#also INJURY WARNING

[oh-hell-help-me]

Day 4: Blood

He didn't expect to be stabbed.

Everything seemed to be going so well, before that.

He WAS able to help Bowser, slowly going over each mineral, ore, and alloy they knew, and somehow built a plan for industrial-based jobs.

He HAD been able to make friends -or at least acquaintances that don't immediately associate him with his brother. And yes, the Head Cook (a Shyguy named 'Guy Fury') and a barista (a Koopa named 'Talla') counted!

Heck, he SOMEHOW had made good headway with his main job as an Ambassador, even gaining a bit of a reputation as someone to de-escalate the more rowdy politicians.

It should have been enough of a warning, with his track record of bad luck. But the WEEKS leading up to it had been nice! More than nice! It was-

It was good enough to fool him, to think that it could last.

Even though it was only Clawthorne and Dagby accompanying him to the town square, he hadn't felt a bit lonely as they opened up a little about themselves -where their families loved to gather, what is the best cafe to visit, how to find the better food carts...

Maybe it was also why the unknown Koopa was able to get so close.

Maybe it was his fault, in the end, that he hadn't done a thing when that cloaked Koopa got too close and-

He didn't expect the way it burned.

Luigi knew there was a commotion right after -his guard friends reacting too late and the crowd being sent into a frenzy- but the world just seemed to shrink on him-

The -knife? It was out, and the large gash in his stomach was heavily bleeding red- it hurts to try closing his hand around it hurts to breathe ithurtsithurts--

He's looking at the ground, maybe sitting, but he's focused on how something in his stomach shifts and how his hand couldn't grip anything hisbloodistooslippery---

His memories afterward were a blur, a flash of images and sensations that were hard to piece together.

He couldn't help but feel guilty at the panicked faces of his guards it wasn't their fault and feel dizzy and cold as they desperately tried to haul him- somewhere?

He said something to them, something that seemed to distress them more (he was told, later, that he asked them to tell his brother he was sorry).

He knows there was a commotion at the gates, and maybe some other Ambassadors (recess wasn't over quite yet, but a few had been loitering along the halls anyways) screaming for help.

He swears he saw Bowser, looking- looking scared? Why would... (he wasn't given an answer for that, but he wasn't told he was hallucinating either).

And then it was black.

He wouldn't say it to anyone, especially Mario, but it was a comforting sensation to fall into......

...

His first bouts of consciousness were with the feeling of being too cold, too sluggish, but always succumbing to sleep anyways.

Once, he swore he felt large, familiar hands stroke the back of his hand.

Other times, he swore he heard his brother.

By the time he truly 'woke up', he was alone on a white-sheeted bed, the room generally warm and lined with medical tools that he couldn't name.....

He doesn't feel anything -until he tries to sit up.

It's a twinge -something that, in hindsight, meant medical care even magic- but that and the weakness around it sends him back down gasping into his bed and reality.

He- he just got stabbed.

He could have died -he almost did die, didn't he? Why...?

Did.... did he do something wrong? He thought he was doing good, that he was helping, but.......

Did that mean that his efforts didn't mean anything after all....?

Bowser wouldn't say that Greenie..... no, Luigi was ever an enemy.

Before he became an Ambassador, he would admit that Luigi wasn't even much considered anything, other than a potential messenger for more 'private' letters to Peaches.

And then he denied him.

Sure, Bowser had proposed the idea in jest -especially to see the scandalized looks of the other attending Ambassadors at the time- but he wasn't expecting the way Luigi had seemingly grown a spine in the second he locked eyes with him.

The way he held himself in assurance, how his blue eyes burned so brightly with indignation, how he firmly (without stuttering at all!) yet politely told him to shove it?

Compared to his usual meek demeanor, the way he let his own presence be overlooked and let others look down on him?

It was interesting to Bowser.

But that was all it was, an interest!

And then there was the need for his help.

He would have found some charm in having his own plumber-hero to call on- in sharing something with Peach that no one else could claim to have, but...

All he could feel was despair, then, and a buried awful feeling of helplessness.

THE KOOPA KING WAS NOT HELPLESS DAMN IT! BUT- but...

It didn't mean that he wasn't feeling desperate to find help -not when neither Kammy, Kammik, nor the people in charge of manufacturing couldn't come up with any ideas. Not when there are still many people still pissed off with him and his kingdom right there in his halls.

But Luigi? The one he remembers to have seen cobbling together materials into parts and mods for Karts? The one who is known to be the more tech-savvy of the two Mario Brothers?

He took a bet, confiding in the green bean, but he would rather die than admit how relieved he was for him to not only accept to help him but to prove him right.

To prove to Bowser that he could trust him.

It was more than most people (everyone outside his family) could say they had.

And.... he wasn't sure when they grew close, exactly, but he does remember the man asking quietly, in the middle of another all-nighter, if they were friends.

The question was barely processed when Bowser agreed, and immediately surprised himself when he realized that he meant it.

When was the last time he ever had a friend...?

Regardless, they had definitely become friendly, with the latter being comfortable enough to lounge with him on their spot (the blanket was incredibly comfy). It was nice, in the way few things were for Bowser outside the moments where he wins in the Olympics and spends time with the kids.

