#tw shot wound

[doctorsiren]

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

[francixoxoxo]

🂱 Dogs’ White Teeth ☠︎︎

𝐁𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐫!𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬, 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡-- 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥.

Coryo wasn’t a violent guy. He didn’t know why he fought in the ring.

That’s what he told himself. He wasn’t violent, ‘cause he didn’t deck the first guy who looked at him funny. That was Coriolanus Snow’s logic. He wasn’t violent, ‘cause he felt nothing as he pounded the punching bag until his knuckles bled, he only felt a thirst for cash. Not blood.

But the first time his glove connected with a guy’s stomach? Oh, Coryo was violent. He’d never admit how stupid gratifying it was when he threw a punch to knock the other dickhead’s lights out.

Coryo shouldn’t be with you. He doesn’t deserve a girl like you, he could live a hundred times over and never deserve a girl like you. You’re kind, and generous and so, so thoughtful and fucking smart, you’d think you’d be smart enough to stay miles away from him.

But no. Here you are, standing in the dingy basement the fights are held in, among a crowd of shitty and disgusting people— Coryo’s people. Not yours. He’d rip his own teeth out before he let them be your type of people.

Speaking of which, he has one of his guys standing beside you, a looming warning that nobody could touch you. Coryo knew somebody would try. You were wrapped up like a piece of candy in a prison yard, and he was nothing if not protective. You already didn’t belong in the dank room, watching your boyfriend either scramble somebody’s brains or get his brains scrambled— he got some peace of mind knowing you atleast weren’t alone in a crowd of violent assholes.

Coriolanus was a good boxer. A damn good fighter. Of course he knocked the other guy out, short and burly with a mop of stick-straight hair, by the time Coryo was done he was missing a tooth. Coriolanus was baring his own teeth in a sneer, lip curled and nostrils flaring as he spat out a bit of blood onto the ground beside the man.

He stumbled a bit as the referee grabbed him by the forearm tugging him to his feet and raising his glove up to announce his win. Coryo's bare chest was heaving, covered in a sheen of sweat. His nose was surely broken, blood drying under his right nostril, his eyes wide and crazed as he looked 'round for you. A crooked smile split his lips, revealing his maroon mouthpiece as he lifted his brows at you.

Coryo, bloody and battered, was definitely a sight.

Maybe it was wrong to find it so hot, as you cheered with the rest of the crowd for him. But that attraction always, always delved into a distraught concern for your boyfriend by the time he was in the locker room.

Coryo lifts his head as he hears footsteps. His elbows are on his knees, his hand that had been rubbing his shaved head falling down as his lips pulled into a smile. “Hey, baby.” He’d cooed to you while you stepped close, slotting yourself between his spread legs. His hands found a home on your waist as he grinned dopily up at you.

“Hi.” You mumbled, your hands cupping his cheeks. Your brow furrowed, you gently pressed both thumbs along the length of his aquiline nose. Coriolanus curled his lip and grunted at the pain, you sigh. “You broke it again.”

“It’ll heal.” Coryo shrugs, watching you with puppy-dog eyes as your thumb swipes some blood from under his nostril. He rubs your hip affectionately as a thanks. God, he was love drunk. Absolutely whipped for you. He just hated how much he made you worry. Coryo didn’t think himself worth your peace of mind.

“Oh, but it looks like it hurts.” You frown, your thumb dropping down to brush over his busted lip. Your gaze trails over his blackening eye.

Coryo shakes his head a little, pressing a kiss to your thumb pad. “I’ve had worse.” He reaches up, clasping your hand in two of his. He thinks he catches a smile, but it quickly falls when you see the state of his hands. Bloodied and battered, his skin split at each knuckle, your expression melts.

He doesn’t protest as you reach for his bag, rifling through the duffel. When you find what you need, you slip into his lap, your knees straddling his hips. The boyish grin that splits his face is almost hilarious as you reach for one of his hands.

The alcohol wipe is ripped from its packaging with help from your teeth. With a tender, delicate touch, you swipe the pad along Coryo’s knuckles. His fingers flex against the sting, his lips pulling in a grimace. “It’s not that big a deal.” He whispers almost plaintively, pressing the concave ridge of his nose into the slope of your shoulder like jigsaw pieces.

