#' BULLET WOUNDS

[yanderejustforyou]

Never Enough

Fandom: The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop a fat, cold hammer against the slick pavement. Gotham's neon signs, fractured and distorted through the downpour, painted the city in lurid, bleeding colors. It was a city perpetually shrouded in gloom, a place where the shadows felt heavier, the air thicker with unspoken betrayals. This city, with its labyrinthine alleys and towering skyscrapers, had a way of consuming people, stripping them bare and leaving only husks. It was the same city that had whispered promises of greatness, of purpose, a different life. But tonight, standing in the heart of its underbelly, you felt a chilling doubt. Had that promise been a cruel joke all along? Was this cold, unforgiving landscape all it had ever offered?

You stood now, the rain plastering your clothes to your skin, before her—Sofia Falcone. The very name sent a shiver tracing down your spine. She was the daughter of Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, the kingpin whose name echoed through the city's underbelly. More significantly, she was the woman who had woven herself into the very fabric of your being. It wasn't merely physical attraction, the magnetic pull of her dark, striking beauty. Nor was it just the intoxicating allure of power that clung to her like a second skin. It was something far deeper, a mirror reflecting the fractures in your own soul. You saw the same raw, aching vulnerability that hid beneath her carefully constructed mask. It was the broken pieces of her that called to the broken pieces of yourself, a silent, desperate plea echoing across the chasm between you.

"You shouldn’t be here," Sofia's voice cut through the storm's roar, each word sharp and cold as a shard of ice. It was a voice that could command armies and shatter hearts with equal ease. The cadence suggested a weary resignation, as if she'd spoken these words a thousand times before. "You know what this means, don’t you?" The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken threats and a bone-deep understanding of what was at stake.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the cold rain suddenly feeling like a physical weight. Her words pressed against your chest, each syllable a vise tightening around your heart. But the danger lurking in her tone, the palpable tension that crackled between you, wasn't the only thing that resonated. It was the rawness, the flicker of vulnerability that shone, however briefly, behind her calculated façade. It was that vulnerability that had always drawn you in, an irresistible siren’s song.

"I don’t care what it means," you said, the words trembling slightly, despite your desperate attempts at control. You had rehearsed this scenario countless times, imagined the words you would speak to her. Yet, faced with her icy gaze, your carefully planned bravado evaporated, revealing the stark truth beneath. "I can’t walk away from you, Sofia. I never could." The confession was raw, stripped bare of pretense - a testament to the deep hold she had on you.

She looked at you, her eyes the color of storm clouds, and you saw a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling beneath the surface. Confusion, pain, the deep, ingrained fear of allowing anyone to truly see her. You saw the wall she’d so diligently built, the carefully constructed barrier designed to keep everyone, especially you, at arm’s length. "You don’t understand," she said, her voice softer now, more fragile than you’d ever heard it. It was a whisper that bordered on a plea, a desperate attempt to convince herself as much as you. "You think you can fix me? You think you can save me from this life? It’s too late for me." Her tone carried a heavy weight of self-condemnation, a resigned acceptance of her own fate.

Instinctively, you reached out, your fingers brushing against the curve of her cheek. The contact sent a jolt through your system, an electric current that felt like both a lifeline and a death sentence. It was a burn so hot, so raw, that you had to pull back your hand, as if the intense heat would consume you entirely if you lingered. The physical sensation mirrored the burning conflict within both of you.

She looked at you, her gaze unflinching, as if she had anticipated the pain, the way your touch had managed to wound you both with its simple intimacy. It was a shared hurt, a silent testament to the impossibility of your connection.

“I never wanted this for you,” she whispered, the carefully constructed walls she had erected between you finally crumbling. The confession was a crack in her armor, revealing the woman beneath the hardened exterior. "I never wanted you to be a part of my world, because this world will ruin you." Her voice was laced with a raw vulnerability that tore at the very core of your being. It was an admission that brought with it a terrifying truth – her love for you was a burden, a curse she wished to spare you.

But you were already ruined, in ways you couldn't quite articulate. It had happened the moment you met her, the moment her darkness had entwined itself with your own. And even now, standing before the woman you loved, knowing that your very presence could be your mutual undoing, you were still unable to walk away. You were caught in her web, hopelessly, irrevocably.

