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tteokdoroki · 2 years

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— warning(s): description of injury and blood, mentions of death, being killed.

katsuki bakugou can’t stand being hurt.

he’s good at his job, of course. being a hero comes with a couple of bruises and scratches every once in a while— but he still hates being hurt, wounded even.

not because of the bright, blistering pain he feels when something pierces his golden skin or slices him right across his side. he doesn’t care much for the burning or singeing of his own flesh during fires or heat related incidents— doesn’t give a shit about the blood running from a deep wound on his head, coating his white canine teeth nor for the fractures in his arm or ribs.

bakugou hates being hurt, not because of the medical staff that fawn over him or the fans that call him hot for being able to walk away from a fight with a few battle scars and struggled breaths clinging to his lungs.

no, katsuki bakugou hates being hurt because of how much it hurts you.

bakugou’s caught you before, red and puffy eyed after his fights or when he returns from missions leaving you in radio silence. he can read the pain and heartache written into the flecks of your eyes though you mask your face with excitement to celebrate the fact that he’s home— when you’re really just celebrating the relief that he’s made it home in one piece.

he knows that you wait at home anxiously, calling every hospital you know off by heart to see if he’s a still alive after watching him fight for his life on your at home silver screen. that when you go grocery shopping, you always pick up three bottles of rubbing alcohol, a pack of bandages and cotton pads for when he comes home with bumps and bruises because you can’t stand to see him bleed. not because it’ll ruin your sheets, but because you’re scared you’ll lose him to the adrenaline and that it’ll cost him his life, one so precious that might bleed out against your innocent hands. he also knows that you change his dressings with tears in your eyes, when it’s doctors orders and he can’t move to do it himself.

he knows that his injuries will kill you before he kills himself on the field.

“i can’t lose you, but i won’t stop you from doing what you love,” you’ll tell him with a kiss to his thick white bandages over a healing chest wound. and that same night, you’ll turn your back on katsuki bakugou because you believe he won’t be able to hear you cry if you do. bakugou needs to be a hero like he needs air to breathe— but he needs to learn to stop living so recklessly or like every day is his last, because you can only take so much.

because he doesn’t know what you’ll do if he takes a knife to his bleeding heart and you can’t stop him from bleeding out.

#tteokdoroki #bakugou x reader #bakugou angst #bakugou drabbles #bakugou imagines #bakugou x you #katsuki bakugou angst #bnha x reader #bnha angst #somewhat inspired by the latest manga chap #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw: character death #🗑. aali’s chatroom

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callme-harris · 1 year

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Location: Oasis Night Club

Status: Open

@aurorabaystarter

Harris’ injury had been a bit worse than he had expected, but considering his last on he had; he had a tendency to undersell how bad things were now. The doctors had recommended he rest and be gentle with his left arm and shoulder as it healed. And yet there he was not long after standing in his usual spot in front of Oasis. His arm in a sling as he leaned against the wall. He still wanted to go to work cause he liked being out of the house, but he was still gonna take it easy. “ Don’t get any funny idea’s. There’s bouncers with two working arms that can handle any bullshit in there. I’m just manning the door tonight “

#aurorabay.starter #tw:injury #mentioned

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chimerical-waters · 2 years

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((WARNING! DARK CONTENT WILL BE BELOW THE CUT. BLOOD AND LOSS OF LIMB. BLOG AND EVENT INFO HERE))

Thunder and rain echo across the plains, carrying the stench of blood and saltwater...

((FT. @mc-survivalist-steven and art from @rnotsleeping ))

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whataboutmyfries · 2 years

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Kiss me Bite me

Hello folks! prompt number 6 from this prompt list! i'm ngl, I wanted this one to be sweet and soft, but then my characters stared doing angsty shit. All tws are in the tags so please be careful, and watch out for yourself! and Enjoy!

Unbetaed, we die like men.

6. kisses that start out gentle but grows more passionate

Where was he? Where was he?

Remus paced the length of the candlelit shelter restlessly, checking and double checking the reinforced perimeter of their little camp. Leo, Logan and Finn had long since gone to bed, Remus and Dumo having volunteered to take the first watch.

Remus stroked the barrel of his shotgun, his fingers toying with the little charm that Sirius had given him way back when this hellish thing had first started.

He’d never in a million years wagered he’d be one of the few survivors of something as destructive as a killer virus driving people to become…..those things.

