#a finger is bleeding

[cat-alvarez]

Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban (2004), dir. Alfonso Cuaron - 20 Years Anniversary, June 2004

"Mischief Managed!"

[sgtpeppers]

Get Back (2021): Day Twelve - Tuesday 21st January, 1969 “And now, your host for the evening...The Rolling Stones.”

[starry-bi-sky]

welcome back to another game of 'starry gets Emotions about her aus that SHE Made as if she were a viewer' aka im analyzing my own characters again. today im having spontaneous feelings over Danny's facial scar in Things in Threes and his perspective of it vs everyone else

danny got his facial scar when he was five, protecting damian's cribside from a spontaneous attack by a pair of intruders. It narrowly missed blinding him and cuts down diagonally across his face. At five, it was jarring and incredibly noticeable, stretching from his hairline to his jaw. At 15 its still painfully noticeable, but scars do not grow with age, they shrink as your body grows around it. Now it only goes from the middle of his brow to below the center of his eye.

Danny's facial scar is a point of pride for him. Despite horribly traumatizing him he refused treatment to get rid of it because it was a physical reminder that it was him who got hurt and not Damian, that he was able to protect his family. Not once does he ever feel shame or disgust towards his scar, because to feel that is to feel ashamed of protecting Damian, and he is not.

To him, his scar is a trophy. A physical reminder of his capabilities and a reminder to keep honing his skills so that he can never be hurt like that again, nor allow anyone to get close enough to him or Damian to be able to hurt him like that again.

To everyone else it is a point of tragedy. To Sam and Tucker, it is just one more physical reminder of their best friend's sad, terrible background that he refuses to share with them. All they know is that it came from him protecting his brother when he was five, something that deeply horrifies them.

To Bruce and the rest of the family, it is a reminder of what Danyal has gone through. The leeching horrors of the league that resulted in a five year old boy killing two grown men and being permanently scarred as a result, and seeing that scar as something to be proud of.

There is so much to think about about Danyal's scar.

[wizardjellyfish]

having a thoughtful conversation

[nikoisme]

Whenever i hear the "Ulysses just bleeds at the fucker" in udad, i keep imagining them positioned in a way so that the blood drips on Heracles' feet, and they look up at him completely careless and they just really don't give a shit anymore

[sulfies]

My drawing HC for bodytypes;

Ezio: Thickest, got a bit of a belly (for my own gains), most bodyhair out of them all, strong back muscles

Altaïr: more cut than both (still no abs), strong legs, 2nd hairiest, most tan

Desmond: skinniest (still no abs, see a pattern?) less defined muscles (due to junkfood n animus bedrest) ofc the charred arm

[myauditionfordrphil]

Saw this online and holy shit I cannot even comprehend how one cay say stuff like this. According to this person eating beef is worse than rape or as he says "surprise sex". It's horrifying how they think that a person who they assumed ate beef because of their appearance or religion deserved to be mob lynched but someone who brutally raped and killed a girl deserves less punishment. There is no comparison between the two situations... it's crazy how anonymity gives people the idea that they can get away with saying or doing anything.

And I'm not saying that you should go ahead and kill animals for no reason, everybody have their own eating preferences and you can't shame one for theirs. But if you really think that eating beef is a bigger sin that rape then you're a danger to society.

[pewpop]

im at the beach and i can't roll a cigarette because my hands are all smooth and im pissed

edit: misspelled captain im so tired of it

[sylenth-l]

Oh look it's dancing birds

[painsandconfusion]

Harmless

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Forty-three

(tw: broken bones, hand whump/gore, foot whump/gore, body horror, strangulation, unconsciousness, genuinely like a lethal amount of bone damage, hammer, buzzy bright lights that make the autism go weh)

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Ethan’s boots clodded against the stairs as he made his way back down to the workshop. As much as he hated to agree with Nate, there was a spark of fear curling through him now. He’d been that man’s punching bag for far too long. He thought those days were over, but now here he was with a broken nose, black eye, and bruised around the throat from those same hands he thought were long rendered harmless.

To put both his and Nate’s worries to rest, he needed to put an abrupt end to that fear and worry.

