#{tw: injury}

[anikabooker]

Finish him. It wasn't her voice, but another, in the forefront of her mind. Whispers that turned into screams in her ears. The familiar echo of a sound she knew too well; a familiar ring to each scream, chanting to end his life. And a promise, she swore to keep. Her hands twitched and shook, when the last bullet found his skin and then the floor leaving bloody evidence of a barrel all lost on a beast she couldn't kill. A promise. she swore to keep, but couldn't. Not because she didn't want to, but because her hands did not feel like her own, and her face — numb and pale, did not feel like her own, and her heart slamming uncontrollably against a fragile cage, did not feel like her own. She'd never felt her body more alive; every nerve set on fire, skin hot to the touch. Before him, her heart was as fucked up as his was; black and motionless.

Anika couldn't remember the last time she let a beast walk away from her. The last time she granted somebody her mercy. Pity wasn't something she felt — not for someone like him, not for anybody.

Every man she'd ever met had been nothing but cruel. When was the last time someone pitied the woman who had to kill parts of herself to survive? When was the last time a beast showed her mercy?

Because it was monsters like him that had taken everything from her. And yet, her eyes were filled with sorrow for the dead man on the floor, squirming in agony, twitching violently, gasping for air. She only stood over him, with a gun long empty. The sharp blade of her self-hatred glided across her throat, threatening to rip at the skin with every moment passed that allowed him time to heal.

All those bullets meant nothing, when not one of them punctured his heart. Not one of them rid her of him. He was still alive, in the most monstrous way. Dragging himself upwards, struggling to keep his body straight, to become once again a worthy opponent, a punching bag for her to use and then dispose of. She was supposed to dispose of him, not the other way around. I regret you. No, no — not the way this was supposed to be. His fault. This was his fault. His fault, for giving an abandoned hound like her attention, because now she wanted nothing but.

She hissed through gritted teeth: "Good." What a terrible time to be given something she didn't want to lose. What a terrible time to be given something that would completely shatter her to watch turn to ash. What a cruel fuckin thing to give her, when she had decided a decade ago, that she would rid herself of wants and needs, and stupid things like finding comfort under someone else's covers, the only person she'd trusted enough to fall asleep next to, wake up next to — their own little fucked up, domesticated, mundane universe, in which she was blind and foolish, and he was alive and warm. And they were both free — of self-hatred, and pain.

She watched that world disintegrate, while it spat them out into the vast cosmos. And back so quickly, into a world familiar and dark, deadly and completely ravenous where he was a monster and she was his executioner. Only she couldn't swing the axe high enough to slice his head clean off, instead uncertain, trembling hands got the weapon stuck half-way — not letting him die, but not letting him live either. "That's your fucking problem now, isn't it? At least I didn't fucking know, but you did. And still — what did you hope for here, huh? What did you think would fucking happen?" bitter tongue spun cruel words into existence, fabricated them from lies to truths.

Cruel, and despicable things were her lies. Cruel and despicable like putting him on her path and expecting her not to fall for the touch against her spine that whispered safety, the brush against her arm that grounded her — offered her trust, the kind that urged her heaviest burdens, and her heaviest losses to spill out of her. The ones that twisted her, and bent her out of shape, that made her less mortal man and more his kind of beast. The kind of tenderness she hasn't known for years, and had to give up after only a moment. She couldn't mourn the loss, not when she could do something better, something familiar, that was very much her, the version of her that she'd built for years, only for him to turn into dust over a couple of months. It was him holding the stake over her, buried deep into a hollow chest. That sorry excuse of a heart that only he— Don't be fucking ridiculous, Anika.

She wanted his fury, and his hatred. Let's see how far that regret go.

Her hand swung at him, backwards with the sharp metal of the gun slamming into his cheek. Stop fucking talking. His head almost unscrewed itself right off. Burning eyes, like a forest on fire, screamed at him — to be seen, to be acknowledged for the raging disaster it was, "Fight back!" spat out, as if an order. Then she banged small, but mightily fists into him; across his chest, and over his face. Pushing him into the corner of the room, right against his door. "Fight back—" louder, like a beast. She wanted to take every broken whisper, every trusted word, every shared weakness and shove them down his throat. She wanted to fuck him over, like he had. Those kicks to the gut came quicker and harder. "I said— fight the fuck back." Anika would relish in his hate. He was right. It was better, easier— than to mourn the loss of his love.