He still remembered the time he and Sirius had watched The Train to Busan, the two of them bickering over the best strategy to survive an apocalypse. Remus snorted at the memory, though his heart clenched, remembering days long since gone and easier times.

And now here they were. Remus could’ve scoffed at the irony if he wasn't so damn worried.

He flashed his light twice, catching Dumo’s attention.

Any sign of him? He signed across the distance, temporarily tucking his gun under an arm.

Not yet. Sorry. Dumo signed.

Remus sighed, giving Dumo a small smile and a wave in thanks. ASL and Morse had quickly become a necessity when they’d started figuring out how the zombies worked, using mostly sight to find their victims, but switching easily to sound during the nighttime.

Remus had figured that one out the hard way.

He still remembered the time Sirius and he had gone scouting for food; Sirius standing watch while Remus snuck into the store,just having evaded a Pack. It had never even occurred to them that the zombies might have the facilities to recognise their prey through sound when they’d lost a light source, much like the dusty, cramped shop. Luckily enough, Remus had escaped with just a scar. He still shuddered to think of how close the thing had come to sinking its teeth into the flesh of his arms before Sirius had blown its head clean off.

Goddammit Sirius, where are you?

The steady crunch of gravel had Remus whipping his head around to find the source of the noise, his heart fluttering with hope even as he shouldered his gun.

Come back to me, sweetheart. Come back to me.

Remus fought back tears as Sirius’s muddy bicycle came closer through the darkness, the man in question shooting a grin at his boyfriend as he pedalled his way to camp. Remus gave himself all of ten seconds to feel the crushing relief, the tears slipping free silently before he brushed them away.

It never got easier, the waiting.

Remus sniffed sharply, once, twice, before he flashed his light in Dumo’s direction.

Dumo gave him a thumbs up, jogging off to set up their surveillance and traps before they settled down for the night. Remus silently thanked Dumo, making a mental note to surprise him with a free night for Celeste and him. Remus didn’t mind pulling extra shifts to help ‌a friend.

“Hey there moonpie.”

Remus bit back a sob, putting his gun down before turning to face his husband.

Immediately, the breath was punched out of his lungs as he saw Sirius; bloodied and limping, holding a hand to his abdomen.

No.

Remus’s brain went haywire, taking stock of whatever injuries he could see. Sirius had a couple of bruises on his face, though those were normal and not exactly cause of concern. The right side of his shirt was soaked through and stuck to his body, though it was impossible to tell how big the stain of blood was through the black material. He was dragging his left leg as he walked, though it would be impossible to tell how bad his injuries were with the thick pants and combat boots.

“Fuck.”

Sirius laughed, finally reaching Remus, leaning forward to rest his head against Remus’s shoulder.

“Didn’t know that I’d make it back t’night moons.”

He was slurring his words. Shit.

Remus shoved away the panic, calming his breathing and steadying his hands as he slipped into the all-too-familiar state of mind; Clinical, precise, sharp.

“Pads? Think you can walk? We need to get you patched up.”

“Hmmmm?”

Sirius was too far gone to be coherent. Remus swallowed, stubbornly pushing his worry away as he scooped his husband into his arms, walking him to the medic tent, taking care to jostle him as little as possible.

Please. Please let him be okay.

Sirius came back to consciousness as Remus was cutting off his shirt, the wind cool on his bare chest. A gust of wind told him Remus had already divested him of his pants and boots, leaving him in his underwear.

Remus snipped at the fabric, sucking in a breath as he beheld Sirius’s bare torso.

It looked worse than it was. It looked worse than it actually was.

Remus sent up a prayer to whatever powers may be as he quickly cleaned up the gash, using butterfly stitches to close the worst of it before covering up the wound, all as Sirius watched.

“Hey moons”

“Pads, I am never letting you leave camp by yourself again.”

Sirius frowned. Then sighed. “Yeah. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

Remus finally let the magnitude of his panic hit him, the adrenaline coursing through his veins at top speed, making his hands shaky and his breathing erratic.

“We have rules. Those rules exist for a fucking reason Sirius, this isn’t a goddam joke!”

Sirius flinched away from Remus’s anger, bringing his hands up in surrender.

“Moony I—”

Remus shoved a shaking finger in his face. “Don’t you fucking dare ‘moony’ me right now. Don't even try it.”

Sirius winced at the barely restrained anger in Remus’s tone as he watched him shove his hands roughly through his hair.

“I’m sorry I—”

“Sorry? You’re Sorry?! Do you have any idea what we were going through? Dumo was beside himself. Logan barely ate, and let's not even talk about James.”

