gently rocks his hips as you finish, drawing out your pleasure for everything it's worth. 

He's close behind, then. His figure is briefly made of cosmos and fractals, symbols and steel. Viktor's endless shudders, careening through his lithe limbs, cause the anomaly to exhale a cosmos-ridden breath of pure contentment. 

As Viktor spills inside you, his spend dripping down his length and your thighs and his lap, vibrant and colorful like an oil-slick — there, onto the prickling, plush skin of your lower stomach, you're gently branded with an intricate half-circle of arcane runes. 

They glow brightly, their cornflower-blue outline starkly contrasting your skin. Fleetingly, you're mortal and patron, human and seraph. The Arcane Herald's signature source of power floods into you: cresting waves of stellar divinity, connected constellations of magic that promise, they've been here all along. You simply needed to be taught how to harness them. 

And then, as quick as a miniscule spark gets water-doused into nothing, the arcane's addictive influence is gone. All that's left behind are the tingling fingerprints on your body, and the silence of the scar-colored runes, a halo dotting your abdomen, carved deep beneath your skin. Palpable proof of Viktor's touch, his devotion. 

Between your heavy breaths, your vision infinitely hazy, you hear Viktor exhale a genuine, utterly delighted laugh. 

"Look at you," His voice, for once, is closer to humanity. No longer echoing, instead booming once inside your skull with a potent sense of finality. "Stronger already, yes? I can feel the restlessness of the arcane within you- you are- hah, so perfect. My glorious little love…" 

A brief storm of cosmos-colored resplendence threads through his body, from the neck down; the Hexcore's way of recomposing, rebooting. He trembles against you for only a few moments. His third arm twitches, clicks, testing the stiff curl of each talon individually. Something burns underneath his false face, and Viktor realizes it's the splitting urge to break into a smile. 

You're limp against him, weakly leaning into his chest. Both of his large palms hold onto your waist to brace your weight. He eases out of you carefully, marvels at the mess you've both made as he returns to faultless, logical normalcy. He's already found his resolve, appearing as he did when he first found you, while you're still gasping for breath. Hair a mess, skin sweat-soaked, legs tensing to try not to tremble. 

This element to his new body is one he can learn to accept. 

After all, it allows him to admire you: mouth parted, your eyes closed like you're saying a prayer. You're akin to magnetism, a driving force he can't look away from. He measures the steady thrum of your pulse. Touch tender enough to heal, his thumb traces your eyelids, your lashes, the curve of your brows and your nose and the softness of your cheek, as though it's an outline he wishes to memorize. You're given plenty of time to breathe, relax, and find your bearings. 

In, and then out. He watches you inhale and exhale for several precious moments. 

When your eyes finally open, the first thing you notice is the shift in the surrounding, enveloping anomaly. 

The space around you is a brilliant galaxy, a vibrant ether, a stratosphere that spirals into itself like ripples on water. Plants blossom every which way, sprouting from nothing. Triangular pockets of light shine onto your skin, as if filtered through stained glass. Dots of stars flicker, occasional equations of pitter-pattering morse code. It reminds you of coordinates and diagrams and something distinctly technical, yet magical. Something familiar. Rays from the sun and metal against metal and an embrace that lasts too long, or not enough. You've never seen anything like it. 

"An amalgamation between your soul, and mine," Viktor softly confirms. He lazily tips your chin up with a patient index finger. You'd almost forgotten how hypnotic his gaze could be. Both eyes firefly-flicker to a warm, exuberant rhythm. 

"Beautiful," He says, focused solely on you. "Is it not?" 

You nod, flashing him a small, drowsy grin. You cup his face in both palms, holding him far too delicately, and you press a feather-soft kiss to the diamond marking engraved just above his eyes. 

The Arcane Herald purrs in contentment. Affectionate, he brushes the back of his hand to your cheek, allowing you to feel the golden kintsugi that adorns his once-broken knuckles. 

The anomaly falls away in a quiet blur. Delightfully tousled, you step into the calm eye after a steady storm. 

Reality warps, steadying around you. Your apartment comes into view in the aftermath of the arcane's inverted bubble. Your dusty living room, your rickety couch, walls and carpet faded with age. It takes a few moments for your mind to stop throbbing. You're distantly aware that Viktor is still holding you, settling your bare frame against him as he sits down, with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his palm to the small of your back. 

You're home. Or perhaps you never left. 

Perhaps this is meant to be the start of a new beginning. 

Gentle fingertips trail up your spine: a lover's caress. You feel elated. Calm. Safe, when you're in the Arcane Herald's arms. 