“It’ll make me feel better, how about that?” You huff, letting go of his hand to fully unravel the wipe and clean the blood caking on his skin. His nostrils flare, but he nods. Coriolanus watches as you lean for the bench beside him. His hand on your side tightens to keep your balance for you as you grasp the roll of bandages, coming back upright and wrapping the material around his knuckles.

He lets you go about fixing him up (though he’d argue there wasn’t anything to fix, nothing worth your peace of mind,) with surprising lenience. Only when he grits his teeth against the sting of alcohol on the other hand does he speak. “You didn’t bet on me, did you?”

“I did.” You let a faint smile creep across your features. Your thumb brushes along his metacarpal bones. Coryo scoffs, averting his eyes with a shake of his head. “I told you not to.”

“So? You won anyway.”

“It’s the principle.” He insists, his nose brushing your jaw as he cranes his neck forward in frustration. You orbit those bandages ‘round his hand, on and on until you’re satisfied. “What principle?”

Well. On plenty of things, Coriolanus thought. He wasn’t something to waste money on. He wasn’t even something to waste time on, frankly. There wasn’t a point in putting in effort with him. He felt a bit like a vicious mutt; who cares if he’s got a muzzle on him? Or if he can sit, and fetch, and give you paw? He bites. In the end, he will always bite.

“What if I lost?”

(What if he screws up?)

“You’d lose money. It’d be a waste.” Coryo mumbles, presses a faint kiss into the tender skin of your neck. Your pulse is warm under his lips.

(You’d lose time you could be spending with somebody… he doesn’t know, better.)

“It’s not a waste. It’s just trust.” You shrug, and he wonders for a moment if you can crack his head open like a walnut, peer inside and read his mind like a book; one you were simply rereading for lack of new novels.

With his newly dressed hands he rubs his palms over your back. Coriolanus studies every crease of your face with a strange reverence, his brows tense for a brief moment to match the divots twixt your own. “You shouldn’t bet on losing dogs.”

Your shoulders lift, fingers sneaking ‘round his head to run your nails through his cropped blonde hair, “Who says you’re a losing dog?” A laugh sings from your lips. Coriolanus only smoothed his hands down your waist, his own lips pulling taut in a guilty expression.

You’re putting all your money on him, and it’s not literal. You love him, that much is true, and that much is too much. It tightens his chest, it chokes the air from his lungs and the pink from his cheeks. Atlas had a puny burden to carry, since he never had to fear letting you down.

Come on now. He just made a couple hundred bucks off of decking a guy until he looked more beetle than boy— all spasms and twitches and whimpers that make Coriolanus’ head spin with a power trip to put vermillion behind a man’s eyes. They all say violence is gut-churningly horrific, and maybe it is. But it isn’t if you’re winning, if you’re the one with his fist curled. If you’re the one landing on top.

Coriolanus is the kind of guy to get high off the crunch of somebody’s nose under his glove. You creep into the deeper corners of his mind, weaving cobwebs to lay in and inadvertently instilling a disgust, a self-loathing that not even a parent could plant. You don’t mean to, sure.

He wants to be better. He wants to cut his bad leg, he wants to behead the serpent in his belly, so that it’s safe for you to reach your delicate little hand in there. He wants to be deserving of all the goodness you wreath him in.

He’s fully aware you deserve a guy that doesn’t have to carve himself to be good to you. What can he say besides Snows tend to be selfish?

Coryo would slit his skin from his Adam’s apple to his navel to let you crawl inside. But he’s certain. It’s in his nature, it’s his body, not his heart and not his mind, that will reject you like an organ donation, will spit you out. Perhaps you would fit better elsewhere, in another man’s cavity, for his is too large to be comfortable. He felt like a scrambling man trying to sew you in, a rare organ, a piece that he’d fill his own gaps to make fit.

“All roads.” Is all he could whisper, his azure eyes glassy, hoping that his eyes were glassy in the sense of a window pane. That way you could see without forcing him to wrap his tongue ‘round the words, which is getting increasingly difficult. Coriolanus speaks like an Olympic sprinter, he’s sure that he’ll chicken out of it if he takes his time. “All roads lead to Rome, to me being a shithead.”