Remus clenched his jaw, his eyes burning golden in the light.

“You traipsed out of here like you were going on a fucking holiday. Like those things out there wouldn’t kill you the second they caught wind of you. Oh wait, thank the fucking lord you have your bloody bicycle to get away from them! Good job Pads! Foolproof plan you got there! No chance of you ending up dead!”

Sirius flinched.

“And then you have the audacity to come back to camp bleeding and ‘hey moony’ me like nothing happened. Do you even realise what I must’ve been thinking? Do you have even the faintest clue what you looked like? I almost fucking lost you Sirius! So no, don’t tell me you’re fucking sorry.”

Sirius swallowed around the lump in his throat, pushing himself into sitting, grimacing at the pain that shot down his leg and torso.

“C’mere.”

Remus sucked in an unsteady breath, stepping closer to Sirius’s bed. Sirius leaned forward, tugging his husband closer, wrapping him up in a tight hug.

Remus’s breath caught, and he choked on a sob, his arms coming up to clutch at Sirius for dear life, his fingers digging into Sirius’s bare back.

“Don’t you ever do that again” Remus choked out between sobs, pulling Sirius impossibly closer to him, needing to feel every inch of his bloodied and battered husband.

Sirius winced a little at the feeling of Remus’s arms against the scratches on his back, but he couldn’t help but pull him closer, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

Remus melted into the embrace, heaving sobs wracking his frame as he cried, Sirius whispering sweet nothings into his hair, his neck, his ear.

“I love you, mon loup, I’ve got you.”

Sirius held him until his tears had softened to a trickle, until his cries had reduced to an occasional sniffle against Sirus’s shoulder, until Remus had gathered the pieces of his sanity into some semblance of rationality. He pulled back, amber eyes finding quicksilver.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t”

“Promise?”

Sirius smiled, tucking a wayward curl behind Remus’s ear. “I promise.”

Remus closed his eyes for a second, letting the words wash over him, basking in the presence of his husband; here, safe, alive. He leaned into the warmth of Sirius’s hand at his neck, leaning to rest their foreheads together.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. So very much.”

“C’mere”

Sirius leaned forward to close the distance between their lips, feeling the gentle brush of Remus’s mouth send fireworks down his spine, warmth suffusing every part of his body. He sighed into the kiss, achingly tender and honey-sweet, as he slipped his hands under Remus’s sweater.

Remus moaned at the feel of icy fingers against his spine, and the sound snapped something in Sirius, who took the opportunity to deepen the kiss; slipping his tongue into Remus’s mouth, swallowing his gasp of surprise as he ran his hands up Remus’s body.

Remus responded with equal enthusiasm, tugging gently at Sirius's hair as he climbed into his lap, carefully straddling those strong thighs. They were gasping into each other's mouths, hands fervently exploring the expanse of warm skin, their lips meeting in a fiery kiss, desperation thrumming through every movement. Remus was the first to pull away, leaning back on his heels, ever careful to keep his weight off of Sirius’s injuries.

Sirius groaned at the loss of contact, even as Remus huffed a laugh, a thumb still stroking Sirius’s cheekbone as he pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I know love, I know. But we’ve got to get you cleaned up and out of those filthy clothes.”

Sirius let out a gasp of mock horror, “Remus John Lupin, are you implying that I smell?”

Remus rolled his eyes, the effect of the motion completely ruined by the fond smile tugging at his lips. “Like a wet dog.”

Sirius pouted, and Remus giggled, leaning forward to drop a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Come on, shower, hot chocolate and bed?”

Sirius frowned, considering the offer. “Only if you join me, only with marshmallows, and only if you let me borrow your hoodie.”

Remus laughed, “Deal. But the water’s probably going to hurt like a bitch and you can’t be pissy when I’m cleaning up the rest of your wounds after."

Sirius winced, then grinned. “Deal. Now what was that about a shower, loverboy?”

If you can spot the little very very baby ACOMAF reference in here I'm looking slyly at you across our dashboards :) also, the rest of the works for this prompt list can be found here!