You blink away the haze, adjusting on his lap to keep your newly steadied gaze on his. Viktor's third arm ticks softly, reminiscent of an aged, steady clock. This time, the halo that frames him is low and translucent, iridescently flickering like the beat of dragonfly wings. His masked face is a perfect picture of emotionlessness. Though you find him unreadable, you can't help but melt as you watch him clearly flick his sunset gaze from your mouth, to your eyes. 

Weary knees shake as you prop yourself up more, to leave sleepy kisses onto his face, stardust brushing your mouth. His metal edges run cool against your bare skin, his chest pressed against yours. You kiss the sculpted curve of his cheekbone. The indentation of a past beauty mark. The smooth curve of his mask that reflects light and begs to be touched; as much as the arcane insists otherwise, he was made to be adored. You're certain. 

Viktor hums, his resounding voice filled with the background noise of a fuzzy drone, "This form of connection… I would assume it could invite considerable strain onto the mind." He nuzzles his face into your nape. You can feel the swell of vibrations as he speaks. "You may rest, if you wish." 

It's more of a promise than an invitation. A sleepless being is best suited to watching over while you dream. 

You slump back into his lap, resting against his chest and absently trailing your fingertips over the gilded crescent of his ribs. "Not right now. I'm alright, Vik." 

Viktor lightly pats your head. "The droplet of arcanic power I gave to you is quite sufficient enough to keep you safe. It will allow me to determine your location, should we become separated." 

You seem to deflate, like a plant without water. 

"Viktor," You plead, moon-big eyes gazing up at him. "Please. Stay." 

He's heard those words before. Between silent tears or grasped hands or fingertips pushing his sweaty hair from his face. 

There, in his flickering recollections, he breathes. Bile tinges in his throat when he swallows. He says a prayer in his head. Soft lips graze your forehead and pallid palms shake and unbeknownst at the time, this memory gets shoved down so deep, it's just as vivid in the moments after he first sheds his skin. 

He wasn't planning on leaving, but this confirms it. Seals it. Stamps a promise into the empty core of his chest that burns with warmth, a knife lovingly delved into flesh, a beating heart pumping blood and oxytocin. Viktor feels alive for the first time in years. 

And even though the Arcane Herald knows he wasn't made for this — he was created for calamity and salvation, not softness on the smallest scale. Just you and him, becoming nothing but a blip on the world's grandest stage. A simple life of endless wandering. A purposeful life where he gets to be intricately born anew for the hundredth time. The softest metamorphosis yet. 

Viktor knows, but he holds your cheek in his all-too large hand, he tilts his head and lets his unwavering gaze burn through you, and he still answers: "Of course." 

It isn't an argument. Of course, I will stay. 

I was meant to. 

[ranticore]

Centaur anatomy notes which I might turn into diagrams (courtesy of me in 2023)

The air flow is one-way, in the nose and out the mouth, the main body lungs do the most work and the human torso lungs work to strip out the last % of oxygen, so they are actually engaged on the lower chest exhale which passes air back out through the human lungs and mouth. In times of exertion they can inhale and exhale simultaneously using their two sets of intercostal muscles. Even non-athletic centaurs have very high endurance and good breath control. lower respiratory tract infections are extremely dangerous as are any conditions that might partially occlude the airway (like a common cold), so pulmonary health is very important to centaurs

cardiac system is similarly duplicated, there's a big barrel heart and a smaller human chest heart which aids in the circulation of blood from the upper lungs. the human half heart and lungs are larger than their equivalents in humans because the alimentary canal is not duplicated, so there's lots of free real estate in there (i.e past the human half diaphragm there's no stomach, liver, etc, those are all in the animal half)

a centaur can survive their upper-body heart and lungs ceasing to function (by trauma, disease, etc) but not the reverse. in the modern era, it is actually possible for a centaur to give a(n upper) heart transplant and survive but they would experience reduced quality of life as a result (having low tolerance to physical exertion). however it is an option for recipients whose lower heart has reduced function as this is life threatening

diet is determined by animal type. ungulates are nearly all vegetarians, they need a specialised diet high in cellulose and enough roughage to save them from getting painful ulcers. they drink spirulina water and consume specially-formulated hay/grass/etc products. they could eat a handful of plain grass if they wanted but there's not much flavour in that. grazers eat as many as six or seven small meals a day, carnivores would eat one or two.