It seemed things were getting brighter as they seemed to finally have some answers -even a plan of action for some immediate relief efforts!

And then Luigi was stabbed.

How the fuck could he expect that? Expect that some bumbling idiot got it into their head to stab Luigi -the one guy who actually gives a shit about Bowser's people?

How in the Underwhere was he supposed to expect him to arrive at the gates, bloody and bleeding still and hurriedly dragged in by his guards -WHY THE FUCK DID THEY LET THIS HAPPEN-

What was he supposed to do when Luigi, somehow still awake, looked through him with such empty eyes...?

Kamek was his lifesaver -and Luigi's as he took him with a pink 'poof'.

He hated that he was left there to stare at the blood trail though.

He was quick to snap out orders after that, making the castle have a lockdown (who knows if it's just Luigi that is targeted), and have the staff clean the hall before heading towards the Medical Wing.

Bowser wouldn't be able to tell anyone what he was feeling, to see the aftermath and see his stomach-

But he was aware of making a call to Kammy, to help with the tonics for blood replenishing.

He was aware of the way his blood pounded in his ears as he registered the metallic smell, even after magic has closed up the skin (and put things back).

He was aware of eventually contacting Peach and Mario (not leaving the room, not when-) and getting a sequence of distrust, panic, shock, and even anger (mostly Peach; Mario had still been in a trance looking just as empty as-) and not reacting as he usually would.

He's... not sure how the conversation ended, but he does know that Mario will be coming here and that -for once- neither of them were exactly angry with him either (maybe it was because he offered the offender's head?).

He was aware, after he finally retired to his rooms, that Luigi would likely wake up within a few days -that the magic may have repaired him physically, but........

The day that Luigi woke up, he had been able to down half his breakfast before rejecting a morsel more, and couldn't concentrate on any paperwork before leaving for the Medical Wing.

It was maybe a blessing to have been there, when he heard crying from that room.

He didn't run, but the door slammed open anyway -enough to have the sole occupant of the room squeak -and then whimper in pain.

It didn't help that he saw those blue eyes, red and swollen from crying, scrunch up in agony. It didn't matter that it wasn't physical pain he was feeling -his friend was...

He defaulted to hugging him -if it helped the Koopalings, it would help Luigi too, right?

But having the human curl up into him? Lean in and take shelter as he started to shake in painful sobs? To feel each sob accompanied by a flinch, to hear how desperately Luigi was trying so hard to muffle himself?

It didn't feel like it, not when his friend was falling apart (not when he was smaller and more fragile than he ever was), but Bowser knew he will weather it out anyway. He might have failed in helping his people right away, and failed in making sure this didn't happen at all....

But like hell would he fail Luigi in this.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[birdsong-warriors]

And we're back! That second page is so ridiculously stupid and anime that I weirdly kind of love it.

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Part 1: Friend and Family

See up to thirty pages ahead, with timelapses, on Patreon!

Backgrounds, brushes, timelapses, and other assets for sale on my Ko-Fi!

[underratedgrapeju1ce]

new look, same old punching bag

[cipheramnesia]

The "movie about a movie that kills you" is a surprisingly robust genre of horror. There's a wide range of approaches, but one key factor is the question of how good the deadly film in a film is, on its own. Some approaches are keeping the faux film entirely unseen, use brief clips, or make it real short.

Antrum: The Deadliest Film Ever Made goes in for a high risk approach and delivers a complete finished film, ostensibly made in the 70s and never released, framed by brief opening and closing info bites to set the stage of it.

Somehow this thing was completely off my radar, which means I was taken fully off guard as an ominous warning about the content in white text on black appeared on screen, giving a thirty second count down to leave if I wanted.

Wonderful showmanship and canny filmmaking that got me right in the mood to enjoy what followed. While I wouldn't call it a scary movie, I found it almost delightful in the atmospheric dread and devotion to its aesthetic of low budget 70s films. Nothing in it feels like a curse on its own, but it does feel like the sort of movie that could easily prompt psychological distress for anyone under psychotropic influences, pre-existing emotional vulnerability, or prone to delusional states. Not through anything supernatural, more because it works hard to keep the viewer in constant doubt over what is and is not real for the characters in the film. Combined with the framing device of it being a movie somehow able to influence the real world of the viewer, and the use of fractionally visible flashes of occult symbols on the screen, it generates an intense feeling of unreality which for me was an almost drug-like high and an immersive pleasure.

The premise of Antrum is simply a brother and sister decide to dig a hole to hell, and the movie plays out around this event by surrounding it with disturbing sounds and imagery, as well as real world dangers that weave the protagonists between the supernatural and mundane while keeping them in a state of terror and madness that grows until it becomes unrelenting.

In a certain sense it also feels cursed, like the kind of film where there are elements that feel very transgressive - in particular the opening scene which to my mind evoked Un Chien Andalou - not the infamous eyeball slicing scene, but the use of rotting animals. The few and very basic visual effects remind me as well of the early Survival Research Laboratory devices engineered by Mark Pauline.