#whataboutmywriting #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw: mentions of guns #tw: hypothetical mention of death #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #marauders era fanfiction #marauders #au #oknutzy #but not so much just a lil mention #heheh :)#angst

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ohghxst · 9 months

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— dear all nations, OSKAR ASULF has crossed the city borders to edinburgh to the sound of DAYLIGHT by DAVID KUSHNER. the CLAN MEMBER of HALVEN MADSEN CLAN is known to be AGAINST making peace. HE reminds me of BLOOD STAINED TEETH, AND SCARS OF BATTLE STITCHED ACROSS SKIN; THE SMELL OF COAL AND IRON however did you know that DURING ONE OF THE RAIDS, OSKAR SPARED/SAVED A GIRL BY HIDING HER UNDER DEBRIS. HE IS ALSO FOR MAKING PEACE BUT FEARS HE WILL LOSE HIS PURPOSE IN LIFE ?

tw: death, illness mentioned, injury

[ statistics ] ⸻

full name : oskar asulf

nicknames : os

age : 29

gender + pronouns : male he/him

orientation : heterosexual

[ appearance ] ⸻

height : 6'0

hair colour : brown

eye colour : deep blue

dominant hand : left

distinguishing scars : small scar underneath his left eye, many deep scars that run along his left leg from when they had to cut the arrows from his leg.

brown usually in some sort of braid. the only time it's not is when he is getting ready for bed. since getting injured now has a slight limp to his walk, he refuses to a cane. wears a scorn look on his face for the majority of time. tattoos decorate his body, one on each shoulder.

[ background + family ] ⸻

birthdate: january 9th

rank : strategist, viking

mother : astrid asulf (deceaed)

father : ubbe asulf (deceased)

sibling(s) : n/a

[ introduction ] ⸻

amidst a frigid blizzard, you made your grand entrance into this world, unleashing chorus of cries that echoed through the night. your arrival was not without its challenges, for it came at a great cost - the life of you dear mother. your father, once a loving man, became distant and cold. he was present only at meal times, until you grew tall and strong enough to wield a weapon.

warriors ran in your blood, a legacy passed down from your father's father's father. he was legend, or so the stories went. and your father was determined to carry on that legacy through you. he trained you relentlessly, never once praising you unless you were perfect. but perfection was an impossible standard in his eyes.

when your father fell ill and passed away on your nineteenth birthday, you were left to fend for yourself. you joined the halven madsen clan in their raids on england, , not for the sake of land ownership, but for the thrill of battle. fighting was all you knew, thanks to your father, and thanks to him, you were a force to be reckoned with.

but you were not just a fearsome warrior on the field. you were a clever one too. when a few sharp arrows found their way into your leg, your career as a soldier shifted, you became a strategist, or perhaps you were already one, planning not just the next five moves but the next twenty. though you now walk with a limp, and cannot participate in battles as much, you are far from an easy target.

you were raised to be nothing more than a warrior and a warrior you shall die

[ hooks ] ⸻

it's been just bit over 7 months since his injury. while normally a grumpy person, his leg sometimes throbs in excruciating pain making him in an even worst mood.

has always been one to outsmart his opponent. yes, brute force works just as well, but seeing the look of disbelief of being outdid on enemies brings a smile to his face.

is aware of the amount of hate he has gained over the years, and does not care.

is only soft toward animals and very, and i mean very, few people. would rather be alone.

being raised for one purpose, oskar doesn't know what his plans are for the future should there be peace. secretly, he wishes for peace, but what does someone who smells of war do in times of peace?

#nomad.intro #tw: death #tw: illness #tw:injury #Ⅰ. ⸻ › 𝑜𝓈𝓀𝒶𝓇 ‹

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ducitestella · 9 months

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● – || @tragidies continued from HERE.

● – || He would apologize a thousand times over for separating from Karen . He [ [ p r o m i s e d ] ] he wouldn't , and swore to Karen that no matter what happened that they wouldn't be far apart . It was a promise he broke , but it wasn't his fault . The battle separated them , took them far from one another's sight . The entire time Fubuki fought and [ [ d e f e n d e d ] ] himself , ignoring his own injuries to focus on keeping those around him safe .

When it all subsided did he [ [ f i n a l l y ] ] make his way back to Karen . Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the blood on his clothes . A few cuts here and there , one on his cheek , but nothing too deadly . . . that he noticed .

" I didn't mean to get separated from you . . . I promise . I - . . ."

As he lifted his arm to rest on top of Karen's he winced , curling a cold , gloved hand into Karen's uniform . His other hand remained on his side . Something was bleeding . He'd be fine . He [ [ h a d ] ] to be fine . He didn't want Karen to worry that something wasn't fine . He was worried enough that they got separated .