Ethan unlocked the workshop door, slapping on the industrial, buzzing lights.

Crawford groaned, curling in on himself like a drunkard who passed out in an alley rather than making his way home - business suit ripped and muddy as he hides from the first rays of morning light.

Ethan moved closer to the broken man who was chained to the ground in the middle of the room. Chained by the neck, too. Nate wasn’t feeling merciful, evidently. Just a short chain ‘round his throat that was padlocked to the floor.

Efficient, Ethan supposed. Full body mobility and absolutely nowhere to go.

“M’ sssorry-” the broken man choked out. Pleading for mercy long after the crime he didn’t regret. One he’d gladly do again if he weren’t so afraid of the consequences.

“No you’re not,” Ethan responded coolly. Distracted. Focused on the wall of tools. “Don’t need to pretend you are.”

“B-ut y-”

“It won’t change anything. Just save it.” He wasn’t feeling the sadism. Not today. Not right now. Right now, this was a chore. Incapacitating the bastard so he wouldn’t ever be able to lay a finger on Ethan again.

Ethan selected a simple club hammer. Iron, he assumed. Polished to a shine on the square ends but left router and dark throughout the middle. Attached by a sturdy handle that could shunt the great weight of the tiny thing without buckling or splintering.

He wandered closer, earning a squirm from the man on the ground.

“..pl-leas-”

“Put your hand out on the ground,” Ethan ordered simply, crouching nearby.

A whine muffled out of Crawford’s curled form. His hands tucked in even closer - up against his chest.

Ethan’s teeth grit. “Either you listen, or I break whatever I have to to get to your hands.”

A silence with another whimper followed. The man still didn’t move.

“Alright,” he sighed, shifting forward onto one knee. Without warning, he swing the bludgeon down, cracking through the man’s shoulders. 

Ethan never could get used to the screams in this room. Maybe some day, but not today. There wasn’t enough softness in this room to steal away the sound and muffle it away. Not even a bit. It just echoed and rang, searing at his eardrums and clanging against the walls in an unending refrain.

He didn’t mind too much. Just enough that he made yet another mental note to bring earplugs. He never did, regardless of how many times he swore that the next time he went down he’d use them. He simply enjoyed the little sounds too much to mind the screams. Earplugs did keep the pain back, but they also took away all the little grunts, whispers, and wheezing, strained breath. They kept back the murmurs and minuscule pleas. The scraping rattle of the chain and the squeak of feet kicking against the polished floor.

It wasn’t like Ethan was a stranger to pain. His ears could ring. So what if he was half deaf by the time he was fifty? Plenty of people give up the same just to attend concerts. He was doing this for a far nobler cause and with a much higher satisfaction rate.

Ethan brought the hammer down twice more- on his bicep and elbow. One cracked, though he wasn’t sure which.

Unable to pull back against his grip, Crawford’s ruined arm was easily pried out by Ethan’s grip. He pinned the wrist down to the cold floor with a knee, then started again.

Fingers barely make a sound when they break. They’re so tiny and brittle, it’s a wonder they’re so useful in the body. Why don’t they break every other day? Anatomy was a wonder to him. One day, he’d study properly and learn to truly appreciate the human body. Its limits and its wonders alike.

Seven hits. Thirteen. Nineteen. Twenty-two. He stopped to reach down, gripping the mangled and mushed bit of flesh. Feeling the broken bones scrape against each other.

A quick glance to Crawford’s face told him the man was either dissociated or on the brink of unconsciousness. Maybe both.

He gave the hand one more squeeze before pulling out the other arm. The muscles there only gave vague hints at resisting, so he was able to pin that one down more easily.

Again, the smashing. The screams. The emptiness of the hand.

It reminded Ethan of rubber gloves. When you’re a child and fill it up with water at the sink. Tie it shut and play with the little blob that’s almost a hand. It had much of the same texture. Flopping fingers barely staying in place. Palm able to bend backwards more easily than the wrist. Soft and hot and difficult to keep a grip on.