However, the core question for me is also always what is the movie about besides the plot. If I had to identify some rough themes, I would say it's trying to explore the idea of understanding death and violence through the eyes of children who do not yet have the psychological tools for processing such matters, but who have been left on their own to do so regardless.

Many of the unusual elements in the movie can relate to death rituals poorly understood, starting from the very premise of digging a hole into the earth. And the same act is surrounded by strange rituals unclear in their origin, ideas which might be logical drawn from watching words recited over a grave without having a connection of purpose. Their encounters with other people are fully without possibility of communication as none of them speak the same language, and these mundane threats feel at times akin to a satanic Alice in Wonderland, rituals and violence whose meaning cannot be understood by the protagonists.

Likewise the supernatural is full of unprocessed images of death. Demons with black skin who look like mummified corpses. River crossings and empty chains dragging through leaves. It's as if death itself has manifested through the ambient world, surrounding the two children and refusing to let them leave its circle.

In combination with the intriguing use of sigils inscribed throughout, it creates a movie that is for me a joy to watch. An absolutely perfect Halloween spook for next year, but your mileage may vary between finding it full of pretentious nonsense or maybe the scariest film you'll ever watch. It can really come off either way, and I'm honestly not quite sure why my reaction was actual joy in the watching. Not to undercut the severity of the subject matter, but I just can't stop thinking about how happy I was to watch the movie at work mechanically, to enjoy the well oiled pieces fitting together, and then all topped off with the delicious extra treat of the framing device. Surely worth 90 minutes of your life.

[thebramblewood]

An Ill-Fated Afterparty: Part II

Previous / Next

Lilith: Goodness, I feel so exposed now.

Helena: Oh, don't play shy all of a sudden.

Lilith: It'd help if we got you out of that dress. Now... where did we leave off?

Helena: Oh, we're going straight for the neck. You're really committed to this vampire shtick, huh? And I'm weirdly kind of... into it? [laughs nervously] Lilith, I think that's enough. You might actually be drawing blood. [attempts to pull away] Give it a rest now, okay? I said stop, Lilith! LILITH, STOP! Lilith?...

Lilith: Helena? Wake up, Helena! Shit! Fuck! No, no, no! Not now! Not yet! Oh, god, what have I done? CALEB!!!

[somelazyassartist]

Oh I have found out the Damnation mechanic is very fun......

Reblogs appreciated! | Etsy Shop

[prince-liest]

LUCY IS NO LONGER PINECONED! Knocking on wood aggressively, but I do believe my fish is going to live!!

You can see how truly messed up her fins have gotten in this photo, but while she's still a little big in the belly, her scales aren't sticking up like they were when she had dropsy. I'm genuinely so relieved - everything you see online says that it's basically impossible for a betta to recover from that severe of a disease state, and while I've known for a few days now that she's been feeling more energetic, I was still holding my breath about it.

The big hopeful turning point was that she was finally able to eat some food three days ago on the 27th, and also that now I can look at her and say, yeah, there's no more pineconing that I can see. I'm going to do another water change soon and keep dosing ParaGuard until her fins start growing back, but I'm SO fucking happy with this much. My evil little girl deserves a long and vicious life!

[85-rend]

height ref for the crew btw. first time you guys get to see Elliot and Morgan, and first time you get to see Fifty-Six's attempt at looking like a person.

[simmyfrobby]

― Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag.  

[sideblogforweirdshit]

Whump Reference Post for Fingernail Removal Torture

 Hi whump writers of Tumblr! I recently made a little introduction post in which I said I’d be making reference posts. This is one I already had typed up, because for some reason this was the first thing I thought of.

There are no images attached, but I’m putting the rest of the post under a readmore since the majority of the content is semi-graphic written description of the how-to’s and wherefore’s and such of fingernail removal torture.

To be clear: I will be going into as much depth as I possibly can without using images. The content of this post will be purely academic. There will be no artistic liberties taken. This post is meant to be as accurate to (and descriptive of) a real-life situation as possible.

I hope some part of this post eventually winds up being a helpful resource for someone!

1) Not as painful as it’s made out to be

-It's painful, but definitely not to the extent it’s shown in movies or whatnot. A lot of the "pain" comes from the shock factor of seeing your body without something it’s always had, as well as the inherent "wrongness" that comes with experiencing a part of your body being removed.

2) There is very very thin film of skin between the fingernail and the finger.

-If one is careful in removing the fingernail by peeling it back slowly, one can preserve this thin piece of skin. -If one pulls the fingernail back quickly and without taking care, this thin film will rip, and the nail will pull away with bits of flesh attached.

3) The flesh under the nail will be vertically striated.

-If one uses the peel-back method, and is careful to not let the thin film of skin between the nail and the flesh rip, the skin/flesh underneath the nail will be as visibly striated as the fingernail itself. If you look closely at your fingernail right now, you’ll see that there are many tiny grooves from the tip of your nail to the base. This is true for all human fingernails. If the nail is peeled back with sufficient care, those striations will be echoed on the skin underneath the nail.

4) The  “peel entirely off” method versus the  "peel back and then stop" method versus the "pull out entirely" method.