" I- I'm sorry . . . it will not happen again . "

Fubuki looked down at himself at his side then lifted his deep , crimson-brown eyes to Karen . Even from beneath his light grey bangs , he couldn't lie . His face would show it before he uttered the words . Instead of saying anything , he lifted his bloody , gloved hand into Karen's line of vision as he leaned his forehead onto Karen's shoulder .

It was just a little cut . . . Or , that's what he was telling himself .

Please don't panic . . .

#tw:blood #tw:injury #● c || karen #● just keep moving || continued asks #● ooc || heheh love you <3 #● v : maybe in this timeline we will have a happy ending || karen & fubuki #● m || fubuki #● blink and it's over || conversations

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imagine-all-the-elves · 1 year

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Imagine Tauriel cuddling you in her arms after you've been gravely injured.

Author: @thatkgrl

#Tauriel #tauriel imagine #imagines #elves #elf imagines #mirkwood elves #tw: injury #tw:injury

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schokokokatze · 1 year

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Tribe of Nêsos 3: Eleía

Their faithful companion had died defending her masters. Not wanting to replace her, but thankful for her protection, Éar and Orthós took in Hedeía and her little sister Hélia.

Not that a dog could have helped her. Éar remembered barely how it had happened. A feeling of weightlessness as she fell from the tree, an outstretched hand, and then ... a bone. She remembered the bone, every time she looked at her arm now. It had been for the best, she was told. Remembering her bone, she couldn’t disagree. Not really.

Still, the dogs were a comfort, if nothing else. She might no longer be able to hunt, sowing, weaving and cooking seemed to take twice or thrice as long as it had, but it could have been worse. As if through a miracle, she was on the mend.

Little Pállas was looked after mostly by her husband Orthós, who was thankful in no small degree for his wife’s survival - however hard it had been won. She thought he probably still thought about her bone, too. Or her screams.

It was good, given the circumstances, that their oldest son Húdros grew quite self-sufficient enough to become an invaluable help to his parents. He was too young to hunt still, but helped his mother forage.

#nesostribe #sims3 #eleia3 #tw:injury

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vindictiae · 2 years

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It's very rare that Deadlock gets into fights, and even rarer that he loses them.

This, unfortunately, is one of those times.

Admittedly, the concept of losing is looser still when you're still alive and your adversary is not. He might have gotten the ever-loving slag beaten out of him, but he's still functioning. It's why he drags himself back to the Resolve and limps towards the meager medical area.

Dented and crumpled plating his removed, getting the excess pressure off of his aching protoform. Bits of dried energon flake down, landing on the sterile floor beneath like organic petals. He winces as a piece of metal is dug out of the sentio at his shoulderstrut, wiggling it until unhooks from whatever strut it had caught against.

A fresh gout of energon gurgles out, half congealed and clumped— but bleeding out freely now to make sure there isn't any infection trying to start up from debris. He lets it drain for a few moments longer, before pushing up and heading to the emergency shower. The sonic waves are going to hurt like an absolute glitch, but if he doesn't start the process now— then the chances of infection and subsequent weakening rise the longer he waits.

He leans his helm against the wall, gritting his dentae as the waves batter his frame, sluicing off grime and grit with each subsequent pulse. He wishes Ratchet, or even Optimus was here- but that's the price he pays to keep them safe.

The distance is the only real guarantee he can offer.

#tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:gore mention #tw:hurt #blood mention #gore mention #dash commentary #starter

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ask-victor-grantzcampbell · 2 years

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∆ COMFORT ∆ - sender places their hand atop the receiver’s to comfort them

How long had he been crawling? It felt like hours since Percy had struck him down some time ago and went off to his next target. The pain was immense and it probably would have been bearable if he hadn't started slowly freaking out and started moving in his injured state.

Fingers dug into the soft earth of Lakeside as he used the slowly fleeting adrenaline in an aimless trek to god knows where. Panic had filled him as he was crawling. The cold feeling slowly rushing over him as it felt so similar to those moments.

To those old days.

To times he did not want to remember.

Truly, bleeding out was much more frightening than being sent back via rocket chair.

His vision blurred in the edges, fading heavily to black as the warmth of his tears fell down his coldening cheeks. His panic did not stop even as he felt the sudden warmth on his outstretched hand. All he could hear was the static of a voice as the person held his hand and shoulder - assisting him up more than likely. He knew, he could just tell that the person saved him by mere moments. He couldn't stop the trembling from under those warm, kind hands. Tears fell harder as he weakly apologised in his unused voice. He still couldn't focus himself out of his panic to see exactly was his savior this game.