Pain is always often sudden and unwanted. He'd known it had been the wrong thing to say when he'd fired his own bullet in their verbal tennis; competitive about match point, where he'd forgotten all his sensibilities. Entirely too ignorant to everything when there's the idea of insanity swimming around in his head. Foolishness takes precedent, kicking himself for never knowing that she'd been a fucking idiot — because regret stung like a needle puncturing his lungs; taking the breath he didn't need in a sudden flash. In those holes, blood fills the pockets of air, leaking in from the outside.

He soon knows it's the bullets ripping him open. One after the other, in a series of fireworks — bang, bang, bang — It's second nature to count them; to know how many are left in her barrel. It's almost a guessing game; how many can he survive, before one takes him entirely? But boy, does it fucking hurt.

Far more than the anguish in his chest now. No faux bullshit about weeping hearts, or how his soul is fracturing with loss. The bullets are tearing up his lungs, shattering his collar bone, and bleeding poison into all those organs that should be black and rotting. He doesn't get to say anything, other than release a sound of protest when he's kicked back. He thinks maybe, he deserves that as she peppers holes into him and sends him tumbling into the sunlight.

There's no longer discernible pain. It's simply everywhere because he's on fire. There's blood, and burning flesh. His boxers (god help him, the only thing he's wearing) are soaked in red as his skin peels away underneath the rays. There's no stopping the cry of agony as he fights to escape it, limbs aching, crumbling under the weight of a curse he's got no power over. He's lost the majority of vision, as he blinks furiously in dire hope he might find a shadow instead of the sun. Managing to roll to the other side of the apartment. He hits the wall adjacent to his bedroom; a charred, bloodied thing with bloodshot eyes. Muscles tremble as he stares at the blank of his ceiling. Tatters of skin crumble to dust where he's left them at the mercy of the morning light.

If he had any strength then, he'd have told her that he'd have known all about her tribulations because he knew her father; her story had been new, but not unknown. The fuck does he think it's going to mean shit now. Shaking and groaning as he feels the skin fight to heal; knitting over scalds and fighting off the verbena she's pummelled him with. A few bullets are in the wall behind him, clean shot through. Others, he can feel rolling around in his gut and scraping against his spine.

It takes too long for his vision to straighten, he's already flopping over, trying to push himself to his feet. Arms shaking on all fours, he manages to get to his knees, head rolling back to look at the ceiling. Exhausted, in the only way a monster can be; hungry and fighting; survival instincts want to tell him to do something. It takes everything within him, to contain it, to tell himself he isn't one of them.

You're pathetic. The voice in his head that once told himself that, is replaced by hers; it's going to be there, as his conscience, for a long time. He knows that. Weak. In more ways than Anika knows. But he's let her do this; allowed her, in his stagnant state, to land every shot without retaliation. He's said enough, before. And he's still healing by the time he plants a hand on the bullet-marked wall and claws himself up on unsettled, bloodied legs. He slumps against it, for support and whines a little too miserably as he fights for those bullets inside him, again.

He's not even looking at her, on the other side of the sunlight. Fuck you, Booker.

There's another two clatters, when he discards those bullets to the ground and remains defeatedly against the wall, hand pressed to his shoulder, one eye able to restore vision whilst the rest of him slicks over from its zombie-like decay of burns and gunshot holes. He should be dead. He knows, long ago — long after.

His question still stands; she can land non-fatal things, all day. But there's only so much they can take before it blows up in their face; as though, it hasn't already. What happened to 'I want you', Anika? You had your hand against my chest; you heard the absence of a heartbeat — he's unable to know exactly where she went wrong, in her blindness. In his, too.

It takes a while before he can speak and tolerate the pain without echoing sounds that equate to how pathetic he is. Nearly a hiss, when it's voiced: "I regret you too, don't worry." It's lingering on his head, the hope and the violent way it's torn away from him as quickly as one hand had been on a breast, to being stung in the sun. To how easy it was to kiss her after telling himself it was never his future; he didn't get to have things meant for mortal men. This is why. He's burnt his own heart and left it in need of a transplant; a waiting list, a century long. He'll never live that long. He'll never let himself. He's already dead a second time, long before ash breaches his fingertips.