-The “peel entirely off” method is how I will refer to the method of grasping firmly the tip of the fingernail in some sort of vice (usually pliers) and then peeling it backwards, moving the pliers from the nail at the tip of the finger towards the hand itself. Using this method, the nail will remain firmly grasped in the pliers the entire time. The movement of the pliers only stops when the base of the nail is ripped entirely out of the finger. This will necessarily result in ripping out a fair bit of skin past the cuticles, as the technical base of the nail (aka “nail matrix”) is generally around half a centimeter hand-wards past the cuticles (and follows the curve of the nail, so is deeper than the cuticles as well). Due to the nature of skin, I would expect a tear reminiscent of an extremely deep hangnail that goes from the base of the cuticles to at least halfway between the first and second knuckle (and at most goes to the second knuckle). In this case, it is not guaranteed that the nail will grow back. There is a chance it’ll come back, but there is also a chance that the nail matrix is permanently damaged and will not be able to grow a new nail. Since every human is different, there’s not an exact science to determining where a person’s nail matrix is before it’s ripped out. A (very) general rule of thumb is to follow the curve of the existing fingernail, and draw a point on that curve before it hits bone. Obviously, this is extremely subjective.

-The “peel back and then stop” method is how I will refer to what is essentially the previous method, but one stops before the nail-ripping goes past the cuticle and snips off the peeled part, leaving a milimeter or so of fingernail existing on the nailbed. In this case, it is assured that the nail matrix is undisturbed, and the fingernail will grow back. This is the method I will assume is taken for the future steps

-The “pull out entirely” method is how I will refer to the situation where one grasps the protruding part of the nail firmly, and applies force away from the hand and in the direction the finger points. In this case, there’s a large chance that the nail will rip. This depends largely on the care taken with the pulling object (pliers, usually) to grab the nail exactly parallel with the sides of the pliers. If any part of the pliers digs into the nail at a singular location, this will create a point at which pressure will build up, and the nail will likely rip at this location. The strength of the individual’s nails also affects the ripping. The individual’s nail strength can vary based on nourishment as well as on a general person-to-person basis. Personally, I do not recommend this method.

-If one wants to make the removal definitely permanent, there’s the possibility of peeling it back all the way down and out, and then chemically burning where one assumes the nail matrix is. (Some serious irl hikers do this to their toenails on purpose, to reduce the chances of getting ingrown toenails from being laced into hiking boots for days on end.) Removing the nail permanently will obviously reduce the opportunity to peel it off again, but will give a permanent Horrific Aspect to the victim.

5) For the first three days, the exposed flesh will be painful.

-The entire tip of the finger will be a constant deep and throbbing pain. Any deviation from this norm will be an increase in pain, never a decrease (save medication or an ice-bath-for-full-minutes immersion to the point of numbness).

-Any contact with the exposed nailbed will increase the pain. Knocking the exposed flesh against anything, even extremely gently, will result in a visible bright red welt under the thin layer of skin (bright red on light skin only! on darker skin, the welt will still be visible, but will show as a dark red-brown). It is a visual similar to an extremely tiny, non-protruding blood blister. Knocking the nailbed against something less gently will result in fully scraping off that delicate outer layer of skin.

-Using the finger for anything will be painful (though not unbearably so), and it may even be painful to bend the finger at all.

-Any moisture on the exposed flesh (including anything from regular water to antibiotic ointment) will hurt a lot. This will intensify the throbbing at least twofold across the entire nailbed, and will also result in an amount of stinging as if one had just realized one had been stung by a bee.

6) For treatment and healing thereof (if quick healing is desired)

For those first three days, any bandaid application is inadvisable -The exposed flesh will be so tender and vulnerable that any bandaid (even the non-stick kind) will stick to the exposed flesh and rip it upon removal. I can only assume this is in part due to the curvature of the finger, which means that any wrapping-around type bandaid will inherently put pressure on the nailbed, resulting in sticking.

-To promote healing, the first three days should be without any sort of covering on the wound.

After the first three days, a scab will form. -At this point, the pain will be much less. it might be uncomfortable to bump the nailbed into objects, but it will not be the same pain as in the first three days.

-The wound will also be much less sensitive to moisture.

-When the scab starts to crack (usually a vertical crack), one should apply antibiotic ointment and a bandaid. At this point in the proess, it is desired for the scab to remain as consistently moist as possibly. This will help the scab fall off when it is ready to do so.

-At this point, the finger can be used normally (within reason) without much (if any) pain.

After two or three days with the bandaid covering, the scab will start to fall off.

-One may expedite this process if one is careful.

-At this point, the skin on the nailbed is sensitive to the touch, but not to the point of pain.

-There will be some dry, loose skin around the edges of the nailbed.

-The previously visible striation will no longer be there.

-Pressure on the exposed nailbed will not be necessarily painful, but it will feel decidedly Odd. Though not painful, It will be an extremely sensitive area.

-The nailbed will be a delicate pinkish color.

Around a week after the initial scab falls off, there will appear to be another scab. It will be a relatively thin layer of dry, dead skin.