“I’m already in your world, Sofia,” you said, your voice low and unwavering, your eyes locked on hers. It was a declaration, a promise you made not to her, but to yourself. “And no matter what happens, I’m not leaving.” The conviction in your voice was absolute, a defiant stand against a force that threatened to crush you both.

She closed her eyes, as if the sheer weight of your words were too much to bear. She was trying to shut you out, attempting to escape the undeniable pull of a love she knew was her own undoing. But even with her eyes tightly closed, a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. It was that single tear that spoke volumes, a testament to the depth of the emotion buried beneath the surface, the feelings she had tried so desperately to suppress.

"You have no idea what you’re saying," she whispered, her voice a raw mixture of anguish and self-loathing. The pain in her voice was palpable, a confirmation of the darkness that plagued her. "I’ll destroy you, and I’ll destroy myself. It’s only a matter of time." Her words were a chilling prophecy, a stark warning of the future that awaited both of you. She had accepted her fate, resigned to a life where love was only a prelude to destruction.

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? You both knew it, deep within your bones. Your love was a doomed romance, a moth drawn to a flame, destined to be burned. No matter how much you tried to cling to it, no matter how bravely you fought for it, there would never be a happy ending for you. Your love story was a tragedy pre-written, a symphony of heartbreak playing out beneath the unforgiving gaze of Gotham’s neon lights.

The days that followed were nothing more than a blur of pain. Each moment spent with Sofia was like walking through fire. She kept her distance, kept her walls up, but the cracks were there—small, barely noticeable—but they were enough. Enough for you to see how deeply she was hurting. How much she was trying to push you away, yet how much she needed you.

But you couldn’t leave. You couldn’t.

Even when her father’s enemies circled closer. Even when the danger threatened to pull you both under.

One night, you found yourself in the back office of one of her father’s businesses. The air was thick with smoke, the tension palpable. Sofia stood at the desk, her fingers drumming nervously against the wood.

"You should leave," she said, without looking at you. Her voice was quiet, but the edge was unmistakable. "It’s not safe here."

“I’m not going anywhere, Sofia,” you said, your voice firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, betraying your own fear. "You can’t push me away."

Her eyes flicked to yours, dark and unreadable. "You don’t understand," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "You never will. You’re not a part of this life. You don’t belong here."

"I don’t belong anywhere without you," you said, your heart pounding as you took a step forward. "I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you."

Sofia’s breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought she might let her guard down. She might actually let you in. But then she did what she always did. She recoiled, pushing you away before you could get too close.

"You think this is love?" she asked bitterly, her words laced with scorn. "You think this is love when all I do is hurt everyone I touch? When all I do is destroy? How long do you think it’ll take before I destroy you too?"

You reached for her, but she flinched back, her face contorting with a mix of pain and rage. "You’re the one who’ll end up destroyed," she spat, her voice shaking with the weight of what she knew was coming. "This—this can’t end any other way."

You gritted your teeth, your chest tight with emotion. "I don’t care. I would rather be destroyed by you than live without you."

The silence between you two was suffocating, both of you caught in the tangled mess of love and hatred, of the past and the future that would never come. She was right—you were both doomed. But that didn’t change the fact that you would fight for her until there was nothing left.

The final time you saw Sofia, it was on a rain-soaked night much like the first. The world outside felt like it was crashing down around you, but even so, you walked toward her with that same defiance in your heart. You had never given up on her, even when you knew, deep down, that it was a lost cause.

She was standing by the window, staring out at the city. The same city that had both broken and shaped her into the woman she was. The same city that would swallow her whole, just like it would swallow you if you allowed it.

"Sofia," you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dim light. "I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I love you. I will always love you."

She didn’t turn around, but her body trembled. "Don’t," she said softly, her voice breaking. "Don’t say that. Don’t make this harder than it already is."

Your heart ached as you walked closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I can’t walk away from you, Sofia. I’ve tried. But I can’t. I won’t."