The scoff is half cough, half bloodied. He spits a mouthful on the carpet next to him, tasting the copper and verbena soaking his insides, souring his system and making him desperate to lick the blood she's painted the walls with. Dignity says he needs to go to the fridge and act like she might not reload and empty another round in that goddamn fucking revolver.

He's not going to fight her. Don't be ridiculous.

"I've never hurt you," Never stabbed her (like she has to him), or left her wondering if he might. Never brought a knife to the bed, and let it get lost in the covers, like she has. Never let an unchecked hand wander, or overstep his boundaries. Like she has him. Hasn't gone through her drawers, or raided her room — like she has, to him. And for the unlife of him, he doesn't fucking understand how she can stand there, with an off-aim and tell him she'd never known. He can hear her words of twenty minutes prior; the drunken desperation; the consent, playing over in his head — the corridor when legs wrapped around his now reddened flesh, hands wandering, lips stealing —

Let it go. She cannot matter when his existence isn't for her. He doesn't endure for the sake of her, as much as he does his family. She's lying, if she doesn't understand that, he's certain. He's finding it difficult to push himself off the wall, tired muscles craving to be satiated, a raw throat as his body acknowledges that he's burned through (literally, and figuratively) the deer and the hare he's recently fed on. "As if I'm going to war with you now, Anika."

Is that what you want? "Or would that justify this for you?" Probably. He realises, as more pieces of her jigsaw puzzle slot into place. "Make it easier?" If he's the monster he guesses she wants him to be. It shouldn't make a difference to a hunter — actively committing an atrocity or not. A monster is a monster.

And he should never have truly let himself believe for a second, she'd ever see him differently. This, was inevitable.

But everything in her face and her gaze; appeared fresh again in his recalibrated vision. He swears tears bead at her ducts and the violence in her hues is burying something she never likes him to see. He always does. But that could easily have been a well-constructed lie too. He's tired of looking down the barrel of the gun, at her face; picturing how different it'd been before morning ruined them. Head lolling to the side, to survey her; he wonders how long she might stand there, waiting for a battle he doesn't want to give.

Who is the coward now, Booker?

[ferretfyre]

Academy Award for Best Picture:

If I told you about her, what would I say? That they lived happily ever after? I believe they did. That they were in love? That they remained in love? I'm sure that's true. But when I think of her - of Elisa - the only thing that comes to mind is a poem, whispered by someone in love, hundreds of years ago: "Unable to perceive the shape of You, I find You all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with Your love, It humbles my heart, For You are everywhere."

The Shape of Water (2017, dir. Guillermo del Toro)

[ivyithink]

some of the arcane doodles! no actual idea behind them, mostly just doodling along to my own thoughts

[artsymeeshee]

Alright, folks. We're entering the hurt of the hurt/comfort part!

pg.1/pg.2/pg.3/pg.4/pg.5/pg.6/pg.7/pg.8/pg.9/pg.10/pg.11/pg.12/pg.13/pg.14/pg.15/pg.16/pg.17/pg.18/pg.19/pg.20/pg.21/pg.22,pg.23/pg.24/pg.25,pg.26/pg.27,pg.28/pg.29/pg.30/pg.31,pg.32/pg.33,pg.34.pg.35/pg.36,pg.37,pg.38/pg.39/pg.40/pg.41/pg.42/pg.43/pg.44/pg.45/pg.46/pg.47/pg.48/pg.49/pg.50/pg.51/pg.52,pg.53/pg.54/pg.55,pg.56/pg.57/pg.58/pg.59/pg.60/pg.61/pg.62,pg.63,pg.64

[reginalusus]

Ah yes. When the protective dad-figure beats up the son-figure's past tormentor only for said tormentor to make a point(?), because the tormentor is the catalyst of Gotham's chaos, and seeing two pieces of the debris from said chaos come together to try and be less broken is amusing. The butt of Gotham's joke, if you will.

I just felt like illustrating a scene from a possible future Harvey-Jason-centered fic...

[gentletrees]

Some doodles from different scenes of @ssreeder 's fanfic LIAB! I literally drop everything when you upload QuQ <3 thank you for putting so much effort into this fic, it really shows! I love it!

Really wanted to capture the two most heartbreaking moments of the last few chapters - two very, very different reunions with very different underlying emotions.