-If the nail is allowed to grow normally, it is likely that it will cover this second scab before it has the chance to fall off.

-If the stub of the fingernail is trimmed routinely, it is possible for the scab to fall off, leaving only relatively smooth unblemished skin where the nailbed is. This skin will be roughly the same color and texture as the skin on the tip of the finger. 

7) The rate at which fingernails grow back is extremely slow

-The average growth rate is about 3.5 milimeters per month. There are several factors that can cause this to vary:

-Fingernails on the dominant hand grow back faster than the nails on the non-dominant hand.

-Fingernails grow back faster than toenails.

-Nails grow back faster in warm weather than in cold weather.

-Depending on the nail and the aforementioned conditions, one can expect a total regrowth time of anywhere from three to six months (or more).

8) Life Without Fingernails

-Fingernails affect a large part of our everyday lives. We mostly use them when we’re manipulating objects with our hands, and we use them to scratch. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s a lot. It’s hard to explain just how weird it is to not have fingernails to someone who’s never experienced it, but here goes:

-Fingernails are the Hard Backs used to brace our fingers against a hard shell when we manipulate something with our hands. If you pinch your fingers together right now, you’ll see a white band along the top of your fingernail. This is where the pressure from the pinching goes; it’s braced against your nail.

-Picking something up without fingernails feels extremely odd the first few hundred times you do it. It takes a long time to get used to it.

-Writing is even worse. Without the hard shell backing your fingers, the pencil tends to slip out of your grip more often. If you usually have long enough fingernails that you balance your pen/pencil on them, you’re extremely likely to have the pencil completely slip out of your grip multiple times a sentence.

-You don’t realize how much you unconsciously scratch itchy parts of your body until you no longer have the ability to do so. If you’re only missing a few nails, you have to consciously adjust your hand so that you can scratch with the existing ones. If you’re missing all of them, you have to actively find an external object to alleviate the itch.

Some places on the body one can scratch with their teeth, but for most places, one needs to either find an “itch stick,” or rub that part of their body on something scratchy. A lot of clothing is scratchy enough to work for this. One needs to learn how to vary the pressure so that one can alleviate the itch without tearing through the skin or scratching themselves.

Pros:

-Body horror

Fingernail removal is a more mentally significant mutilation than cuts or burns, if only because it draws on the "that was there and now it's not" aspect of body horror.

-Can be inflicted more than once

Since fingernails grow back, they can be removed again and again and again. Though it may take some time for the nails to regrow, it isn't even close to the type of permanent that’s chopping off a finger or a toe.

-Helplessness

Since it takes a few days for the nailbeds to heal enough to be able to use one's fingers, a complete removal of all fingernails will take away one's ability to use their hands. Even after this initial period of extreme sensitivity, the lack of fingernails is something most people aren’t prepared for. The previous section explaining how fingernails affect daily life is significant here.

 Cons:

-Can’t repeat often.

Once a fingernail is off, it's not coming back for at least three months (likely longer). It doesn't have the relatively quick reset time that burns or cuts do.

-Relatively short amount of time in pain

All of the pain is in the first few days. It is inconvenient afterwards, but there is little to no pain at this time.

-Amount of care needed

One needs to be relatively careful inflicting this. Fingernails are not as resilient as you'd think, and the likelihood of them ripping before you can finish ripping them off is fairly large if you're not being careful.

If you have a short-tempered or impatient whumper, this might not be their particular wheelhouse.

 Conclusion

Overall, I’d say that the effectiveness depends entirely on the desired result. The time it takes for the fingernails to regrow versus the amount of time in which the subject is in pain is not a very productive ratio, so if you’d want your whumper doing a particular torture regularly, I wouldn’t recommend this.

However, if the whumper’s goal is to appeal to the body horror aspect without permanent damage, this is a great option. The fact that it takes nails so long to regrow gives the victim a sense of horrified freakishness. It also has the added benefit of reducing the victim’s maneuverability far after the fact.

The semi-visible nature of this method of torture can be effective if one wishes to horrify characters outside the whumper/whumpee relationship. You don’t immediately look at other people’s hands when you meet them, and as such it might take a while for outside characters to notice the lack of fingernails (especially if they’re past the three day mark). But once they notice, it will be hard to look away.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 6: Made to Watch

Read on Ao3

- Warriors & Twilight

- Summary: Cia manages to capture Warriors and decides to try to force him to remain with her

CW for nonconsensual touching, nonconsensual transformation, mild body horror, torture, a character being possessive, vomiting, blood and injury

--------------------------------

Warriors glares down at his legs, trying in vain not to look up. He is all too aware of the faces grinning cockily down at him from every angle of the room. And he would really rather not gaze upon them. They give him the creeps, quite frankly.

Who knew his own visage could look so wrong, slapped on the walls of someone he abhors?

He shifts, flexing his bound hands to try and bring feeling back into them. The ropes are pulled so tightly that he is certain their pattern is indented in his skin. Magic reverberates through them, dark and thick and nauseatingly wrong. Even it feels possessive, as though its wielder has imbued it with her sentiments.

