#Injury Tw

[signanothername]

May we have some more Cross nuggets if you have any to spare at the moment?

No nuggets in this house, only full couse meals (18 page comic)

Anyway, I’m begging you guys to see the potential of Killer being like a protective asshole older brother to Cross 🙏🙏🙏

[bisexualbaker]

Boosting this and adding my More Tips tag (which is where you can find, well, more tips that people have shared in the notes of this post).

I luckily haven't had to deal with much chronic pain or hand pain yet, especially with regards to baking (crochet is another story). That said, these look like some pretty solid tips! There's also some in the comments section.

[amy-rose-warrior]

Drew them with a ref for once in my life

[wolfsteax]

♦️can't see straight♦️

[sayruq]

As of now, there isn't a Gofundme. Let's ask the following organisations to evacuate this child to safety:

Doctors Without Borders [Website / Instagram / Twitter]

Palestine Children's Relief Fund [Website / Instagram / Twitter]

Medical Aid for Palestinians [Website / Instagram / Twitter]

Palestinian Red Crescent Society [Website / Instagram / Twitter] (you should also message Red Cross)

The Egyptian and Qatari governments (especially if you're a citizen of either country)

Please message them on social media and their websites.

[reidhalstead]

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."

[rhymewithrachel]

Rip guys

[moonsharky]

BUDDIE ★ BEST FRIEND (PT 3)

previous parts

[theladyeowyn]

You shall live to see these days renewed. And no more despair.

requested by @the-mawp

[hazbinned]

Angel Dust's accusatory words cut through Vox's train of thought like a paring knife. He snapped his head around to glare at him, but the look on his touch-screen face was not sufficiently laced with poison. What it lacked in animosity, it made up for in discomfiture; red eyes flicked to and fro across the battered visage of Angel's person, cyan teeth gritting together as if to stop Vox from saying something callous.

Then it clicked. Angel thought Vox knew.

The television Overlord veered back, humiliation seeping in.

"What?! You- You seriously think I was watching that?" he gawked. "I have a life outside of you. I do!"

He hastily reached for the rag and doused it in a fair amount of rubbing alcohol, clambering around (and halfway onto) the sink so he could dab at the worst of the arachnid's incisions.

"I'm... and I don't... I didn't see it. I was tuned into a different station."

Vox was telling the truth— but as he sat there, straining to mend the cuts in Angel's back, he wondered if the spider would believe him.

"I could go play it back," the media mogul continued, "But I haven't. While I was getting ready for Val to come home, I was on the phone with Velvette. Doing..." He reached for the tweezers, pulled the fur aside and pried the first sliver of glass out of the porn star's body. "Hands-on, real-world things. I was hoping for a date night with Val."

Hence the food. And the greeting. And his huff-and-puff tantrum.

Vox plunked the shard into the trash bin near their feet.

"I'm hard-pressed to find anything to celebrate," he admitted.

He repeated the extraction process a few more times, until most of the glass was out and white fluff was scrubbed of red.

Angel did not have to believe him. Angel didn't owe him anything. Vox had, one too many times, reveled in the spider's distress. He'd delighted in watching the poor arachnid be 'put in his place' by Val— the pleading, the punishments, even the intimacy. It had felt like revenge, somehow. Revenge for stealing the moth away from him. It had been enticing. Rewarding.

Addicting.

Vox was an addict, and Angel Dust was his favorite drug.

He didn't understand why he was feeling as sickened by it all as he was, but it felt to him now that the very thing that had brought him ecstasy for so many years had suddenly turned sour and curdled.

Age-old milk upon his tongue.

He was offended that the spider had even accused him. But why?

Did he care about Angel all of a sudden? Was that moment in the hallway some kind of turning point for the two of them?

Vox had apologized to Angel then, but it was going to take more than a 'sorry' to fix his gory trail of misdeeds.

Flicking the last few glass-fragments into the garbage, the sinner shifted a little bit on his knees and then pressed the cloth harder against the wounds to soak up any residual bleeding.

"... You don't have to tell me," he conceded after a while. Quieter than before. "I'll delete it."

Vox pulled the rag away and ran it under the sink.

"You can watch."

Then, he turned to him.

"Where else does it hurt?"

Aside from the obvious, he thought as he blinked at him, the 'obvious' here being Angel Dust's hands. Hypnosis might have undone the emotional scarring left by the shattered cup, but it certainly hadn't left any effect on the physical.

Were there any remnants stuck in Angel's chest? Legs? Lower back? He knew he had to get to the ones in the exposed flesh near his collarbone, but he figured he'd get the rough of it out of the way first.

"I mean, you'll have to pull the top part of the dress off if you want me to bandage it," Vox added. "But that... is... uh, your call."