Your lips pull taut. For a moment, a gut-churning, pain-staking, bile-rising-to-the-throat moment, Coryo thinks he got through to you. Maybe you’ll dump him right there in the locker room. He didn’t think the prospect would put such an anchor in his stomach. Again, he thinks, Snows tend to be selfish.

But then your lips are moving again, your hands are bracing the back of his head with intertwined fingers, your perfume filling his nostrils and distracting from the dank stench of the locker room, it’s not too strong, it’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, but he can’t focus, he can’t, words the greatest poet couldn’t conjure after a lifetime of pensive thought are rolling off your tongue, somehow to him, somehow all of this is for him, and it’s all so sickly sweet that he’s dizzy with it.

“You’re doing your best.” Already your visage is blurring like ink in the rain. He believes he’ll chew through his cheek. “You don’t see what I see, Coryo.”

Damnit. A pearly tear slips down Coriolanus’ flushed cheek, the scarce light shooting diamonds from his azure eyes, your hands twisting to hold his face. He looks like a boy in your hands, and if it weren’t for his purpling eye, his lip split, you think he’d pass for a little boy.

He sucks in a breath through his nose as your lips connect, his lip painful whether the kiss was tender or bruising. Coryo was fierce in his love, fierce in everything about you, always, but oh, how grateful is he for how soft your lips move on his. His hands roam to the plane of your back again, a relieved exhale leaving his nostrils against your cheek.

It didn’t seem to matter whether Coriolanus thought you fit into the crevice (gaping hole, ravine, sink hole, call it what you will,) of his heart or not. You found your way in, you’d crawled deep into his heart, his body, his soul, and sewn the door behind you. How silly of him to believe that he had any choice in allowing you in or keeping you out. How foolish to believe that if the hole in his belly was too weeping for a single other soul to fill, that you wouldn’t stretch your arms high above your head and your legs as extended as possible.

How utterly idiotic of Coryo to believe that the hollow in his chest was a tower to selfishly keep you in, and not your rightful home.

[placeboelysium]

Some recent WIPs and doodles becauseeeee I don't have a LOT TO POOOSTTTT RNNN

(I'm hoping this Dolores assassination drawing isn't bad enough to hide under a show more bar but tw for light blood)

I tried to change the formality and everything about it, people killing people for a reaaaasonnnn

[amberspacedf]

10th prompt of Yeehawgust, Undead Cowboy

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

You know, I’m gonna make an active choice to limit my political posts in the upcoming week because I think people genuinely need a break on their timelines, then to start working in actionable solutions next week, but before all that I’m gonna get this out of my system: holy fuck I’m pissed by how much this country hates women and how much it hates women of color especially, and I plan to make Donald Trump and his ilk utterly miserable for this. These people are scared by our mere existence, just wait until we start actively digging those thorns in.

[icedghostlatte-art]

Draw Vlad in the first murder pallette

The Hospital Halls ran Red with blood that night...

{First Murder - 32}

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

The many injuries and long recovery of Felix Berner, and the protective instincts of his best friend Wolfgang Bogdanow across two seasons of Sense8.

[whumpneto]

Jake Gyllenhaal as Master Sgt. John Kinley in Guy Ritchie's The Covenant (2023) (Part One)

[ranma0]

Tw for gore and medical talk

So we (probably) know that Alastor died from a gunshot wound to the head, and that hunting dogs may or may not have been involved right?

But we don't know the details

See a lot of people assume that a bullet to the head = instant death but in fact we really only need certain parts of the brain to live. Those parts are mostly located at the lower back of the head, far away from the frontal lobe

So consider with me, Alastor is shot straight on in the forehead with a .22 hunting rifle, the bullet enters his head and either bounces around in his skull, turning his brain to paste

Or

It exits somewhere through the parietal bones or upper occipital, leaving him alive if rather scrambled. Intracranial pressure increasing as he bleeds into his brain.

Alastor then slowly loses consciousness on the forest floor as a pack of snarling hunting dogs closes in around him, sealing their bared teeth as his final memory

For added angst, he lives a while even after losing consciousness

He is brought to his mother, who holds his hand as he takes his last stuttering agonal breaths, completely oblivious to the fact that she's by his side

[blue-aurora-nora]

So who is your favourite Hashira?