She turned around then, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her face a mask of regret. "You don’t understand," she repeated, the desperation clear in her voice. "I will ruin you. I’ll drag you down into this hell I’ve made for myself. You’ll never be the same after this."

"I don’t care," you said, your voice hoarse with emotion. "I don’t care if it destroys me. I just want you to know that I will always be here. No matter what."

Sofia’s lip quivered as she took a step back. "I can’t love you like this," she said, her voice shaking. "I can’t drag you through this darkness with me."

"You’re not dragging me," you whispered, your hand reaching for hers. "I’m walking into it with you. Because I choose you."

For a moment, you thought she might actually break. That maybe, just maybe, she would give in. That the years of isolation, the years of suffering she had endured, would finally break, and she would let you love her.

But then the walls slammed down, harder than ever before.

She pulled her hand away, stepping back. "You don’t get it," Sofia whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. "I will destroy everything we have. I will destroy you."

And that was it. The moment when you knew that no matter how hard you fought, no matter how deeply you loved her, it was never going to be enough.

Her love—if it could even be called that—was as broken as she was. It was too late to fix either of you.

And you realized, with a shattering certainty, that you were both always doomed. Doomed to never be enough for each other. Doomed to suffer.

And so, as she walked away from you, you felt it.

The end.

The final loss.

And all you could do was stand there, shattered, broken, waiting for the emptiness to consume you whole.

Because in the end, even your love wasn’t enough to save either of you.

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

Horror, do you and the other's have food preferences? If so, i would like to supply you with your favourite foods and for the others as well...

Horror: i like sweet pastries (like cinnamon buns), Killer and Dust like ketchup, Cross likes tacos, and Nightmare likes sweet/sugary artificial flavors (think pink lemonade), but Killer and Cross would probably prefer chocolate at the moment and Nightmare is trying to gaslight everyone into thinking he doesn't want to eat (since he doesn't NEED need to but it'd be healthier for him if he did)

[IMAGE ID: An image of Horror, moderately injured and taking off his jacket. Horror has other people's blood on his fingertips. Horror has bloodstains on his glove and the mid-back inside of his jacket. Horror has a large bleeding axe wound on the right side of his face, a profusely bleeding bullet hole on his forehead between his eyes, and a small but very bloody cut below his left eye where someone attempted to stab his eye. Additionally, there's soot on the right side of his head from where someone tried to burn him. Above him reads his dialogue, "i like sweet pastries (like cinnamon buns), Killer and Dust like ketchup, Cross likes tacos, and Nightmare likes sweet/sugary artificial flavors (think pink lemonade), but Killer and Cross would probably prefer chocolate at the moment and Nightmare is trying to gaslight everyone into thinking he doesn't want to eat (since he doesn't NEED need to but it'd be healthier for him if he did)". END ID]

[how-much-for-a-whump]

Akrep 23. Bölüm

Prompt: "Bullet Wounds"

source

[fredsarebeds]

This prompt is one I've been thinking about writing for a while. You know how sometimes the leader is too focused on something so they don't realize something else has happened? Yeah that's pretty much this but they don't realize one of the team members is injured and they try to hide it.

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

Caretaker was currently running from the police. Whumper had framed them. Go figure. Now they were stuck in a parking garage trying to find a way out, so they could go figure out a plan to save Whumpee, and not get arrested in the process.

Caretaker felt a buzz in their pocket and realized it was a call from Team leader (again). They were about to pick up this time when they heard sirens (again), so they ignored it and put the phone back in their pocket. They exhaled sounding slightly exasperated.

Can't ever catch a break huh.

They peeked their head around a corner trying to see if they could make an escape route. Only to find that the police had completely covered the perimeter of the garage. Caretaker cursed. If they couldn't make their escape without detection they had two options:

Option one, give up and let themselves get arrested. Whumpee would probably die (causing the rest of the team to eventually fail because both Caretaker and Whumpee are now gone), and Whumper would get away with framing Caretaker.

Option two, making a break for it through the line of police and trying to lose them on the streets. Maybe still get arrested, but if they did lose them then they could regroup with the team. Whumpee would also have a chance now.

Both options sucked Caretaker decided, but the only real choice was option two unfortunately.