Vox's efforts to coax Angel from his frantic frenzy went entirely unnoticed, a pinprick amid the punctures as the glass slashed his hands. He could fix this. Shards shredded the stained carpet and sliced the spider's flesh as he gathered the splattered fragments, a harsh and impossible jigsaw puzzle that resisted it's own solving. He could fix this. He could put it back together. He-

The glass spilt from Angel's hands as he was abruptly guided into facing his unlikely saviour, the task forgotten even before the next crucial step to his taming was initiated. The spider's eyes thinned to screwed-up slits as a sea of blue light flooded his vision, blotting out everything that wasn't its source as a sharp fingertip drew him closer. Even if Angel hadn't been disoriented from the alcohol-enhanced dissociation, the split second of realisation before the wave of hypnosis washed over him was nowhere near long enough to put up a fight.

Red light bled into blue as the television's all-seeing eye expanded, rings swimming and swirling within them like ripples in slow-moving water. Angel slumped to his knees, his face tilted further upward by the Overlord's metallic claw as the rest of his body fell like dead weight. Had he been in a fitter state of mind, the actor might have tried fruitlessly to fight the loss of control he was experiencing, screeching and flailing within the padded cell of his own mind until he inevitably succumbed to it's influence.

But, for the first time this awful night, Angel felt relaxed. This was what he had been looking for at the bottom of the bottle, in his agreement to let Val drug him. Loosened and numb, the pain and torment had been dulled to a barely-perceptible tingling from somewhere so far away that it could no longer be reached, somewhere no longer real. All that existed was that tranquil blue light with its scarlet centre, drawing Angel in, in, in...

Angel didn't break the glass. Vox did.

That must have been what happened. That's what it felt like as Angel's limbs softened like rubber, all but melting into the carpet.

I broke it, Angel. You saw it happen.

Yes, he did. He saw Vox break the glass. He saw it happen.

You don't want to clean up my mess...

It didn't even hurt, the glass splinters now embedded in his hands as well as his back. He might as well have been holding cotton wool. Val might as well have thrown him into a soft, comfortable bed of plush pillows and blankets.

...So stop touching it.

By the time the trance had started to wear off, Angel was being escorted away from the scene of the crime, leaning against the other as he stumbled alongside him. He must have zoned out, he realised, wobbling slightly as he was released onto the stool. Blinking blearily under the synthetic light, he watched dumbly as Vox rummaged through the bathroom cabinet. What was he doing? Before the arachnid had the chance to question him, the Media Overlord met Angel with a question of his own.

Did the dress show everything? Well, no, was Angel's initial thought: he had to leave something to the imagination, or else-

Oh. He meant the glass.

A shrug of one shoulder was all the spider gave in response. How should he know? Val had given him a strict time limit to get ready - all he cared about was squeezing into something tight-fitting and provocative. He wasn't accounting for exactly how many of his newly acquired wounds were on show. He didn't want to think about it.

Why did Vox even care?

The answer to this was hinted at as a damp wash cloth was pressed to Angel's forehead, the television demon posturing him like a doll so that one of his many hands was holding the cloth in place. Was this... Was Vox taking care of him?

In all the times that Val had taken Angel back to the Penthouse in a similar sorry state, Vox had never so much as batted an eye. In fact, other than the poorly concealed jealousy, the Overlord's reaction was most often a sick, smug gloating that oozed from that slimy grin of his when he realised that Angel was hurt. That Valentino had hurt him. That even if Val took Angel to bed that night, he wasn't going to enjoy it.

Snapped back into reality by Vox's piercing whistle, Angel looked up wearily. The collection of supplies that Vox had gathered looked medical - was he about to play nurse for him? Pick the glass shards from his flesh that he had presumably watched his partner crush him into with rapturous glee?

Was this what it had come to?

A swift moment's judgement told Angel that dragging the stool across the room would be a poor decision in his compromised state, so he opted for the sink. Pushing himself up onto the porcelain stung his hands - he must have cut them on the glass that Val shoved him into.

"What, it ain't enough ta watch it on the cameras? Ya need the commentary, too?" Angel replied scornfully. Vox just couldn't resist, could he? "Look, can I at least save the play by play account a' bein choked an' slammed inta broken glass 'til I'm less, ya know. Full a' glass?"

What the hell was this? Some roundabout way for Vox to get his kicks? Or was this him trying to actually help him, unable to restrain himself from prodding at the wound before stitching it up?

"Why're ya helpin' me?" Angel sighed, slurred from the combination of booze and exhaustion. "Ain't punchin' the air in celebration more yer style?"

[seamayweed]

AEGON II TARGARYEN + Mother

House of the Dragon — 2.05 “Regent” // William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair

[mostly-natm]

Some away missions are more dangerous than others.

[bonus-links]

some doodles after the battle’s over

[robogart]

"A corpse... should be left well alone."

---

Lady Maria from last April's fanart friday! :3c 💖💕

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[scealaiscoite]

.☽༊˚ 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

[daifei]

le faune