And how do you think the would be waiting for their tsugukos after a more complicated than usual mission?

My top favorite hashiras are Sanemi and Rengoku. But I’ll write for Sanemi!

Sanemi was sharp as steel on the outside. Losing your family in one night and seeking vengeance against demons for years to come will do that to you.

He was hard on everybody. There was no time for softness when Muzak could be getting stronger and stronger as each day passed.

And most people couldn’t handle the heat that Sanemi dealt during his strenuous ‘training sessions’.

That is, until you came along.

You appeared to be nothing special. Just another low-ranked demon slayer that was way over their head.

But when you survived Sanemi’s pulverizing training with little scars and a positive attitude, he knew that he wanted you to be his Tsuguko.

After talking with Ubuyashiki, you were called in and given the news.

The rest was history after that.

You proved yourself time and time again that you were a fierce demon slayer much like Sanemi.

But one day, you bid Sanemi a goodbye and he stilled at that, “Bye? The hell do you mean ‘bye’?” He’d asked you.

You were bowing low to him and sat up to explain yourself, “This mission I’m being sent on has had a lot of casualties. I’m being sent as one of the last options. If I fail, then one of the hashiras will be called in…” You took a deep breath, “I’m saying goodbye in case I don’t make it, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi gritted his teeth at you, those cold eyes of his looking you up and down as if you were stupid. “(Y/N), you’re not going to die. You’re my tsuguko.”

“I’m not doubting your training, I’m just being realistic. We recently just lost Rengoku, did we not? This demon could be an underling of Muzan.”

“You’re talking crazy, I didn’t teach you to have this kind of attitude-“

“No.” You interrupted him. He was disturbed by how clear your eyes were, “My mother taught me this. I never got to say goodbye to her and I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

You bowed again and slowly rose to stand up, “I have to go now.” You turned heel and paused, looking at your teacher again, “Goodbye, Sanemi.”

Sanemi didn’t say anything. He had been flooded with a plethora of feelings he had shut himself away from for years.

And instead of getting angry at you-

He was left with a heavy sadness that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he trained or went on missions to beat it out onto other demons.

A week passed and you still hadn’t come back. He hoped that the mission was just far away.

Another 3 days passed, you still weren’t back. Maybe you were sent on another mission while you were out?

Two weeks now, you weren’t there. You must’ve been walking slow.

It had almost been three weeks when your crow came to his area and loudly announced that you’d successfully taken down the demon but had been critically injured. You were currently being held at the Butterfly Mansion.

Sanemi had never ran so fast.

When he arrived, he was taken to your private room. You were receiving a blood transfusion and sound asleep.

Shinobu was quick to explain that you’d received numerous wounds, one of which needed surgery. You’d also lost a good bit of blood that was also lost during surgery which was why the blood transfusion was needed.

The butterfly hashira wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, but she would be checking on you regularly since you’d received a bad concussion as well.

To say that Sanemi was relieved would be an understatement.

This wasn’t goodbye after all.

You awoke a week later and Sanemi was quick to threaten you with an agonizing training session.

You smiled weakly, “I almost die and this is how you treat me. I was hoping for a rare smile.”

He crossed his arms, “I trained you better than to almost die, dipshit. You were supposed to come out with few wounds.” He glanced at the bandages decorating your body, “It’s obvious that you need more training so this doesn’t happen again.”

You couldn’t even be mad at him. Sanemi was mean but you could see that he was hurt. He didn’t really think that you were weak.

He was saying this because he cared.

“I… I was really scared, you know.” Tears began to well in your eyes, “I really thought I was done for." You don't know why you were so emotional now. It might've been the pain medications that were being pumped into you.

Sanemi's glare softened ever so slightly and he sighed, "Don't start with that mushy stuff. You've made me suffer enough... We've both suffered enough... just... just don't do that again, you hear me?"

You wiped the tears from your face with a shaky hand, "No promises."

I'm such a bitch for platonic relationships! Don't be afraid to request more!