They ran down the ramp of the garage to a motorcycle, and began working as fast as they could to jump start it. A few policemen saw Caretaker and started shouting. Shit. Caretaker started working faster. But by the time they had gotten the engine jumpstarted, they had the undivided attention of all the police. Caretaker revved the engine and swerved the bike around to the other direction around a concrete pillar, not noticing a singular police officer to their back with their gun raised.

The officer didn't hesitate to take a shot.

The sound that echoed through the garage was deafening, and caught Caretaker almost more off guard than the unexpected pain that went through their side.

Caretaker staggered on the bike for a second then revved it again, and bolted out of the garage into the night air. Their primary focus was on losing the police and getting to the rendezvous spot which was around 30 blocks away. Not the gaping hole now in their side.

Losing the police on a motorcycle was fairly easy. The city has so many back alleyways and crevices that cars can't get into. Caretaker drove down one of the cities many abandoned subway stairwells, and came out on the other side only about 6 blocks away from the meeting area.

With the police now off their back momentarily, Caretaker took a deep breath and winced while putting their hand to the wound. It came back bright red, and the adrenaline of the chase had started to finally wear off a bit. Every slight jostle sent a sharp pain through their entire abdomen. They lifted their shirt to try and assess the damage.

It seemed pretty bad. Yay.

Caretaker had hoped that the bullet at least had went through and through. And it did, which was evident because of the exit wound through their stomach. But based on where it was located and the amount of blood, it had nicked an artery on the way out. Not nearly as bad as what Whumpee had been going through though. Whumpee had been taken hostage by Whumper for a little over a week, and the tings they did...

Everyone probably thought it was Caretakers fault. Caretaker didn't blame them.

They should've been faster.

Whumpee was the youngest one the team, and they shouldn't have to go through the same thing that Caretaker had with Whumper. Caretaker almost shuddered at the thought.

That's why they needed to save them as quickly as possible.

And this stupid bullet wound would only slow the team down from doing exactly that, Caretaker took their jacket off around their waist and put it on. Caretaker hoped that this would help stem the blood flow while also hiding how much they were bleeding, and set out for the safe house. They could patch up there, and then they would go save Whumpee.

Just walking was agonizing, but they couldn't risk bringing any unwanted attention with a stolen motorcycle. Before walking in, they looked themselves over for any signs of blood, Team leader glared at them as Caretaker tried not to stagger through the door.

"TEN. MISSED. CALLS. What the hell Caretaker?!" Team leader shouted. Medic and Teammate quickly acted like they were busy around the console, Caretaker cringed at the volume. Shit, their head was pounding.

Teammate walked over to Team leader and put a hand on their shoulder, "We can't start getting side tracked right now," They gestured to the table everyone else was gathered around, "We need a plan."

Team leader sighed and pressed their fingers to their temples, "Look, I didn't mean to raise my voice. But we're all worried about them. I just want to get Whumpee out of there as fast as possible."

Caretaker looked at their feet feeling guilty. Yeah me too.

They had only been standing at the console for a few minutes but their side was burning again and it was getting hard to stand up straight and focus. Caretaker carefully backed away from the screen console they were standing around to lean against a nearby wall while subtly wrapping a hand around their side, pressing on their stomach. Making sure to put pressure on their back too, Caretaker bit back a hiss and closed their eyes.

Teammate noticed their pained expression and walked over to Caretaker's side. "Hey, you good?" They looked at them, sounding slightly concerned.

Eyes still closed, Caretaker responded, "Yeah, it... it's just been a long day. I'm probably going to go lie down."

"That's great Caretaker, but that's not an excuse to be taking a nap right now." Team leader said not taking their eyes off from the console. Caretaker was grateful they were focused on that because they would've no doubt seen how pale they were. They also felt their side was starting to get sticky, and their jacket was clinging uncomfortably to their skin. Caretaker actually wanted to go sleep with how exhausted and cold they felt now, but they needed to go find a med kit and stitch this up first. Maybe drink a Gatorade too.

"So get back over here because we aren't done," Team leader ordered.

Caretaker didn't make any effort to move from the wall. They physically couldn't. Dark spots started clouding their vision, threatening to take over.