the babies are all altricial like human babies. this means ungulates are born with their lower halves less developed than their newborn animal equivalents and can't walk for the first few months of life (coordinating six limbs is tricky). human chest handles the lactation as it's easier to cradle a baby there. i know we were all dying to know

flexibility is pretty good as previously mentioned but it does vary by species. the big cats can even climb ladders and have an easier time living in conventional housing

an ungulate centaur has two ways of lying down; sternal recumbency and lateral recumbency. in sternal recumbency the human half is held upright, in lateral, that's the full 'passed out' lying on ur side experience, and lateral recumbency is required for REM sleep. beds consist of thick pads or bedding (straw etc) and are usually ground-level. REM sleep time varies for animal type, for horses they'll need about 2 hours of it every day. they can nap and sleep shallowly while standing up. too much time spent lying down is bad for circulation as weight on hooves is actually a part of the circulatory system in horses, so they will spend most of their time standing to avoid issues with venous drainage. where a centaur is injured, a full body sling (suspended from a wheeled frame usually) can help them keep as much weight on their hooves as possible while also supporting them.

spinal injuries are very common in centaurs for obvious reasons, particularly torsion or compression fractures to the acute spine, which is the junction between the upper and lower body. this area is heavily reinforced and incorporates a structure similar to the stay structure in a horse's leg, which makes supporting the upright torso effortless. but all the reinforcement in the world won't stop nearly every centaur getting a sore back in their later years. ruptured discs are extremely common. in modern times, many would have brace implants fitted there. because there's more than just the torso's own muscles supporting it, it's easy for a centaur to hold their torso in what might seem like a high-effort position to humans (i.e not just upright)

[radiojamming]

How do we think John Hartnell got his injuries? They say he had a compressed vertebra, an injured ankle, a foot infection, and a shoulder injury. There doesn't seem to be any record of how these happened, and they didn't mention anything about it during his exhumation.

YES I LOVE THIS QUESTION

So there actually are some records of what happened from his forensic report from the '86 exhumation! Like a lot of things about him, it does take some guesswork until we build a time machine and study him like a bug the way I've always wanted.

Here are some selected parts of the autopsy report, which we can use to reconstruct what might have happened to him:

[About the cervical spine compression:] However, there does appear to be some compression of the superior end-plate of the body of C6, consistent with mild fracture, probably representing subacute injury. Cervical alignment is normal. There are no arthritic changes.

[About his upper shoulders and arms:] On some projections, the left acromion appears slightly tapered, possibly due to old trauma. A small spur off the posterior aspect of the left olecranon is also likely to be post-traumatic.

[About the wrists:] The wrists and hands are unremarkable, except for diffuse muscle wasting. There is mild bilateral negative ulnar variance (the distal ulna lies more proximal than the distal radius at the distal radioulnar articulation; if severe, this misalignment may predispose to avascular necrosis of the lunate). No evidence for fractures or arthritis was found.

[About the lower extremities:] The femurs appear normal. Hip and knee articulations are preserved. However, there is a slight widening of the medial aspect of the left ankle joint, raising the possibility of ligamentous injury. No fractures are noted. The talar dome and tibial plafond show no evidence for osteochondritis dissecans, an occasional sequel to subchondral injury. A few growth recovery lines (Harris lines) are noted in the lower tibial shafts. There is also some spurring off the anterior articular lip of the distal right tibia, and probably post-traumatic in origin. A more curious finding is a possible focus of cortical demineralization in the plantar aspect of the 4th metatarsal shaft of the left foot, best demonstrated on oblique projections. Actual disruption of the cortex may be present and could represent osteomyelitis. However, there were no overlying superficial ulcers or open wounds.

OKAY SO we have some key parts of these selections (parts I omitted included stuff like saying how Hartnell looked better than Braine; RIP buddy), and we also have to consider a few things in addition to these: Jartnell had already been exhumed twice before (1852 and briefly in 1984) and the earliest exhumation had done damage to his body, he had some obvious wasting from being stuck in the ice for 140+ years, and tuberculosis can damage far more than just the lungs.

What we can't be completely sure of is his family medical history, although the Inglefield & Sutherland exhumation attempt remarked that tuberculosis was "a malady to which it was further known that the deceased was prone." I haven't been able to find a clarification for this comment—I took it to either mean it was known that he'd died of TB, or it was known that he'd had TB in the past. (See: what I think his dad died from.) But we also can assume that the Harris lines in his legs show that he'd gone through some period of undernourishment at some early point in his life, which isn't too out of pocket for a Victorian working class person. Granted, he was nearly six foot tall and his brother was 5'8" (both taller than the average Victorian-era man), so his growth wasn't too arrested.