The thought sends chills running down his neck and back. It’s almost as if he can feel her hands on him already, like skulltulas crawling across his skin. Unconsciously, he curls in on himself further.

He doesn’t know how Cia returned to the land of the living. Frankly, he doesn’t think he wants to. But one thing is for certain, he wishes it had never occurred.

Neither had he thought he would set foot in this place again. Foolishly, he had thought it was all over. 

(Save, of course, for the creeping memories of his men lying in pools of their own blood; townspeople screaming in horror and pain; long nights spent agonizing over maps and plans, trying to figure out how to win the next battle, trying to ignore the constant, creeping terror that someone followed his every move, cold fingers reaching out to brush his neck.)  

Yet here he sits in the depths of Cia’s chambers, wounded and bound. His head still aches from where the moblin had slammed its club into it. A trail of drying blood tugs at the skin of his forehead.

Warriors closes his eyes for a moment, exhales long and slow through his nostrils. Fear is seeping past his defenses, turning his mind numb. He can’t let that happen. He has to stay alert, keep a hold of himself.

But that is awfully hard to do. Even more so when footsteps echo in the hall.

There are multiple pairs of them by the sound of it — three perhaps — some heavier than others. And as they grow closer Warriors finds it increasingly difficult to slow the mad rhythm of his heart.

Cia is coming, he can feel it, feel her dark magic seeping through the walls and floorboards.

His breath hitches the slightest bit and he forces himself to hold the next one, then blow it out slowly. It still shakes a bit but at least he is in less danger of hyperventilating now. 

Calm yourself, captain, he orders. He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself a moment to feel the serenity of cool darkness. All the while, the footsteps grow continually louder.

Remove yourself from the situation. You’re no good if you’re panicked.

Warriors clenches his hands, determined to stop their shaking. He can’t show her weakness, he refuses to. But he can’t do more than slow the manic bob of his knee, up and down, up and down, mimicking the erratic pound of his heart.

His body demands to retain one, small nervous tick and he has little choice but to cave. 

The footsteps come to an abrupt halt now, just outside of the double doors. Warriors inhales sharply, breath caught in his chest. He can hear his heart pounding like it’s the only sound in the room, filling his ears, reverberating through him like the beat of war drums. 

Then, both doors are flung wide open with a flare and fury that can only belong to one person. And sure enough, there she is, standing in the doorway with her hip jutted outward and her head tipped so the shadows play upon it, violet eyes gleaming like a demon’s, a malicious smirk curving her lips. 

She looks just as she did in the time of the war. A shiver tears up his spine.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” she croons, waltzing into the room. “It has been far too long, my little hero. But I am so delighted to see you again.”

She begins to walk toward him, every step making his heart climb higher into his throat. Then, she is mere inches away, grasping his chin and dragging it upward so he has no choice but to look at her. He fights not to recoil from her touch. 

“I brought you a little gift to celebrate the occasion,” she purrs. “I do hope you enjoy it.”

She raises a hand and motions to whoever still waits in the darkness of the threshold. Then, quick and quiet as a serpent, she slips behind the chair he is bound to. She leans forward, hands snaking around his shoulders, breath and hair tickling his ear. 

“Now, watch,” she murmurs. “I want to see your face when you see what I brought you. Or rather who.”

She has barely uttered the word when the sounds of a scuffle come from the doorway. Seconds later, a figure Warriors would know anywhere is hurled unceremoniously over it. The Hero of Twilight lands in a bloodied heap on the hard floor.

Warriors can’t help the way his breath hitches in his throat. 

“Rancher?” 

A moblin lumbers into the light. Grasping Twilight’s shoulder, it wrenches him upward so he kneels before Warriors. Slowly, the hero raises his head.

A gash runs jaggedly across his face, cresting the bridge of his nose. Its gory crimson stands out against the pallor of his skin. His hair hangs limply, weighed down by blood and sweat. His pelt, outer tunic, and armor are gone, his undertunic and pants bloodied and torn, allowing glimpses of the angry welts and bruises and cuts lying beneath. 

His eyes are abnormally bright when they meet the captain’s, but that all too familiar fire still burns within it. And when he catches sight of Cia, hovering behind Warriors, her hands still on him, his expression turns positively murderous. 

“Get away from him,” he growls, earning himself a swift kick in the ribs. He doubles over, gasping. A fresh streak of worry zips through Warriors. 

But the sorceress has no problem ignoring what is happening before her. She begins to laugh and the sharp sound echoes in Warriors’ ears. 

“Wonderful! Just the reaction I was expecting!” She steps back, clapping together her hands. “Now, we can begin.”

“Begin what?” Warriors spits, anger in his tone. He grasps onto it, if only to keep his fear at bay. “It seems you’ve done more than enough already.”

She chuckles again, as though she is privy to some wonderful joke that neither hero is. 

“Oh, captain, I certainly have missed you. Death was so unkind to keep me from you. Thankfully, there are those who understand the need to rise from the grave.” Cia grins. “And now that I’m back, I would really rather not have to lose you again.”

She runs her hand along the side of his jaw and neck, the movement almost gentle. Warriors is certain he is going to be ill.