#asktheforensicdoctor idv #louise harris #idv oc survivor #idv oc ask blog #idv victor #idv postman #victor grantz campbell #tw:injury #tw:blood #incoming letter ⌦ rp #//im so sorry this is kinda long #//i was trying so hard to figure out what i wanted to do and this came out TTXTT #//SORRY

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frostyscephalohub · 1 year

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when you never quite get used to legs!! This kids probably really accident prone.

#tw:blood #tw:injury #I remembered I had to add tags AFTER I already left for lunch LOL... sorry

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spymeister · 1 year

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The worst, he figures, isn't so much the sight- it's the lingering smell that still remains.

Behind him, the careful steps of the invader pauses just out of reach- shadows on the wall curling up as the other's kibble shifts organically. His optics are narrowed behind his visor, claws flexing as the the heated garrote wire hisses close to his throat cabling. To attack now would mean being losing his helm. Before him, the ruined and charred remains of his original clade lie in piles, the scent of their melted lines and metal putrid in his olfactory centers.

"Weird game, if this is where ya wanted me-" he drawls, idly and discreetly reaching for the hidden vibroblade hilts attached to his armor. "Coulda jus' asked me out on a date, been easier."

There's a soft chuckle behind him as the garrote moves closer, the heat warming the soft protometal of his throat cables.

"Why would I do that," the tone soft, accent high-caste and old.

Claws nearly the same color as his own tip his chin up a little- showing that Jazz's CNA lineage isn't the only one with a multiple set of limbs. Behind them both, a long shadow flexes- the pointed tip jerking slightly.

"Cause ya want me 'ere?"

Two sets of indigo optics lid at that, their focusing rings multiple and smaller than his own- though the optics themselves are just as large. The effect is eerie, allowing the mechanism to focus on more than one subject at any given time. Despite the near presence of death, only a faint tensor cable in his neck twitches- the only outward sign of reaction.

"Mm. A good supposition, but no-"that tone laughs, almost bordering on the purring as that helm leans in. "I'm not looking for you, Majora's heir."

The shorter mechanism takes the moment's distraction as the other talks to pull both knives out of their hidden sheaves- twisting around to stab them both in the other's vents. It works, the garrote wire hissing as it falls from suddenly nerveless hands.

However, he is not fast enough for the second strike.

A curved shape slices out of the darkness from above- and he jerks with the sudden point of insurmountable agony as something begins to bleed from underneath his right shoulder-strut. The sheer abruptness of it makes him gasp for air in struggling gents, optics watering behind the curved visor.

It twists out of his shoulder, only to strike again- this time at the base of his spinal strut.

His relays are scrambled, and even his protection protocols aren't coming online. Battle instincts he's spent eons hardening and refining into a weapon themselves are suddenly inert as foreign code slams through his firewalls and subroutines like ironants on a dead frame.

He collapses to the ground like a broken marionette, pushing up with shaking arms to stare upwards at his attacker with a mix of hatred and confusion. Before him, in the dimness of the clade antechamber- the tall frame pulls the blades out of his vents- purple energon splattering the ground with a hiss.

His processor finally connects the pieces, optics widening further behind the visorband. He has felt fear very few times in his long functioning.

And tonight would be another.

The source of his agony arches above the mech's helm- a curved sickle shape attached to what he now realizes is a venom depositor. His vents catch, heaving as they try to cool his agonized frame. The corruptive subroutines in the venom continues to race through his system, even as his firewalls try their hardest to retaliate.

Purple optics are now on level with his as the mech kneels, a thumb-claw pushing up the visor to meet him directly.

"Now, child of Liege-" he murmurs, brushing another claw over the Polyhexian's bottom lip. -"You know what to do." That claw pushes inwards, hovering over one sharp eyetooth dentae.

"Don't you."

#tw: blood mention #tw:injury #tw:blood #tw:damage #tw:violence #plot:??

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layla-kassin · 1 year

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@lucasxholt ||Closed Starter: Hedon

Something seemed to be amiss at the end of street. She heard the sounds of fighting, no human could produce that sound. She would usually not get involved, but it was Hedon, demon territory and Layla didn´t enjoy others being sloppy in her home. Fucking idiots. The demon elder stepped in with the intention of breaking up the fight after casting an illusion to make it look as if two wild animals were fighting in case humans got curious. In hindsight, she should have just killed them instead of playing the responsible elder and trying to apprehend them.