"Caretaker are you sure-" Medic started.

But before they could even finish, Caretaker's knees buckled and they collapsed onto the ground with a breath of pain. Medic cursed while they knelt down by Caretaker's side, and started searching for the source of the blood on Caretaker's hands. But with all the blood oozing from one side underneath their jacket, Medic quickly found the source of the problem, and lifted their shirt. Team leader just stared at the hole in their friend's side, and Medic started putting pressure on the wound with their hands right away, causing Caretaker to cry out.

"Caretaker... holy shit. Teammate go get me a medkit right now!"

"Medic, stop..." Caretaker slurred, weakly attempting to push their hands off. Medic just presses down harder, grimacing when the slippery liquid seems to seep out even faster like they were on a blood thinner.

"Did you take a whole bottle of aspirin or something?"

"...m'no"

Medic sighed, "Save your energy dumbass, it was rhetorical."

Team leader finally gathered their thoughts enough to speak, "Why didn't you say anything?" The words came out sounding like whimpering puppy dog.

"Your brother..." Whumpee.

Caretaker tried to say something else but the words were just sluggish and mumbled. They felt someone tapping their face and shaking them.

"Hey, no. You stay awake!" Medic pleaded.

Too tired.

The dark spots in their vision took over.

[popcorn-plots]

Febuwhump day 3: "Bite down on this."

Title: Holmes and Watson

Words: 687 (finally, something that's not a drabble)