And the last one is a doodle after reading the most recent chapter - Zuko wearing his hair in a messy ponytail, dressed in expensive clothing - moments before disaster :))

[dragiani2]

The Femur Breaker

(Based on a discord joke between me and @vistfull)

[vintage-fuzz]

Thinking about the possibility of Fiddleford noticing various random injuries & unexplained bruises that Ford would’ve received from when he was possessed.

Thinking about how he’d be concerned for his friend, only for Ford to shut him out, not wanting to reveal the existence of his “muse”.

Thinking about, despite his best efforts, Fiddleford would be forced to watch Ford suffer in silence, unwilling to tell him the truth.

[hazbin-brainrot]

Whooo boy, I don't want to be the one who ripped off Alastor's lower arm - they won't have a very good time when Lucy goes all devil mode on them. My wife loves to torture Alastor (or more like any and every character she cares about - it's kinda her love language I think? xD) so of course the poor guy needs to lose at least an arm, if not even his whole life xD

[bynineb]

found potato

[owlygem]

Some Ben Lore and practice sketchy comic pages!

[pipinpali]

Little fan animation of @tthevoic3s's series From Blood Births Life and Death,, (specifically chapters 8 and 9... )

Might not look too good since im still trying to figure out my new drawing program ,, but i think it turned out decently.

[zimt-deathnote]

Some post-explosion sketches from the weekend. I will fully and unashamedly use this new found power of having 3D references of their flat, to just paint over and it looks nice, until I throw up.

----- My other socials Commission Info Let's drink some Ko-Fi! 🍵

[kiyo-cant-write]

Imagine if Yuu gets hurts doing something stupid most likely with Ace or Deuce. Floyd for whatever reason ( cough Azul or Jade) think he's what caused their injury. Floyd feels super guilty and wants to make up for what he thinks he did. Until Yuu explains no it wasn't Floyd. Floyd revenge optional.

floyd thinks he injured his s/o ✧･ﾟ

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Hello anon! I'm sorry that this took so long. I love Floyd! Thank you so much for requesting! This was fun to write ^^

I love set ups like this where there's a misunderstanding >.<

Note for everyone that I have a few requests left from earlier to get done before the close of the year and then everything else sent from here on will not be posted until 2025 January. Please keep this in mind, thank you for supporting me!

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Summary: Floyd feels responsible for the injury sustained by his partner and goes to great lengths to apologize. But.... What did you say? It wasn't really his fault?

TW/CW: mentions of violence/injury

Notes: established relationship, the reader is Ramshackle Prefect/Yuu, they/them pronouns for the reader

Guest Stars: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Riddle Rosehearts

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Floyd Leech

Floyd likes violence but not towards [Name].

His partner is one of the people he doesn't want to hurt.

He cares so much about them.

Floyd doesn't usually feel bad but seeing them banged up because of something he did (or so he thinks) makes him feel sick.

He's not in a working mood. Not in the mood for basketball either.

Everyone is annoyed with Floyd now but he doesn't care.

It's his fault. He deserves to feel like this, and so does everyone else. That's how he sees it and he will tell people this.

"I said I'm not in the mood so go mope like the sorry piece of shit you are, none of us deserve to be happy right now."

However, as with all things Floyd, his mood does a swift 180 as soon as he realizes that it was not his fault.

Run.

Ace, Deuce... You're really in for it now.

Not even [Name]'s pleas can stop him this time.

Let him have a little fun with them, won't you?

This sure was boring. Floyd had to hand it to his Shrimpy, they were the most interesting thing in his life. That said, giving them space took something out of his life that he hadn't realized was so integral.

Stupid strength. Stupid impulsivity.

He sighed, leaning against the table he was meant to be cleaning and looking up at the ceiling of the lounge. Was this going to be forever? He was deserving of this punishment, but still... so bored.

Floyd had been left on cleaning duty. Well, that wasn't quite right. Floyd had chosen to do cleanup because that was something he hated. He had to do it or [Name] wouldn't forgive him.

How could they? How could he forgive himself?

The one thing that Floyd didn't want to do was hurt his beloved little shrimp and yet here he was responsible for their injury. How could he have let something like that happen? He should have been more careful, that's what his parents would have told him.

Still, this sucked.