" Lucas!" She called appearing inside his house in a blur of shadows. " Don´t freak out when you see me." She warned due to the crimson that covered the front of her shirt, the deep wound on her stomach was already healing and would be healed completely in a matter of minutes. Pain was something that Layla learned to ignore, but still it hurt. " We need to catch a vampire before he attacks someone else and I could use your help."

#Lucas Holt #closed starter #starter #tw: blood #tw:injury #tw just in case

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infinitxes · 2 years

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@regensia said:

8 & 16 smooch smooch!! i'm not even gonna say who u know who.

A FUCKED UP KISSING MEME 8. a kiss on an injury my muse gave to yours. 16. a kiss to gain control.

“Satoru. Satoru.”

It had been a long time since he’d heard his own name. In this instance, the syllables were sung with mocking reverence, rhythmic and chiding. The entirety of him was curled, tensed in a fetal position, a wave of cold and involuntary fear sliding midway to blanket any part of him that might have laid claim to being rational.

He tilted his face away wordlessly. He’d gradually lost the sight out of one of his eyes in the duration superseding their last altercation. The iris was milky, clouded and swirling with pus and blood from where it had been gouged deeply; the area stinging and hot even with his eyelids swollen and practically glued shut. That side of his face was left slick and sticky with tears and blood, and his head throbbed in solemn solidarity. Sleep. He just wanted- needed to sleep some more. Unconsciousness (so cruelly denied) had proven time and time again to be the only avenue by which he could escape the pain.

He shuddered at the feeling of Sukuna’s fingers spanning his cheek, squeezing at the flesh and cupping the side of his skull to turn his face up from where he’d managed to conceal it in the junction of his shoulder. His yearning for sunlight had considerably diminished, the dark proving more comfortable to his abused sight. Still he shivered, missing its warmth.

Sukuna’s thumb ran over the shut surface of the ruined globe, pausing momentarily to push lightly at the pinched eyelid. He guessed at his intent and uttered a feeble plea.

“Please-”

The ensuing pain was intense. Satoru uttered a sound midway between a choked sob and a guttural scream. He trembled violently, what remained of his vision going white with the searing agony as Sukuna nudged at the inflamed skin with all the care of a clumsy child pulling at the wings of a captured butterfly. A sudden flood of warmth trickled down his face as the sealed lids finally receded with the insistent manipulation, yet he found that he could still see nothing at all.

“What was that?” Sukuna peered into the blind pupil, sounding remarkably self-satisfied as he reached to prod at it. Satoru writhed, for though he was unable to see the point digging crudely into the wound, he was more than privy to the agony of it.

“Please-” he managed- sobbed, unable to discern the origin or matter of the thick, hot liquid running tear-like in fervent tracks down his cheek. He couldn’t see and that alone was more than enough to incite his panic.

“It- ha- fuck, it hurts!”

The decision to perpetuate his torment ceased abruptly. The world spun and the stabbing pain took its time to fade. He made a futile effort to pull away, only for Sukuna to prop him up with a palm curled around the back of his neck in a movement both jolting and unwelcome. Though he balanced on the verge of unconsciousness, he was still lucid enough to recognise the rim of something held against his lips. The scent that reached him then was not the sweet and fiery cadence of alcohol, but something bitter and medicinal instead. The steam of it wafted over his nose and mouth as he recoiled, hissing and backing into Sukuna’s tightening grip.

“W-What?”

“For the pain.” Sukuna stated plainly, then laughed at his look of dumbfounded astonishment. He showed his teeth, baring a grin to the effect of brandishing a knife. “Don’t look so surprised! I can be generous so long as you’re agreeable in return.”

A hand ran through his hair and tipped his head back, pouring his offering between the gap he forced between his teeth before he could spit a curse. “Get off me.” Satoru choked, reeling, spluttering weakly at the foul taste and coughing.

“So very stubborn.” A claw dug into the skin beneath his eye until he froze. “It really was a shame to ruin one of your few redeeming qualities.”

Sukuna ran the pad of his thumb across the set of lashes still clean of blood and Satoru immediately flinched away as if he’d been burned, only to be met with words sharp with scorn and rankling with bemused disgust. His claws dug into the side of his face, blood beading beneath the points. “No need to be so dramatic. You have six don’t you? Surely you can spare two.”

