#Injury TW | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reidhalstead · 19 hours ago

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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?

What she had missed to recognize was that, for all that time, however meaninglessly small (not enough, never enough) they've crawled inside each other's veins, found their way into every weakness, wrapped around it like a parasite and built a home there, in the festering wound, rotting and rotting. She was easy to anger, he knew which bruises to press on to, the ones that would always remain deep purple, the ones that would never heal. He knew how to leave his own mark, too. My family is still alive. Her eyes flashed red, like a wounded animal on its path to revenge. Ready to tear its hunter apart. He wouldn't have known any of this, if she had not trusted her hungry heart then. If she hadn't confided in him that night. King in his glass castle — shouldn't be throwing stones, when he was the one shaking and weeping on the floor, curled up into a ball, left to find peace and mercy in her arms. There was nothing where he had buried soaked up features before, where he dared to close his eyes, hands finding a soothing rhythm despite the unfamiliar melody fingers danced to.

Where adoration had blossomed then, now loathing was sprouting. "Don't you dare fucking talk about family—" venom bled into every word. "You don't have the right to talk about the shit I've told you. Wipe it from your fucking brain, every thing I said to you, I regret everything I've said to you." Anika was lying through her teeth, without even flinching. But each word was marked truth for him to see, aimed at a heart that no long pulsed, still aiming to make bloody, squeezing the last drops of blood out. If he wasn't already dead, she'd gladly bleed him dry.

Where was the satisfaction of burying a stake that would only make him turn to dust? Gone in a second. In her eyes, that looked like mercy, and her mercy he no longer deserved.

"You're pathetic, that's what you are." an undeveloped sort of chuckle left her still kiss stained mouth. "Should've ended it all when you woke up a fucking monster. If you gave a fuck about your family at all, you would've done them a solid, you fucking coward." she burned her eyes on him. Mocking him, still mocking him — even in the light of her own admittance, even in the light that was burning through the shade she had been living under for months. Even in the light of all her shame Anika would still mock him.

—What now?

She wanted to erase all indication that she was breaking, and the only thing louder than all that pain her raised voice was laced with, was her gun firing. Anika fired into him again, and again, and again; bullets ripping through the skin of his chest, while she moved closer — close enough to land a kick to his gut that would send him backwards into the window. Fight back, you piece of shit. She wanted him to hurt, like she was hurting. Break, like she was breaking.

"Fight back, is what."

#o: a.booker #violence tw #blood tw #injury tw #gun tw

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scealaiscoite · 6 months ago

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.☽༊˚ prompts for helping bathe an injured loved one

¹⁾ sitting on the edge of the bathtub and letting them lay their head against your thigh as the fatigue starts taking hold

²⁾ “i know, i know it hurts but hold on for just a little longer and we’re done, yeah? think you can do that for me, pet?”

³⁾ helping them lean up so you can wash their back, and pretending not to notice them shaking in your arms

⁴⁾ “you needn’t be so gentle, y’know. if today wasn’t enough to break me, i doubt an ill-applied handful of shampoo will.”

⁵⁾ using your soapstuffs because the familiar scent will, hopefully, help calm them

⁶⁾ “i can’t believe it took a night like that for you to let me help you with something.”

⁷⁾ having never seen them in a state of undress before and so, trying admirably hard to avoid looking directly at them in such a vulnerable state

⁸⁾ “so mr/mrs surly and serious likes having their hair washed for them, hm? don’t worry, i’ll keep your secret.”

⁹⁾ climbing into the bath/shower with them, more for the physical comfort than practicality

¹⁰⁾ “i wish the first time you saw me like this could’ve been under better circumstances.”

¹¹⁾ stripping down to the same level of undress as them in an effort to try and make them feel more comfortable

¹²⁾ “can we- can we just stay here, like this, for a minute? please?”

¹³⁾ using as gentle a touch as possible to clean them off and feeling your heart break each time they still suppress a pained whimper

¹⁴⁾ “it’s just me now. you don’t have to be brave anymore.”

¹⁵⁾ trying to towel them dry but ending up just cradling them to your chest with the towel pressed aimlessly between you

#i will eat this trope morning noon and night with a spork from satan’s refuse tank i’m so serious #theys when the subtrope is forced vulnerability out of a need for comfort after a shared traumatic event that there’s no right response to:#prompts #hurt/comfort prompts #hurt/comfort writing prompts #hurt comfort prompts #hurt/comfort #whump #whump prompts #whump writing prompts #rp meme #hurt/comfort rp meme #otp prompts #angst prompts #injury tw #tw injury

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