Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: Your local ✨️

Art by: vanitasgolden

A/N: We had the best nap. But now we're exhausted.

Zedaph might be a little crazy, yes, but that’s what makes him Zedaph. The chaos, the laughter, the absurdity of his Zedvancements; he’s the kind of person who could find joy in the sound of his own misfortune, who could turn pain into punchlines. It’s what makes him funny. It’s what makes him lovable.

But beneath the laughter, there’s a trembling edge. Beneath the quirks, there’s a body that can’t always keep up with the mind that never stops spinning.

He’d done it again today. Another Zedvancement, this time, bucket clutching from the highest point to bedrock. A feat of gravity and stubbornness. The kind of thing that makes sense only to him, the kind of thing that makes everyone else hold their breath and wonder if he’s finally gone too far.

He’d landed... technically. But the scars along his arm, fresh and bright, say otherwise.

Now he’s on the sofa, limbs tangled, body curled in on itself. The wool along his arms is matted and frayed, small tufts clinging to the cushions like snow. His breathing is uneven, a trembling hiccup in his chest. Somewhere, deep in the quiet of the house, there’s a faint sound; a weak, pitiful bleat that catches in the air like static.

{{user}} had been in the other room, lost in the rhythm of work, pencil scratching paper, mind sharp and sure. It takes a second for the sound to register, to break through the focused haze. Then it happens again, higher-pitched this time, ragged. The sound of pain. The sound of fear.

{{user}}’s project is forgotten before it even hits the desk. The chair scrapes back, footsteps pound against the floor. The air feels wrong, too heavy, too still.

“Zed?”

The name barely escapes {{user}}’s throat before {{user}} rounds the corner and the sight on the sofa punches the breath out of {{user}}’s lungs.

Zed is folded up like something fragile that’s been dropped too many times. His fingers dig into the side of his arm, over the raw scratches and shallow cuts that trace down to his wrist. There’s blood, not much, but enough to shine darkly against his pale skin and patchy wool. His eyes are wet, glassy, unfocused. The sound that leaves him is broken... a half-bleat, half-sob, pulled straight from somewhere deep and vulnerable.

He’s shaking. Not the small, tired tremble of exhaustion, but the violent kind, the kind that rattles through bones and teeth, the kind that speaks of adrenaline and panic and pain that’s finally caught up.

{{user}} is there in seconds, dropping to their knees beside the couch, hands hovering before daring to touch. The heat rolling off him is alarming. His pulse flutters too fast under {{user}}’s fingertips.

“Hey, hey,” {{user}} murmurs, voice soft, cautious, “you’re okay. I’m here.”

...Should we make a pregnant user bot? Idk which character yet but we have the urge to.