Summary: Sherlo-- Stephen gets injured on a casemission. WatsWong to the rescue.

~~~

Stephen groaned as he clutched his shoulder. It was supposed to be an easy fight after tracking down a rogue sorcerer through London. Technically, Stephen wasn’t even supposed to be here – it was below his paygrade, according to Master Gremm of the London Sanctum. But Stephen had been stuck doing paperwork of all things for the past week and he wanted to get out.

Well, compared to bleeding out in a random alleyway after underestimating his assailant and paperwork, Stephen probably would have stayed at home. In his defense, however, he didn’t expect that the rogue would pull out an enchanted pistol and shoot him point blank. He was also told that the rogue was barely an Apprentice when they turned on the Order, meaning that they wouldn’t have the knowledge or the skills to enchant anything, let alone a weapon. Which meant that the rogue was working with another sorcerer.

To make matters worse, Stephen was pretty sure his ankle was broken and his shoulder (the same one the rogue had shot because fuck his life) was dislocated. He had taken a hard fall into a dumpster an hour ago and walking/running had been a bitch since. He both looked (probably), smelt, and felt like utter shit.

The rogue, watching from the side, kicked Stephen in the side for good measure, eliciting a groan from him, and vanished. Stephen felt like he should give chase, cast a spell or two, but he hadn’t slept properly in a week and his cracked ribs were still healing from the last fight. So no, he wasn’t giving chase.

Stephen laid there for a second, feeling warm blood pooling around him, cooling in between his fingers. Oh, right. It had been a clean shot, the bullet went straight through his shoulder. From the fact that he wasn’t dead yet, Stephen figured it hadn't hit anything vital. Still. Another reason he wasn’t chasing the rogue, he was hemorrhaging and possibly going into shock.

Stephen watched as his non-injured arm, soaked in blood, flailed about for a bit before falling back to his shoulder. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stephen knew he had cast an SOS spell of sorts. There was a whooshing sound and Wong was kneeling beside him.

“Stephen…”

“Dislocated shoulder, broken ankle. Clean shot, there’s an exit wound.” Stephen managed to choke out. The pain wasn’t horrible, per say, but it wasn’t a walk in the park, either. “You gotta relocate the shoulder and set my ankle before you can move me.” Stephen breathed out.

Wong nodded. From his personal pocket dimension, Wong pulled out a spare belt. “Here, bite down on this.”

Stephen complied. The belt was rough and didn’t taste very good, but he knew he’d be grateful for it in a few seconds.

Wong gently removed Stephen’s blood-soaked hand and cast a simple spell to staunch the bleeding until they could get back to Kamar-Taj. Finally, Wong grabbed Stephen’s injured arm and, ignoring Stephen’s grunt of pain, pulled it up and rotated it.

Without warning, Wong shoved the joint back into its socket. Stephen’s scream was muffled by the belt he had bitten into. Thank the Vishanti for Wong’s gift of foresight.

Next was the ankle. Wong managed to set the bone without any complications, but it still hurt like a bitch.

When it was over, Stephen ripped the belt out and threw it to the side. “That hurt.” He groaned.

Wong stared at him as if saying, ‘no shit’. Stephen rolled his eyes and forced himself into a seated position. Wong, despite Stephen’s protests, picked him up bridal style and carried him through a portal into Kamar-Taj’s infirmary. Stephen probably wouldn’t be able to live that down, but he was secretly glad he didn’t have to walk.

They caught the rogue just a few days later, working with a Kamar-Taj insider. The insider was punished and the rogue locked up. Stephen couldn’t do anything (not that he would if given the choice, Hippocratic Oath and all) while he was wobbling around on crutches, but he could put his middle finger to good use.

Ao3

[gangviolets]

[w4nderingstarcodfanfics]

Patch Job

I will not stand for Soap's bullet wound erasure by the COD story. SOMEONE HAD TO TAKE CARE OF THAT. Guess I have to do it myself and turn some unrealistic BS off camera healing into a great bonding moment. 

Summary: Soap hasn't had a great night in Los Almas. The weather is shit, his friend's been captured, and oh yeah, the gunshot wound in his arm! He really needs a drink.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46637737

[whump-about-it]

“I was raised in the circus, remember.”

“Normally that’s a sufficient answer, but I really don’t understand where in the circus you learned to treat bullet wounds!” 

[forgetmesunflower]

that influence bathing, everything budding

“Gotham Harbour’s numerous toxins and pollution and whatever else might be in there would not leave a swimmer with just a little bug, especially not when all those chemicals were mixed together. Jason would be lucky if he didn’t start having hallucinations any time soon. Or a fit of giggles. God, he really hoped not.” — Jason falls into the harbour and gets shot. Dick uses Jason’s dazed state to make up for missed years as a big brother.

MintyBoi’s Whumptober: Day One - Stitches | Adrenaline Crash | Bullet Wounds

Rating: Teen Words: 5.9k, 2/2 Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd

The second chapter is entirely caretaking and 1.3k words of hair washing. You have been warned.

[yanderejustforyou]

The Mark of a Stranger

Fandom:The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

You woke to a throbbing ache behind your eyes, a dull, persistent reminder of the previous night's festivities. The echo of laughter, the rhythmic pulse of bass, and the strobing kaleidoscope of club lights still swirled like phantom sensations in your head. It had been a typical Friday night - an escape orchestrated with familiar ease beside your friends. Good music, potent cocktails, and that ephemeral, dizzying freedom that always felt a little too short-lived. The city's energy had been a palpable force, a siren song pulling you deeper into its chaotic rhythm. You'd surrendered willingly, dissolving into the sea of bodies, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating feeling of being momentarily untethered from reality.