He let it stay there as he swiveled around to the feet. Bare toes already bruised against the ground from struggles throughout the past three weeks that they’d had him here. He pinned down an ankle, finding no resistance at all. Ethan looked up to Crawford again. Unconscious, though half sentient through it. Breathing ragged and shallow with eyes almost completely closed. Limp.

Fortunately, Ethan wasn’t here today for the sadism. Crawford didn’t need to be awake or responsive for this session. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted Crawford much longer at all.

The hammer came down again and again, shattering the feet into bloody globs on the floor. Chipping up the bone to break his ankles and kneecaps as well. Swing and crunch. Swing and crunch. Swing and crunch.

He desperately wished he could get this man under an x-ray. See just how many bones he was breaking.

Ethan didn’t know how long he worked. He kept going up the arms and legs, feeling at the boneless structures for hints of sharpness and any seconds that were too firm. Then he would strike them as he had the rest. Break the something down to nothing again.

Ethan didn’t make his way back upstairs until the squid fucking itch at the back of his skull was satisfied that Crawford was utterly and irrevocably harmless.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @wormwriting @distinctlywhumpthing @whump-cafe @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @pickywhumpreader @whumpberry-cookie @morning-star-whump @nailevislev @throwawaywhumper @the-mourning-star @d-cs @pigeonwhumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @snakebites-and-ink @whumpedydump @whumplr-reader @rainbowsandwhumperflies @starfields08000 @crystallizedme @lumpofsand @taterswhump @starsick1979)

As always, lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

I spend a lot of time hating GirlbossTM characters and I love how Oh Yeon-joo is portrayed as active, smart, competent, but not Girlboss.

She doesn't know how to punch or shoot, but she will lock her possessed father in another room and draw like hell until she saves her man and then leave detailed instructions on how to treat yourself from a gunshot wound, while also having drawn everything he needs.

But also, she's not good at standing up for herself against her boss, she cries, she faints a lot.

But it doesn't make her weak or stupid or incompetent, because she will also withstand interrogation for 48 hours and not say a word and starve for most of a week attempting to avoid telling the truth to Kang Cheol again and ruining his life. And she isn't weak because she can't make a Sophie's Choice between the man she loves and her father, that's just natural.

She was a great, fleshed out character who had a lot of difficulties over the show and even if they weren't often as dramatic as the things happening to Kang Cheol, they were difficult and she persevered and I love her.

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 25

This feels like a Halloween post if I've ever made one. Writing things I didn't know I was capable of. Please heed the warnings, this is more intense than my usual writing!

Content warnings for: threats of death, mild gore via excessive blood, wound manipulation, stabbing, forced consumption of blood, creepy whumper, partial nudity, and stitching wounds.

Again: please do not read if you are sensitive to blood.

Stitches

“How many fucking times?! How many times have I found you doing this same bullshit?!” He slammed his hand down on the table, nails scraping against wood as they curled into a fist. His captive flinched away violently. “You’re terrified, just look at yourself! And yet, every time you’re afforded a bit of freedom, you find another way to test my patience!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” They gasped, backing further through the kitchen until they hit the counter. He followed.

“I can see through your act, idiot,” he spat, not swayed as he usually may have been. Their eyes widened, just enough to betray their shock. “I know. You think this is a little routine now, don’t you? I throw you back to the basement and you play nice until I give you another chance?”

His hips pressed against theirs and he loomed over, forcing them to lean away. Wild brown eyes searched for an answer, pupils dilated to nothing.

“I don’t! I swear to you!” One finger curled in their collar ring, nearly lifting them off the ground with the force of the pull. His nose pressed into theirs, breath seeping into their pores.

“Wrong. Answer.” A guttural yell and he threw them to the floor. “You think I can’t hurt you! That’s your problem. You don’t think I’d go further.”

Their head had hit the tile and it took a few seconds to remember anything at all. The click of a lock sounded and then metal on metal, sliding and reverberating. They managed to kneel up and look back, only to see him brandishing a boning knife.

“You know what? No. You don’t even think I’ve thought further. You don’t think I have ideas I’ve forced myself to hold back from. That I could indulge in at any moment.” They were cornered, trapped in between the counters and a… dangerous place.