All to say that some of his forensic oddities may have come from an earlier time in his life, like an injury or a previous condition. The injury in his elbow, for instance, sounds like it came from earlier in his life. He had been a sailor on a multi-year voyage on the HMS Volage in the past, and went from a career of a shoemaker (which involved inhaling some gnarly chemicals like green vitriol/copperas, as well as repetitive motion injuries) to a full-time sailor without the benefit of training like his younger brother had. Some of those past injuries might have come from this time—workplace injuries, essentially.

The newer injuries, like the one in his neck, could have come from a wide range of sources. Consider that he did have a zinc deficiency, and some of the symptoms of this include night blindness, fatigue, and poor wound healing. He might have been more susceptible to falls, or had a delayed reaction time. The ankle injury, for instance, sounds like a bad sprain; there are a ton of different ways to screw up your ankle on a ship like that (swinging boom accident? fell off the rigging?? slipped on the ice???). The osteomyelitis in his foot might have had a correlation to this, or might have come from an older, poorly-healed injury.

However, he was healthy enough early in the voyage that he wasn't sent back to England during the check-up near Greenland. Either he hadn't presented all of these symptoms yet, or he was really good at hiding them.

This is all a long-winded, infodumpy way to say that our boy here had a medical history that would make you wince and give a sympathetic "oooooh". He was a working-class Victorian man with working-class Victorian injuries and maladies, and it's completely possible that his family history didn't help.

[contentment-of-cats]

Thrawn, age, illness, and injury.

Ahsoka talk below.

Fandom can be shallow and disappointing. First up, it's possible to dislike the representation of the character without shitting all over an excellent actor whose body of work is more than Disney can bound with contracts and Filoni's scripts. Disney got a full on smack in the face with Jon Boyega (who like Kelly Marie Tran got the shit end of the stick in 2 out of 3 of the sequels), you can bet that there are NDAs and 'you can't say mean things about us even if they're true' clauses.

Mostly I want to talk about age, illness, and injury and the way that people take it as a personal insult to their existence.

Let's start with the man himself. According to the Official Timeline (because everything eventually gets retconned and there is no actual canon) Thrawn was born 59BBY. He was 59 (two years older than I am now) when the space whales yeeted himself and as yet unknown other ships into the dark. Counting forward from the official timeline, he is at the very least 68 years old. He was in exceptional shape before the space whaling, yes. And no, he is not fully human, but is 'near human' - the Chiss evolved from human origins, their blue color explained in canon by something in the Csillan hydrosphere.

But let's look at this.

That is pain.

I'd guess about a 7 or 8.

Those tentacles are tight enough to hold him still, the twisting could induce torsion injuries to the spine and pelvis, cause spiral fractures to bone, dislocate joints, and compress/crush organs. Even with my Chiss physiology headcanon, I can't see anything but pain, crushing and twisting injuries, possibly with internal bleeding.

Additionally, I think that there could have been some kind of brain injury. While some of it could be the makeup and the lighting (or unlighting as the case may be), I think that the droop of one side of his mouth could be from nerve damage somewhere. My mother had a droop like that after a 'baby stroke' - transient ischemic attack.

He and Ezra were alone on the bridge, and he shot Ezra. Further, I can't see Ezra doing anything to help Thrawn after the credits roll. Once those Imps break through the blast door, he's going to be lucky to survive the fist minute.

In the great in-between that moment and the new canon?

So Thrawn, at the end of nine years is not just nine years older, but has managed to get his ship operable without a shipyard, not starve to death after the two years of consumables were gone, and not die of his injuries. (I've posted my theory that the survivors went into coldsleep to preserve the supplies.) Filoni has retconned bacta treatment into a magic potion - except when it isn't. The man is so inconsistent and wishy-washy that I could drive a 1960 Cadillac Eldorado through the smallest plot holes.

Y'all were expecting the buff blue daddy after all that. Elon Musk and 'dad bod.' I get it though, a lot of people invest in the concept of youth and health, go to extremes to hold onto it, even worship it - and denigrate the people who visibly age, are ill, or injured, or disabled. So many of the posts about Thrawn's portrayal in Ahsoka carry the stench of ableism and ageism. As for hating the character for his portrayal, blame Filoni instead.

[crying-mybest]

Fear

(Disturbed Part 3)

TW- Graphic Body Horror, Psychological horror, Asphyxiation, Bugs

Tw change by part

WC- 1,137

You return to consciousness, staring down the hall. Moonlight streaming in through the windows casting shadows that bend and writhe with living things. 

The light turns to an angry red that begins to gradually warp into green and yellow eventually making its way through every color before lopping back to red like a child’s night light. The slamming of doors and distant maniacal laughter can be heard. There's a low humming like a million insects flapping their wings at once. It's getting louder.