The cleaning was horrible. It was so... repetitive and dull.

"Ughhh."

He wished that something would happen. He wished that [Name] was here with him, chatting with him to pass the time. He wished they would show up to talk to him, so he could apologize too.

Was he really such a coward? He hadn't even said "sorry." Floyd didn't like apologizing, he rarely did with others but they deserved one. And yet here he was punishing himself but still too pathetic to face them.

"Floyd!"

He looked up from the desk to see [Name].

"Shrimpy? Whatcha doin' here?" he asked them, confused.

"I was looking for you! Why are you avoiding me?" they asked.

He shrugged, avoiding the question as well as looking at the bandages peeking out from their sleeves. He didn't want to think about it. Maybe people were right and he was dangerous not just generally speaking, but for [Name] too.

"I'm not."

[Name] let out a "huh" at that statement.

"You are!"

He shook his head.

"Not."

A growl escaped his partner.

"Are!"

Damn, they were being fucking persistent.

He looked at the bandages and then up at their face. They looked annoyed and they had every right to be. He did this to them.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" he asked them, brows furrowed.

"Resting? I'm fine, you sound like a mom."

They rolled their eyes though they seemed confused. Floyd never acted like a mom, that was more a trait of his employer. This was... weird, even for Floyd. [Name] knew their boyfriend. This wasn't normal for him in the slightest.

"You should rest. You're hurt, right?" Floyd repeated.

They sighed this time.

"Just because Deuce accidentally punched me and now everyone is treating me like I'm made of glass or something!" they cried.

Floyd paused.

"Mackerel?"

"Yeah, Deuce was trying to punch Ace and hit me full force," they said, laughing awkwardly as they fiddled with a sleeve, "And that sent me into the roses at Heartslabyul."

"Mackerel..." Floyd said, trailing off.

[Name] gave him a sideways look.

"Don't worry. Riddle already yelled at them for two hours."

Floyd either didn't hear that part or didn't care to comment.

"I didn't do nothing," the eelmer said to himself a moment later, resting a hand over his face as he let out a relieved laugh before it turned into something far more evil.

"Huh??" [Name] looked at him, "Did you think you did this?"

"Maybe."

"Is that why you were avoiding me?"

Floyd averted his eyes for a second before nodding.

"Felt bad."

"Aww!"

He was suddenly hit with the full force of [Name] hugging him and saying things about how he was so sweet to be concerned and how much they loved him. It was nice, actually. He missed them.

"Glad you're alright~" he told them, holding them closer to him.

...

A day later, during a break, Floyd stepped into Heartslabyul against the wishes of its housewarden. But he didn't care, he had a certain mission he needed to complete and it was unlikely anyone would be able to stop him. He wasn't movable where [Name] was concerned.

"Heyyy~" he drawled out, stepping towards the flamingo pen.

Floyd didn't even have the lightheartedness in his soul to make fun of Deuce's outfit. He had business with them. Still, it was quite a sight to see the "honor student" of a mackerel in pink leopard print.

"LEECH-SENPAI?" Deuce almost screamed as he stood quickly, rigid, "What are you doing here in our dorm???"

"NO TIME DEUCEY, RUN!" Ace yelled, already several feet away and sprinting at speeds he had never run before, "THIS IS THE END."

Deuce wasted no time and took off in the same direction as Ace.

"Find your own direction!" Ace told Deuce who just about scoffed.

The eel cracked his knuckles in preparation.

"This should be fun~"

"FLOYD LEECH LEAVE MY DORMITORY THIS INSTANT!"

The sound of heels against the pavement heading toward him.

"Don't wanna~" he offered, taking off after ADeuce.

"FLOYYYYYDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD-"

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Imagine the rest yourself~

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Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[artsymeeshee]

Let the hurt commence

Prev: pg.65, pg.66

(Different layout because I’m uploading this on my iPad instead of computer but original format will be back)

[reginalusus]

"We're still good men."

Happy 22/2! Or 2/22!

Image description: Fanart of DC's Harvey Dent/Two-Face, with a contrast between blue and red. Harvey walks with his scarred side visible, dragging a body behind him. He is covered in blood. There is dialogue for him which reads: "One less degenerate off the streets... for the good of Gotham... Gotham can still be good. I'm still a good man." End of image description.