[tamagotchikgs]

i feel extra awful today n weak and i went downstairs n both my mom and my sister the first thing they said when they saw me was that i look pale o(-< whihc i dont even know how they can tell when i am literally always some form of purple

[serickswrites]

A Taste of Your Own Medicine

Warnings: captivity, torture, escape, gun, gun shot, wounds, blood, bleeding out

Whumpee snuck along the corridor. Whumper had stupidly left them unrestrained and hadn’t locked the door. And now they were getting out of here and going home. 

“Stop, not so fast! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Whumper roared as they ran up the corridor. 

Whumpee began to run in earnest, doing everything they could to get away from Whumper. To get away from the pain and suffering Whumper promised. To get away and get home to Caretaker. 

Caretaker. 

Whumpee missed Caretaker beyond belief. And they had been relieved that Caretaker hadn’t tried to rescue them just this once. Whumper was too unhinged to chance a rescue. Whumpee didn’t want Caretaker in danger.

But they knew Caretaker would come for them if they didn’t get out of Whumper’s compound now. And so as Whumper’s hand closed on their shoulder, Whumpee turned and punched and kicked with everything they had. They had to get away. 

“Stop it! I said stop it! Dammit!” Whumper growled as Whumpee’s fist connected with their nose. Blood burst from Whumper’s face. 

Whumpee turned and kept running. They had to get away as fast as possible. 

“How’d you like a taste of your own medicine,” Whumper hissed as Whumpee reached the end of the corridor. 

The gunshot was impossibly loud in the small space. The bullet tore through Whumpee’s shoulder, perilously close to their heart. The force of it sent Whumpee flying. 

And they couldn’t catch themself. Couldn’t stop themself from falling. Couldn’t protect their face as it smashed against the floor. Couldn’t lift themself as they landed. Couldn’t help themself as they felt their blood pooling around them. 

Because they couldn’t get a good breath. 

Whumpee could hear Whumper stalking down the corridor behind them. The sound distorted and fuzzy as the blood loss began to be too much. “Don’t you fucking die on me now,” Whumper growled as they flipped Whumpee onto their back. 

Whumpee opened their mouth to reply, but the effort was too much. The world was spinning and growing dark. As Whumper dragged them by their ankles back to the torture chamber, Whumpee really hoped they didn’t die. That they didn’t bleed out on Whumper’s floor. 

But they also couldn’t hope that Whumper would save them. Because Whumper promised pain. 

They had promised Caretaker that they would stay alive. That they would fight with all of their might. But Whumpee was tired. And cold. And the darkness was settling in. Even Whumper’s growls of anger in their ear sounded so far away as Whumpee slipped away into the dark. 

[i-eat-worlds]

🔪👨‍⚕️🧽🪣🔫🧤 for the ask game

thanks for the ask, nonny!

set during Alex’s time undercover with Zorland

cw: medical whump, pain, gun shot injuries, medical abuse/neglect, nausea, needles, narcotic mention, graphic depiction of surgery w/o anesthesia, probable medical inaccuracies

Alex watched the lights of Zorland’s back room as she was unceremoniously dumped onto the cold metal exam table. Her leg was throbbing, icy-hot pain emanating from the bullet burrowed in her thigh. It must’ve been bad, since they’d taken her straight to medical instead of Zorland. The room cleared out, and she waited for the unforgiving touch of the healer’s hands as he strapped her down to the table.

It didn’t come. Instead, someone else she didn’t recognize stepped into the room.

Was this some new test? Zorland poking and prodding further to see if she would break? Only time would tell.

“Did they just fucking leave you here?” They asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. There was a tired sigh, and then the sound of a stretching latex.

A face appeared in her vision. “Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?”

She laid there in silence for a moment, words caught in her throat. Normally, the healer didn’t ask questions.

“Shot. Left thigh,” she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“Anywhere else hurt?” They patted their hands down her body, feeling around for other injuries.

She shook her head, resisting the urge to flinch at all the little touches. It would be over soon.

“Great. I’m going to take a look at your leg now, hun.” There was a firm hand on her ankle, and then her pants started to be cut away.

It took everything she had in her to not rip her leg away from the healer’s hands. Just because they weren’t the usual guy didn’t mean they wouldn’t report every whimper and wail back to Zorland.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” they noted in a tone that was almost upbeat. “I’m going to look for an exit wound now.”