Your body won’t move. 

Every muscle aches,

-

-

your jaw a pulsing knot of pain,

-

-

Each breath a struggle that comes in intermediate shallow gasps that feel like acid trickling down your throat. Your fingers twitch, but the rest of you is paralyzed.

You want to scream. You can’t.

Something moves in the hall. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Distinguishable yet one with the inky black tendrils of darkness. The figure moves slowly lurking and moving closer. You want to call out, to plead, to scream, but your body won’t let you.

The figure reaches out its thin fingers coiling around you as it emerges from the shadows, hands pressing against your skin, cold and clinical, its eyes glowing red and white spirals that captivate and terrify. Your gaze moves to avoid them as much as possible and your attention is grabbed by a voice—low, steady. The words jumble in your head, unable to understand or comprehend what's happening. 

The creature moves closer.

-

- 

You can feel its breath on your skin.

shifting between the light and dark, its glowing spiral eyes locking onto yours. you can’t look away now. Shadows curl around it, twisting, pulling, reaching. The air thickens.

The Colors shift violently 

Red

Orange

Green

Something deeper.

Something impossible.

The creature crouches, impossibly large, its limbs too long and bending at odd angles. A hum vibrates through your skull, static swallowing your thoughts. The light warps again, the air compressing, and now you’re gasping, drowning. The thing lets out a screech, a sound that digs into your bones. Your body convulses, seizing, your vision fracturing—

A hand grips your arm. The smell of something sterile, and sharp. It feels like a million spines stabbing into you. Then a hypothermic cold sets in, you're sweating but the chill of Siberia washes over you. A metal stab, no a lightning bolt, races through your system. 

-

Blackness.

-

-

When you surface, something is pressing against your face. The air is cold and dry, flooding your lungs. Beatles fly around the space, shadow figures loom over you, blurred, shifting, empty.

It's impossibly bright and the light only seems to get brighter. Panic fills you as you try to speak, to move to reach out for help. Bolting up and choking, coughing in panic. 

He remains calm. Shushing you with a familiar condescendence, hands guide you back to a firm mattress. The strength leaves you once more. It's hard to move. The pain, the aching, the bright unforgiving light as you feel your heart ripped from your chest.  

Hands, 

soft feathers, 

droplets of salty sweet sweat,

insect wings.

All moving  with an erratic yet harmonious rhythm —wrapping, pulling, prodding. You feel like a bug under a microscope exposed to your sins as beetles burrow into your skin, down feathers stuffed in your head and mouth.

A low murmur. A voice you almost recognize. As a focused light burns through your eyes rendering you nearly blind when it dissipates. Shadows of demons and angels dancing in the binding spectrum of rainbow hues.

Pressure forms around your jaw. You recoil from the white hot pain. A loud whisper rings in your ear and before you can process what was said.

A sharp pop. 

Pain running through your jaw. 

You try to jerk away, but hands hold you still. Holographic light flashes in your vision. 

Whispering of your sins and failures.

 -

Darkness coiling around you.

-

-

Dark Blue eyes.

-

-

-

-

Fading. 

You wake in a courtroom. Everything feels impending and large as if you were a child. A sense of Deja vu hits you, as the figure in a pantsuit next to you stands.

“My client, as proven by Dr. Bartholomew, was not in their right mind when these crimes were committed. Defense is advocating for them to be committed to Arkham Asylum for further treatment.”  The woman sat down mechanically.

You turn to look at the judge. The figure sat at the front of the room, long black robes flowed around the tall faceless figure.

A wave of whispers surges through the room like rushing water—then silence. The gavel slams down, a thunderclap that rattles your bones.

The judge leans forward, tension stretching the air to its breaking point. When they speak, it is not a voice—it is a raw, grating sound, a noise worse than nails on a chalkboard, worse than screaming metal.