“So you are going to stay here with me…” Her face is suddenly inches from his. Warriors cringes back, trying to turn his face away. But long fingers grasp his jaw and wrench it back into place.

“Forever.”

Warriors nearly chokes on the breath he had been holding. He had known it was coming, there was no way he couldn’t, but that doesn’t negate the terrible feeling that one word provokes. He has felt suffocated by this place since he awoke here. Now, he is certain that it’s crushing him. 

“He’s not gonna stay with you,” Twilight says, his tone firm despite the way he trembles. There is something dangerous in it too, like the bite of a wild animal. “He’s not your pet.”

Cia turns to him at that. A high-pitched, maniacal giggle bubbles out of her. 

“It is absolutely hilarious that you of all people would phrase it in such a way. Tell me, does your friend know?”

She closes the distance between herself and the rancher. Then, reaching out she grasps his chin, angling his face upward. With the other hand she traces the dark markings around his eyes and on his forehead. Twilight tries to pull away but she holds him fast.

“This one is dripping with dark magic,” she says, addressing Warriors now with an almost giddy tone. “He’s coated in it! Just look at these markings! And this” – She releases Twilight’s face and lifts the crystal he wears instead, turning it in her fingers — “This is the source of it all. He has used its power so many times now that it might as well be a part of him. I wonder, if all that magic were gone…or perhaps changed, would he break?”

Twilight’s expression doesn’t change from its steadfast mask of anger. But Warriors has known him for too long now to miss the flash of fear.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, sharply. “It’s me you want, not him. Release him. Now.”

Cia giggles again. For a moment, she regards the crystal. Then, dropping it, she turns back to Warriors. 

“I’ll let him go eventually. But first we’re going to have a bit of fun. You see, the wonderful thing about dark magic is that it has no qualms. It can be warped and twisted however you wish. It won’t put up a fight. It might even decide to help you, if you’re lucky.”

Warriors’ eyes narrow. Panic thrashes within him like a bird caught in a cage. He has to find a way out of here, he has to. 

“So.” Cia stalks toward him, grinning as though she is exceedingly pleased with herself. “Either you swear to remain by my side for eternity, or your friend comes to know what it feels like when I bend dark magic to my will.” Her smile turns almost sweet. But there is blatant danger behind it, a temper that is too easily kindled. “It’s your choice, my little hero.”

Twilight skewers him with a look so cold it could send most grown men running. Under better circumstances, Warriors would tease him about how well he has managed to capture the old man’s glare of disappointment.

“Don’t do what she wants, captain. I’ll be fine.”

Warriors swallows, feeling vaguely lightheaded. He knows the answer he should give. But Cia’s presence is everywhere, smothering him so he can’t breathe or feel or think. His own face grins down at him from every wall, malicious and oppressive. And some desperate, selfish part of him wants to scream that he can never live this way. 

With an effort, he forces himself to open his mouth. The words he wants stick in his throat, though, and nothing comes out. 

“The clock is ticking,” Cia hisses, fire beginning to burn behind her eyes. “Your hesitation perturbs me, little hero. We are meant to be together, can you not see that? We are far bigger than the powers that try to keep us apart. Come, be with me the way it should be.”

Her words wrap around him like treacherous vines. Warriors can’t breathe past their grip. 

“He was never meant to be with you, witch,” Twilight growls. “And if you think your little plan to manipulate him is gonna work, you’re gonna be sorely disappointed.”

She whirls on him, pent up fury radiating off of her in waves.

“Time’s up!”

Warriors jolts forward with a strangled shout. “No, wait!”

But it’s already too late. 

A flick of the sorceress’ fingers and Twilight goes rigid. His eyes blow wide with terror and agony. A scream breaks free, strangled and hoarse and terrible. Black flecks begin to dance in the air. They surround him, coalescing into something darker and more solid. Then, quick as a spear in flight, they zip into his chest. 

Abruptly, Twilight’s screams cut off. His eyes roll back in his head and he slumps in the moblin’s grip. For a long moment, the room is horribly quiet. 

Warriors doesn’t dare take a breath. His ears still ring from Twilight’s cries, head still pounds from woundedness and fear. Distantly, he realizes that he should look around the room for some method of escape while Cia is distracted. But he can’t tear his eyes from Twilight's limp form. 

Let him be okay. Dear goddesses let him be okay.

A violent screech suddenly fills the space, eerie and petrifying. It ricochets around Warriors’ skull and he yearns to close his eyes in an attempt to block out the noise. But it continues and he remains frozen, helpless to do anything more than watch as Twilight morphs. 

His body enlarges and elongates, pale skin turning the color of fresh tar, lines of silvery-gray tracing strange patterns along it. Lines of crimson weave deadly cracks along his chest. His hair turns long and wiry, spreading like mane from a face that no longer even remotely resembles something human. Oddly, Warriors can’t help thinking it looks more akin to a shield now, lacking in features as it is. It is adorned with lines and circles, shapes carved into it as though by a potter into clay.