“I don’t think any of that! I’ll go back to the basement, I’ll never try again, you can keep me there the rest of my life! You’re acting crazy!”

“Oh, am I?!” he shouted. “Last time I checked, the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting something to change!” Screaming, he was screaming now, dropping to his knees, dragging them by an ankle. “I’m giving you what you want! Something! Is! CHANGING!”

His knee on their left thigh, forcing it flat, then pushing their legs apart.

“STOP!” They sat up too quickly, flailed, pushing at his leg even as their vision swam.

“I’ve cut you on broad, safe surfaces. But I always wanted to cut down through creases.” What he lacked in volume he made up for in dead certainty, but his hands were still trembling with rage. “Right where your arteries run. Just to see what would happen.”

He traced the crease where their thigh joined their pelvis and a palm smacked down to protect it. 

“Stop touching me. Put the knife away and-!”

The knife stabbed through their hand.

The

Knife

Stabbed

Through

Their

Hand.

Disbelief couldn’t scream until he wrenched it out. And they wailed. Blood poured from both ends, and god it was just the edge, through the muscles of their pinky, missing bone, but one wound was gushing from two points. Their other hand clamped over it. Out of sight. Keep it out of sight.

“You’re pale. I wonder, where’s your blood gone?” Sick pleasure. That’s what he was getting. Holy fuck. “But I hardly nicked your thigh.”

And it slid directly into the crease, too hard, too quick, too deep. His face was red. Splattered. Bright. Dripping. Then the cabinet. It sprayed. Blood sprayed. 

“Your femoral artery.” That smile was coated in it. “That’s what I hit.” And he was looking, his fingers-

“PLEASE! PL-EEEEEEAH-SE…!” Pushing into the cut, triggering some reflex deep beneath their consciousness and they were convulsing back on their elbows, black static, not enough to hide crimson pushing up their shirt, shoving into their mouth. It was skin and nail, human, but it was iron, human, pressing down their tongue, dripping down their throat, dripping down the cabinet, dripping dripping dripping.

He was back with a sewing kit. He had left. But he was back. Their ears were ringing.

And they were bleeding out on their back and he asked them “you understand now, don’t you? You have another leg. You have two arms. You have a neck. The most important ones are in the neck, you know. Could I slit it and still save you?”

He was threading a needle: a straight sewing needle.

“You- you need a… a surgical…”

“This is all I got. You’ll have to deal.”

“911…”

“You’re stupider than I thought. Scream.”

Fingers pinched raw edges together, pulling hard, forcing the needle through. Pulling harder when the thread knotted. They screamed. They didn’t know they still could.

“What do you think? Ten? Eleven? Come on, look and make yourself useful.” The collar pulled and they were sitting up, listing to the side. There was a puddle under them. Their pant leg was cut away, and the leg of their underwear. All scarlet.

He must have let them go. He said this was number five. Then number eight. He was out of his mind, he couldn’t count, and they were dying.

“I think it’s still bleeding.” Swiping across the sealed seam. Their body couldn’t hurt anymore, but it prickled through the darkness. Then smoke. Burning.

Fire in his hand, his lighter, under the knife. The blade black with ash.

“Cauterization. Something else I always wanted to try.”

They faded out, then.

[crescenthistory]

okay so i know the sacred 28 were heavy on the “traditional” upper class teachings, such as classical music and ballroom dancing etc, which is why regulus is often hced as being a pianist. but i see your pianist and i raise you: violinist

[rhyaxxyn]

“i just think saying eyes softened is stupid”

so no one’s ever loved you. no one’s admired you. no one’s looked upon you doing the simplest task, like cooking, or making coffee, or shittily drawing in the margins, and made you a witness to the love in their gaze—the only cage which may hold it?

just say you are hated and despised by all who look at you and let me watch my lovers eyes soften.

[tearwolfe]

if vamprui au tsukasa puts his blood in pancakes for rui because hes freaky like that.. does he perchance get cut alot

i try not to think about it bc of the morbidity of it but yeah probably.. if he's uhm. being a freak and cooking with it he'll prob get it out of his finger

[kreachvera]