"̴̧̛̱̬̓̍̅̓͝S̷̘͇̫̈́̈́͊͒͝ę̷͇̲̪̦̌̕n̵̡͓͈͈̍̂̅̽t̷̪̲͂ê̸̳̘͙͚̘͕̾̓͂n̸̙̖͗̾c̵̥̻̆̂̐į̷͖͔̗͉͖͂n̸͎̯̣͙̒̊͐͒g̴̪̻̙͒͒ͅ ̴̘̮̫̅̇͒͛̚i̶͇̱̾̌ͅś̵͇̖̈́̚ ̴͕͙̭͓͙͎̍͌̚̚͠c̴̺̹͂̚͝ö̸̱̣̭̿͐͛m̶̮̍p̷͇̰̈́͐̄̂͐͒l̶̞̭̱͍̱̿͗̀͠ę̵̘̽̿̉͛t̵̢͚̞̙̂̋̆͝ę̷̤̬͉͉̥̾̄́̈́,̷̛͈͎̜͕̼̀́̓̋͊ ̵̝͙̮̀͆͊͜͜͠j̸̢̭́͘ǘ̶̘̝͇͜ḑ̶̓͠ğ̷̛͇̞͛̌̓̔m̷̛̘͒̈́̑ȩ̴̭̣̰̯̏͝n̴̡̞͐̕͜ͅt̴̖̐̇͐̈́̕ ̵̢̢̲͇͒̿͊́̌͗ͅā̸̧̺̹̣̰̾̏̈́͜p̵̩͙̪̹̘̋̎̈́p̶̢̩̗͓͗͝͠ė̵͎̰̠̺a̶̳̣͍̓̌l̴̡̰̦̽̈́̅̀̕ś̵̨̺̺͕̝͙̌̀̄̎̐ ̶͚̗̺̀͋̚͘t̸͔͇͎͈̞̣͐̉͊͌͐o̸͓͈̞̐ͅ ̸̢͕̥̯͌͆d̸͍̻̮̅́͑̽͌͝ȩ̶̪͇̜͊̌̈́f̴͍̗̥͈̘̈́̉e̵̱̹̫̱̗̭̾̿̋͝n̶̢̜̰͝s̷̠̘̲̗̘̣̾̀́͆e̵̢̗̘̿̆͛̏̅ͅ"̸̡͍̋͗͐̿̓̚

The words burrow into your skull, vibrating inside you. You clutch your head as liquid oozes from your ears. Thick. Warm. Red. The first drops splatter against the cold floor.

Two hands seize you, yank you upright. 

Officers…

Their grips are steel. Your feet scrape against the floor as they drag you toward the door. You scream, you beg, but your voice is swallowed by the walls. 

You're thrown into a cell, the walls press in. The air thickens, clogging  your lungs. The black ropes of depression wrap tightly around your neck like a noose. The light fades slowly as it pulls tighter, squeezing until you choke on sobs as bloody tears run down your chin, your vision tunnels—  

You wake.

Strapped down.

Every muscle is raw, stinging, like you’ve been through a war. Your chest rises, falls—breathing, something you haven’t been able to do in years. The room glows sickly green, the monitors casting eerie shadows. The beeping of a heart monitor. The slow whistle of oxygen past your nose. 

The world is holding its breath.

For once you can take your time, but as you fill your lungs with oxygen you remember the nightmares. .

The panic hits like a shockwave. You jerk against the restraints. The monitor beeps frantically. The metal cuffs bite into your skin, clatter against the gurney. You thrash, but there’s nowhere to go, no way out, no escape—

Then, silence. The room is empty. Your breath rattles in your chest as the panic dulls into a hyperborean dread. The room is empty. No figures in the shadows, no faceless judge, no officers dragging you away. 

Just stillness. 

There is nothing lurking in the shadows, nothing was out to get you now.

You can hear a chair move in the other room. a light turns on and shines through the crack in the door. 

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

The door creaks open.

<<<Part 2 ..... Masterlist ..... Part 4>>>

[scarlineorbit]

Graft knelt beside a dying agent. Fingers, bare and trembling, traced the back of the neck—just below the occipital ridge, where the nerves choked into the spinal stem. He didn’t whisper comfort. He didn’t lie. He just deadened the screaming nerves. It was the least he could do.

Two fingers slipped into the cleft between vertebrae.

A shiver. A breath. Then the flood came.

Not just images. Not just sounds. Sensation. The scream he couldn't finish poured into his brain like boiling tar. Pelvic fracture. Shattered molars. Chest compression. The grip of panic, childhood terror, heat-seared memory of a fire that wasn’t even this one. Graft's back arched. His jaw locked. His eyes rolled white as the imprint burned across his spine.

He ripped the pain free like a butcher tearing sinew from bone.

The other agent went still. His face slackened into peace. Not dead— yet. Just emptied.

At peace. He could give him that.

Sirius exhaled a strangled breath. Blood leaked from his nose. A voice crackled over comms: “Graft, status—do you need evac?” Did he need evac? He stared hard at the lifeless bodies around him. The blood... spattered brain matter... a few teeth laying in a puddle...

Eyes slowly dragged over bodies. Some he recognized. Others were... beyond recognition... pulpy... shot and blown to hell... bloodied. Dead. Very dead.