But as you pushed yourself up from the tangled bedsheets, your fingertips grazed your neck, and a jolt of unease, cold and unfamiliar, shot through you. There was a strange sensation there, not quite pain, but a persistent, foreign pressure—an unfamiliar warmth that radiated from a specific point. It was subtle, at first, easily dismissed. But then your fingers explored, tracing the contours of your skin, and you realized: there was something there. Something raised, with a jagged, almost deliberate edge, chillingly unmistakable. A bite. The skin around it was angry red, inflamed and tender to the touch. The two puncture marks, small and sharp, seemed almost... intentional. Placed. Something cold and predatory, like the fangs of a wolf, had touched you.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the blood draining from your face as a whirlwind of panicked thoughts took hold. You were certain there was no bite from the previous night - no feral alley cat, no drunken stumble into a rosebush. You had left the club with your friends, the walk home a blur of shared jokes and tipsy laughter - none of them had noticed anything amiss. A quick memory check: no strange encounters, no unexpected contact. Nothing - but this. You stumbled to the bathroom, peering into the mirror, a growing sense of dread coiling in your stomach. The mark was small, concealed just beneath your hairline, at the nape of your neck. It looked… almost like a brand, a warning etched into your flesh. A possessive claim.

The mark itself was small, almost easily hidden under your hair, but it radiated a strange power, a claim, like something had carved itself beneath the skin, changing you in a way you couldn't understand. It felt alien, unnatural. You shook your head, trying to dispel the creeping unease, the primal fear blooming in your chest. You went through the motions of starting the day, a shower, coffee, but the normal routines felt… off. The air seemed to thicken around you, a suffocating blanket of awareness, and a prickling sensation of being watched from every corner. The usual city sounds, the distant rumble of trucks, the chatter of pedestrians, seemed to amplify, echoing much louder in your ears. The weight of the world felt heavier, pressing down on you from all sides, and the sense of being hunted grew with every passing moment. Every now and then, you’d catch a flicker in your peripheral vision – a shadow that darted too quickly, a figure obscured by the crowd, too illusive to pin down. Just a hint of darkness, a vague unease settling in with every glance.

The day passed in a state of anxious paralysis, a constant battle against the mounting feeling of wrongness. That night, after another restless day of unease, your phone buzzed. A message. Plain and to the point: “We need to talk.” The name at the top sent a jolt of cold dread through you: Sofia Falcone. Just the name alone felt like a weight on your chest. A wave of sickening unease washed over you, the dots of fear connecting. You tried to push back the feeling that this all must be a mistake, overthinking, a bad dream, but the fear, the bite, felt solid and real. You knew Sofia, or at least, you thought you did. She was an enigmatic woman, a captivating presence with long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see through you, and an undeniably dangerous air that shimmered beneath the surface of her composed exterior. But this? This was something else, something you couldn't fathom, something terrifying in its unknown nature.

You tried to rationalize, to find a logical explanation, to convince yourself it was all a misunderstanding, but deep down you knew this feeling wasn't something that could be explained by rational thought. There was no escaping it, you were caught in this web. You had been marked, and the familiar world that surrounded you was about to shift into something completely alien.

When you arrived at her penthouse, the door opened before you even had the chance to knock, as if she had been expecting you. The cool, calculating gaze of Sofia Falcone met yours immediately, sending a shiver crawling up your spine. She was standing in the dimly lit entryway, the soft glow of candlelight casting long, unsettling shadows around her. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on your face, her expression unreadable.

“Come in,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting, but laced with an edge of something predatory that sent an icy chill down your bones. “We need to have a conversation.” The words were polite, almost casual, but there was a definitive authority in their tone, an unspoken command that brooked no refusal.

As you stepped inside, your heart hammered against your ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the silence. You tried to ignore the subtle burning sensation at the back of your neck, the insistent throb that was a constant reminder of what had happened. The atmosphere inside the penthouse was thick, a heady mix of expensive perfume, polished leather, and a faint, lingering smell of something old, almost like cigar smoke, a ghost of a previous life and history clinging to the air.

Sofia closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click, each movement graceful and controlled, like a panther stalking its prey. You felt small and vulnerable, insignificant in her presence, like you were in the presence of something far older and more powerful than yourself, something that could devour you whole without a moment's hesitation.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry with fear. “What’s happening to me?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the fear bubbling uncontrollably to the surface.