“Get off.” He spat again, but found himself too weak to put up any sort of meaningful resistance. His voice was faint. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

He released him then, letting him thump painfully back into the thin mattress and leaning down over him to push the folds of his kimono apart. His sternum too had gone crooked beneath the weight of his heel, and the ensuing purple and green discolouration was stark and brutishly ugly against his pale skin.

His lips grazed along the trail of bruising as if admiring a work of art. Satoru was motionless, blanched with pain and far too exhausted to do so much as squirm. The rise and fall of his chest was weak and reluctant, but his breath caught involuntarily as Sukuna drifted upwards, kissing the corner of his aching eye. He was fully aware of his implication. It might have been a gentle gesture, but the intent behind it held the crushing gravity of a solar body descending.

“So tell me. What was the purpose of your little outburst? Six eyes or none, Satoru. Surely, you know better than to be belligerent by now.”

Sukuna was right. They’d spent enough time together now for him to have become acutely familiar with what was expected of him. But knowing hadn’t deterred him from refusing a command to kill. There was no longer any mercy nor sanctity still preserved within him, and he knew his reluctance to obey was an act which could only be self-soothing in nature. In the end, what had finally managed to apprehend him was the sound of his own name falling from another’s lips in desperation, those syllables spoken like a prayer, a last-ditch attempt to call upon a title now only known as a legend, long-dead and reclaimed in Sukuna’s name.

Needless to say, Sukuna had not been pleased.

He gathered him in the wide berth of his arms, his impressive stature easily dwarfing his frame, made slight by harsh treatment and lack of appetite.

“Were you surprised?” He offered now, stroking the band of the collar suggestively. “Humans are tenacious. They held onto the meager hope of your return even through the slaughter.”

“I-“ He swallowed, prepared to fire vitriol- only to be interrupted as his lip was caught between Sukuna’s teeth. His head lolled beneath the ravenous, controlling intensity of the second kiss, and his good eye registered Sukuna’s prompting sneer as he pulled away. Surely, ceding control wouldn’t be so bad. Sukuna’s presence mandated that he compromise on his boundaries, be subjected to an endless cycle of being pushed back and forced to cross his own lines repeatedly. This was nothing new. But there was comfort in the twisted intimacy, and Satoru felt his resentment wane in the face of his exhaustion.

“I didn’t think they’d- It’s just… it caught me off guard, okay?” This weak justification, stuttered out in half a whine. He formed the words with noncompliant lips, careful and unwilling to risk further reprimand. “It’s been a long time.” He finished lamely, dazedly wishing that he might have somehow produced something more insightful.

Certainly, he hadn’t thought that anyone might know his name; it had never occurred to him that his identity might be so pertinent as to transcend centuries. It was a bitter irony to say the least.

“Surprised then.” Sukuna supplied, dismissive though he didn’t sound entirely unkind. “How pitiful- how amusing that they still look to you in their desperation.”

To live burdened with the dependence of so many others was nothing new. He’d been bereft of the bone-crushing exhaustion once associated with his past life since his unsealing, but that was seeping back into him with this revelation.

“I’m just… I’m sick of it. I can’t- I’m so tired.” Satoru whispered finally, gone soft, pliant and hollow with hapless resignation. Really, what more could he say? He was tired of this cycle of faux affection and torture; tired of being relied upon; tired of being Satoru Gojo. He’d once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders only to stumble and have it crack and shatter at his feet. So was it any wonder that he didn’t want to be awake? In the end, all he wanted was to be rid of the pain, the shame and the humiliation for just a little while longer; and was that really so much to ask?

But Sukuna was already patting his cheek consolingly, and though he conveyed a patronizing air, he was seemingly satisfied with his lack of rebuttal. “Mm. I’m sure you’ll be more amenable to persuasion the next time, won’t you? Don’t take my mercy for granted, you won’t get a second chance.” His tone darkened for emphasis. “Pull that kind of stint again and I won’t hesitate to take both your eyes.”

Satoru fell silent and said nothing more, unwilling to acknowledge the world around him and withdrawing from it in favor of seeking some form of numbness within. His gaze was dull and listless, his head heavy and his mind sluggish with the pungent acerbity of the drug still lingering on his tongue. The pain was still poignant, but gone was the looming threat of violence, apprehension dispersed in favour of drowsiness.

“Hush, pet. Sleep.” Sukuna murmured knowingly, surely aware from experience that there was very little that could be done once he’d shut himself down in such a manner. “And we’ll see about fixing this mess of yours and making some proper use of you when you wake up.”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered]#tw: eye horror #tw:injury #tw:gore #tw:eye gore

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