A memory stirred:

Graft hadn’t even drawn his weapon yet. The mission had been labeled routine—low risk, high control. Containment only. He remembered the hum of the lights, the sterile reek of bleach failing to mask something worse. Something alive.

Vulture was ahead, cracking jokes under his breath. Always was. Graft had started to smirk when the wall to their left split open.

Not a wall. A thing.

It moved faster than instinct. One moment, Vulture was standing. The next—he was on the floor, twitching, mouth opening and closing without sound. His torso cleaved open like wet paper.

Blood hit Graft's face. Warm. Human.

He didn’t shoot. Couldn’t. Someone else did.

Later, they called it “exposure.” Standard loss. First of many.

But Graft never forgot the way Vulture reached for him, fingers slick with his own life, as if he could still be pulled back.

It all whispered back at him. Or maybe it was the comm he didn't answer. He stared down at his hands. They weren’t bleeding, but they shook like they wanted to. His reflection in a blood-slick floor tile looked hollow. Something was screaming behind his eyes—something not him. Feral. He laid down amongst the wreckage and mess, letting the stillness enveloped him.

He breathed a shuddering breath. Life was fucked. Sirius... Graft... whoever... whatever he was... was fucked.

“…No,” he answered, to himself. “I need quiet.”

"I'm not dead... just... floor..."

@pandorasagents

[soulreaper]

gave my 100 at work and got multiple compression fractures in my spine. Never Ever Stop Slacking Off.

[poetpunk]

breaking news! this blurry cryptid bitch keeps sitting in ways that would disfigure even the healthiest most un-fucked spine and wondering why their compression fracture and muscle tearing won't heal!!!!

[littleguypumpkinsheep]

Madcom pain/disorder/ailments hc’s 👍

Deimos: I think this guy is double jointed. He’s the most active of the group and pulls off the most physically taxing stunts just for fun, and he’s also a massive risk taker. Because of this, his joints hurt almost all of the time, constantly. It’s that kind of dull, aching pain that keeps you awake at night. The kind that gets worse with activity but still hurts when resting. The kind that eats away at you slowly. I think he also has some numbness and burning sensations in his fingers and hands. Dei also almost certainly has adhd, which makes him prone to overwhelm in battle a lot of the time, which is why he has a buddy system with sanford to make sure he doesn’t have a meltdown and die.

Sanford: Back, shoulder and neck pain, definitely. Lots of sharp pains that radiate everywhere and immobilize him. Tight, stiff muscles that make moving even an inch absolute burning agony. This man’s been thrown into walls spine first so many times. It’s made even worse with his interest in melee combat and spending time hunched over making bombs all day. I think San has to rest most out of the crew. Being in so much pain you literally can’t walk more than a few steps at a time isn’t exactly ideal for killing and maiming. San is depressed and autistic. Deimos’ upbeat personality and really, just him as a whole, is one of the main reasons he keeps going. Hank: Nerve damage. Full body aches and pains, normally debilitating hurt, all the time, constantly. The nerve damage I imagine is centered mostly around his spine. You know this man has crushed discs and compression fractures everywhere in that back. Also a lot of pain with his jaw and head. Migraines, headaches, clenched and stiff jaw, a lot of dull aching there. It affects his sleep incredibly so. Hurting so bad you can’t go to bed is awful, and they have to deal with that almost every night. That also leads to even more joint pain and the like. It’s just pain that never goes away and is annoying and uncomfortable no matter what you do. It also doesn’t help that they refuse to rest. Hank is autistic. They hate asking for help and keep everything to themself, obviously to their detriment. They only ask for help when they are so incapacitated that they literally cannot move and the situation is so much worse that it could have been.

[drchristophedelongsblog]

Chronic hip and pelvic pain is common, and can have many causes

What are chronic hip and pelvic pains?

Pain in this region can be caused by :

* Osteoarthritis of the hip (coxarthrosis): This is wear and tear of the cartilage in the hip joint. It causes pain deep in the groin, which may radiate to the thigh or knee.

* Piriformis syndrome: The piriformis muscle in the buttock can compress the sciatic nerve, causing pain in the buttock, hip and sometimes the foot.

* Tendonitis: Inflammation of the tendons around the hip, such as the psoas tendon, can cause pain.

* Bursitis: Inflammation of the bursae, which are fluid-filled sacs that lubricate the joints, can cause pain and localized tenderness.

* Poorly-healed fractures: A hip or pelvic fracture that hasn't healed properly can cause chronic pain.

* Inflammatory diseases: Diseases such as rheumatoid arthritis or ankylosing spondylitis can affect hip and pelvic joints.