Alex grit her teeth as the healer’s hands slid closer to her inner thigh, trying to ignore the deep feeling of wrong that rolled through her gut. They quickly inspected her leg, and she did her best to not inch away.

“I’m gonna start an IV, and then I’ll sort your leg.” The smell of alcohol wipes burned the air. “Any allergies, sweetheart?”

“No.” Not that she knew off, anyway. Still, it was odd that she was even asking. The normal guy rarely gave her anything, with the occasional exception of saline.

“I’ve no controlled, but I’ll do what I can for the pain.” They sunk the needle into the top of her hand.

Pain medication. What a fantasy that was. Zorland, apparently, drew the line at illegally acquiring narcotics.

“I’m also going to give you an antiemetic. My powers tend to make people feel nauseated, so it’ll help.” After the explanation, the healer quickly pushed the meds and moved on.

A blanket was spread across the upper half of Alex’s body. It wasn’t thick, nor was it very soft, but it was something. The back room was always freezing, so it was still appreciated. They let Alex down four ibuprofen, and they also set a bucket by her head, “just in case.”

How nauseous did her powers make people?

There was an awkward lull of activity while the healer prepared for the procedure ahead, setting out their tools, scrubbing their hands, and sliding on a new pair of sterile gloves.

Alex did her best to keep still while the healer worked. For some reason, the lack of restraints was jarring. It wasn’t that she liked them, it just felt wrong for them to not be there. Her wrists felt too light, and the lack of pressure across her hips made it feel like she was going to float away.

The ibuprofen started to kick in, though it barely made a dent. “This is going to hurt, there’s no way around it,” the healer said, almost apologetically. “It’s alright if you scream. If you need a break, just let me know, yeah?” As they spoke, they gently used a sponge to wash the dried blood away, then swiped betadine around the wound.

Alex wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that particular trick. At least the guy was nice enough to give her the rod, but she’d probably be able to pull through without biting her tongue off. Probably.

“I’m going to have to remove the bullet before I can heal you.” They spread a drape over her leg. “It’s going to suck but you’re going to be okay.”

In preparation, she wrapped her hands around the sides of the table, trying to steady her breathing. She’d had worse. She’d had so much worse.

The healer made the first incision, dragging the scalpel along the edges of the wound to widen it. Alex grunted, face twisting in pain as she dug her fingernails into the metal. Two fingers plunged into the wound, scissoring it open.

She just wanted it to stop.

Cold metal forceps dug into the wound, searching for the bullet. Her leg twitched on the table, a useless attempt to throw the healer’s hands o of her. “We’re nearly done,” they said, but Alex couldn’t really hear them.

They pushed further, until they finally stopped. “Got it.” They said, yanking the bullet out of the wound and dropping it on the floor. “All that’s left is to heal it.”

Darkness glimmered in the corners of her vision. It would be all too easy to just let go.

Fire ared in her leg as the healer started to work. “You’re doing great, sweetheart,” they said as Alex’s flesh slowly started to knit itself back together. Bile burned the back of her throat, and she reached for the bucket.

“I gotcha, just a little bit longer,” they said, voice soft. The sentiment was nice, but it was overshadowed by the absolute agony that was tearing through her. Her vision was lled with stars and spots, and she didn’t ght them as they clouded over and pulled her under.

The emptiness was home.

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @painful-pooch @rainbowsandwhumperflies

[blmpff]

Dead Friend Forever (2023) 1x4

[fandomtransmandom]

Full HBO Barry FYC Web Panel-It's under the 'Bonus Content' tab if you follow the link!

This anxiety-fueled giggle machine is the embodiment of joy❤️

RelataBill af

And Henry speaking for all of us

Thanks go to @martymcdie88mph for bringing this to my attention! You're the best!🥰

[uncannychanny]

I'm fascinated,

My wounds pull around the edges of my attention, gently at first.

I cannot let this overcome me, I must resist; temptation.

Suddenly, I am consumed with compulsion: I cannot help but to stare.

I too am of flesh and blood. This is happening. This is REAL.

This...

Fragile flesh falters:

Forced fangs; ferocious from fear,

Forget; forever fertile flower.

Forevermore friends; for fellowship festers,

Fragrant, following felled feverishly.