Sofia tilted her head slightly, her eyes scrutinizing you. Her gaze flickered to the bite mark on your neck, a spark of something knowing, something almost triumphant, flashing behind her eyes. “You’ve noticed it, then,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, like the stillness before a storm. “Good. I was starting to wonder if you’d be too oblivious to understand what happened.” Her words were a subtle taunt, a challenge to the fear that was clearly visible in your eyes.

You took a step back, shaking your head, trying desperately to piece together the words, the situation, but it was all blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare. "What do you mean? What is this bite? Why is it—why is it hurting?" You ran a hand across your neck, the tenderness of the skin a sharp reminder of the violation.

Sofia moved closer, each step slow and deliberate, narrowing the distance between you. Her presence was suffocating, like a thick fog that robbed you of air. Before you could protest, she was close enough to touch, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin around the mark, her touch light, almost affectionate, but there was a chilling coldness in her eyes, the calm gaze of a hunter who has cornered its prey.

“I’ve marked you,” she said softly, her voice a hypnotic whisper, a silken thread that bound you to her word. “And it’s more than just a bite. It’s a symbol. You’re mine now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of cold shock that paralyzed your body. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away from her gaze, the weight of her words sinking into your very core. The heat of the bite on your skin began to intensify, spreading across your neck and chest, filling you with a strange and unfamiliar warmth, but it wasn't the comforting warmth of a fire. It was a consuming heat, like you were being devoured from the inside out. Your heart pounded in your chest, hammering out a frantic rhythm against the silence.

“I’m… yours?” you managed, the words foreign and forced in your throat, tasting like ash. You couldn’t believe what she was saying, what was happening, yet the truth of it rang loud and undeniable.

She smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was full of something dark, something predatory, a flicker of malice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A wolf showing its teeth before the kill.

“You’re more than you think. More than you were. You’ll understand in time,” she murmured, her hand lifting and stroking your cheek, her touch a strange mix of fondness and malice. “This bite isn’t just a mark. It’s a bond, a promise that we’re connected now.” Her voice was soothing, but the undertone was unsettling, like the murmur of a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security.

“No one else can take you from me now,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a possessive intensity. “No one. The bite means you belong to me—body, soul, and every last breath you take. You are mine.” Each word was a claim, a chain forged in the depths of darkness, binding you to her.

A shudder ran through your body at her chilling declaration, your heart racing in panicked flight, trying to escape the truth that she was weaving before you. You opened your mouth to protest, to deny, but no words came out, your voice caught in the web of her carefully wrought words. The heat, the overwhelming sensation of being bound to her, of being claimed, choked you. You had to close your eyes, unable to meet her gaze any longer, the horror of what she was saying washing over you like a tidal wave.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Sofia said softly, her fingers trailing down your cheek as if offering a twisted comfort, the light touch almost a brand. “But you’re mine now. And this… this is your new reality.”

The pressure at the back of your neck grew stronger, the bite throbbing, your body trembling with an agony that wasn’t physical, but emotional, as the weight of her control settled deep into your bones. You were hers now—marked and bound in ways you couldn't yet comprehend, a puppet dancing in her hands. 

[tenth-sentence]

All the same, those few seconds were enough for five of our men to get stomach wounds.

"All Quiet on the Western Front" - Erich Maria Remarque

[jebwizard]

Video Voyeurism or Unintended Civic Responsibility?

A controversy has arisen over the distribution of graphic images on Twitter from the recent shooting at a Texas Mall. People were outraged at the insensitivity of those who used their cell phones to capture and post pictures of the victims and for Twitter allowing the images to be posted. Here’s a link https://www.nytimes.com/2023/05/07/business/media/texas-shooting-video-twitter.html My first…

[candlestick-rat]

Here’s our girl

Still not very good at digital art but I don’t mind how this one turned out :)

Click for higher res

[brilcrist]

Poolverine Hurtcember

Day 22: Self-harm

[doctorsiren]

I have an idea (concept sketch that I will make a more refined version of in the morning since it is midnight)

[raepliica]

(content warning: blood)

Sewed Up Heart

[ID: A Trigun comic done in grayscale with red accents. First, an anatomical heart gushes blood, forming a puddle which shifts into Vash's coat. Vash's gloved hands can be seen sewing up a tear at the hem.

Vash raises his hands, which are now bare and covered in blood. He looks sweaty and distressed, and he raises his coat to his face and cries into it. His clenched hands rip the sewed portion apart, and the red thread leads to a heart whose own stitches are tearing apart. The background gets darker and darker, and the red looks brighter and starker against it.

Then the background returns to white, and brown-skinned hands using embroidery scissors snip a red thread. Wolfwood holds up Vash's repaired coat, grinning proudly, and does a happy thumbs-up in Vash's direction. Vash lifts his head, seeming distant.

Wolfwood holds out the coat. As Vash puts out his hand to take it, the cloth is replaced so Wolfwood is dropping a sewed-up heart in Vash's hand. Vash rubs the coat against his face with a teary smile. End ID] ID CREDITS