* Lumbar disc problems: A herniated disc or lumbar osteoarthritis can radiate pain to the hip and pelvis.

* Scoliosis: A deviated spine can lead to muscle imbalances and pain in the lower back and hip.

What are the symptoms?

Symptoms can vary depending on the cause, but often include:

* Persistent pain: Pain may be deep, throbbing or dull.

* Stiffness: Difficulty moving the hip or pelvis.

* Lameness: An abnormal gait to avoid putting weight on the painful hip.

* Radiating pain: Pain may radiate to the thigh, knee, or even the lower back.

How can chronic hip and pelvic pain be relieved and treated?

Treatment will depend on the underlying cause, and may include :

* Rest: Avoid activities that aggravate pain.

* Ice: Apply ice to the painful area to reduce inflammation.

* Medication: Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs can help relieve pain and inflammation.

* Physiotherapy: Specific exercises can strengthen muscles, improve mobility and relieve pain.

* Orthotics: A lumbar belt or hip brace can provide support.

* Injections: Corticosteroid injections can reduce inflammation in some cases.

* Surgery: In more severe cases, surgery may be required.

Go further

[bimaddieshan]

Scathe

CW: The Fall Guy Spoilers, migraines, chronic illness, internalized ableism

"Hey."

The voice is barely a whisper, but Colt hisses and buries his face further into his pillow. The pressure builds behind his eyes, and it's reminiscent of the early days after his injury. Is he in a cold hospital room, terrified and alone, or is he in his bedroom? Everything blurs together on days like this.

Everything hurts. His back is on fire, and his head? Colt has no plans to test his theory, but he's almost positive getting hit with a sledgehammer would hurt less. It's a brutal reminder of his injury, of falling from twelve stories, of an axil burst fracture and a severe concussion.

His body can do amazing things. It allows his hands to grip onto helicopters, assists his muscles to move in ways most could only ever dream of. His body had worked quickly to escape being burned alive. And honestly? The fact that he's alive at all is a testament to how powerful his body is. It's been to the brink and back, yet Colt can still run, jump, and contort his body with relative ease.

Well.

Most days, at least.

He hadn't been left totally unscathed. It had been easy to ignore once he'd been deemed recovered. He exercised, kept himself in shape, but he had no reason to overdo it. Now that he's back to full time stunt work, his body screams at him when he doesn't take time to rest, and he'd had a long week.

He really shouldn't have been surprised when he woke up to a migraine from Hell and searing back pain to accompany it.

Every sound is far too loud. The footsteps quietly pad across the room, but the other person may as well be stomping. The bed dips, and the other person gently cards their fingers through his hair.

"I'm gonna put a cold compress on your neck, okay? Try not to move."

Colt involuntarily shudders at the chill that trails down his spine. The chill is soon replaced by a broad hand rubbing gentle circles on his aching back, pressing ever so slightly when he comes across knots.

Colt hadn't been looking for anybody when he met Ken. They'd met on set, and Ken had taken his measurements for his costumes. Colt couldn't explain the affect this man had on him, but the second Ken laughed and smiled crookedly at him, Colt knew he was a goner.

Eight months ago, he wouldn't have imagined that they'd be here, with Colt practically living with Ken (and Barbara; they're a packaged deal, after all), waking up to the scent of his partner cooking breakfast, doing chores together, and relaxing with a bottle of beer (or in Ken's case, a glass of wine) on a Saturday night and watching trashy television.

It's all rather domestic. Just over a year ago, Colt never imagined himself living this life with anyone other than Jody.

And now here they are, Colt sprawled on the bed with Ken looking after him. Something inside of him feels raw and exposed knowing that his partner is seeing him like this. After isolating and solely caring for himself, he's not used to being so vulnerable. At least not like this.

They've got a decent groove now, though. Ken knows his partner's tells well enough to determine when to help and when to back off, leave Colt to his own devices. It had taken them a while to get here, with Colt often snapping and Ken being rejection sensitive.

Colt was determined not to screw this up, to not allow Ken to slip through his fingers, and somehow, they'd figured it out.

Colt removes his hand from its spot under the pillow and blindly thrusts it into the air. He's trying to get better at allowing himself to seek comfort when he wants it, and Ken is always so willing to give it to him. It doesn't take long before Ken's fingers entwine with his. Ken runs his thumb over Colt's knuckles. He's quiet, even when Colt moves to rest his cheek on his thigh.

"Don't you have work to do?" Colt hates the way his voice slurs during a migraine. If he had the energy, he'd roll his eyes.

"Nah." Colt doesn't open his eyes, but he can picture the other man's soft, crooked smile. "I'm right where I need to be."