The beast (or…Twilight he guesses, though there is nothing there to remind him that this thing was ever his brother) gives a screech again, so loud Warriors is certain his ear drums are going to burst. And then, he whirls around and hurls the moblin at the wall. The monster hits it with a deafening crack that makes the room tremble and creates a sizable, moblin-shaped dent. It disappears seconds later.

Cia begins to cackle as Twilight faces her, limbs trembling (though with anger or pain, Warriors isn’t certain). He regards her for a mere moment, then with an enraged howl, lunges. 

“Now, now,” she croons, stepping effortlessly out of the way, “be a good beast.”

She holds up the crystal (Warriors hadn’t even seen her snag it) and suddenly Twilight is back, darkness folding around him as he crumples. He just manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, dazed eyes flitting to Warriors. There’s something in them, something urgent trying to break through the haze. And for a split second, Warriors tries desperately to decipher it. But then, the chance is gone. The rancher doubles over and vomits.

“Painful, isn’t it?” Cia says. She delivers a swift kick to the rancher’s chin and he falls. “I told you dark magic is not to be trifled with. And you, oh you, have certainly trifled with it an awful lot. But that is hardly my priority in all of this, only an observation that has proven oh so useful. No.” She turns to Warriors, a smirk on her lips. “My priority is you.”

He’s shaking, Warriors realizes dimly, with anger, with fear, with the guilt that tears up his insides. But he grits his teeth and meets her eye.

“Let him go.” He drags out the words, slowly, each one measured so that his voice doesn’t tremble. It’s the same method he used to address his troops before battle. “And I’ll stay with you. I swear.”

Her eyes light up and a little, giddy gasp escapes her. Warriors’ stomach churns, threatening revolt. He swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

“Say it again,” she murmurs, prowling up to him, hands already outstretched to brush over his cheeks. “Tell me we were meant to be together. Tell me you’ll stay for all eternity.”

Magic revels at her fingertips, hot and oppressive on his face. Terror wedges itself in his throat and he closes his eyes. The taste of blood is sharp and nauseating.

“Keep them open,” she orders, voice taking on a harsh edge now. Fingernails dig into his face.

With an effort, he obeys. 

“Come now.” Lips hover inches from his and there’s no room to flinch away, nowhere to run. It’s just him and her, a nightmare made manifest in reality, an eternity of misery.

He swallows again, hard, to push down the rising urge to fight back.

“No,” Twilight croaks. “Captain…don’t! Don’t let this monster control you!”

Her eyes turn to blazing fire at that.

“Monster?” In an instant she is straightening, whirling to face the rancher, and Warriors can breathe again. “You think I’m a monster for wanting what I deserve?! You little — I’ll show you what a monster is!”

There’s a terrible flash of light and dark again. The room fills with the sound of agonized screams, turning quickly to the deafening, alien cries of before. And then Twilight is gone, and the beast stands in his place.

But that, it seems, is exactly what he had wanted. 

The rancher is shaking, blood dripping from wounds Warriors can’t see. But he doesn’t allow himself even a moment to catch his breath. With an animalistic shriek, he throws himself at Cia. Close as they are now, she doesn’t have time to evade. He comes down on top of her and she hits the ground, crying out in shock and anger. 

Desperately, furiously, she struggles, screaming obscenities and cut-off incantations. Twilight, however, doesn’t give her a chance to get the upper hand. He digs his talons into her with an abandon that Warriors can’t help finding a little terrifying. 

But he isn’t about to complain. Because the moment she falls, he feels the spell strengthening his bonds stutter and die. The ropes are useless without it, loosened as they are by his constant fight against them. They fall limply to the floor.

He’s on his feet without a second thought, mind locked in the numb determination of an adrenaline rush. Twilight’s crystal has fallen a short ways away and he snatches it up by its cord. 

“Rancher!” he calls, holding it up. 

Twilight spares him a quick, eyeless glance, then reels back and swipes at Cia so fiercely that she goes flying. She collides with the opposite wall, then collapses to the ground, blood dribbling from her mouth.

“You,” she growls, between agonized breaths, “you pathetic dog! I’ll get my revenge for this! Link will be mine!”

And then, in a cloud of violet and black, she is gone. 

He can still feel her presence in the room, still feel her on him, readying the spell that would enslave him to his own promise forever. But Warriors pushes all that aside and turns to Twilight.

“Here.” He holds out the crystal. “This will turn you back, right?”

Twilight nods. Carefully, he reaches out a dark, taloned hand and scoops the crystal into it. The shadows fold around him, there’s a faint “swoosh”, and the rancher is once again standing before him. 

He wavers, looking dangerously close to collapsing, but Warriors puts his arms around him before he can. His own legs aren’t feeling too steady, though, so he ends up lowering them both onto the ground. Twilight slumps heavily against his shoulder. His breathing is sharp, short, and shuddering, his face ashen and pale. But he drags his gaze up to meet Warriors’ anyway.

“You ‘k?”

Warriors laughs, bitterly. “I should be asking you that, rancher. What on earth did she do to you?”

Twilight frowns at the crystal still cupped in his palm. “Somethin’ she…she shouldn’t have been able to.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out far quieter and more broken than he had intended, but at this point he hardly cares. 

“Shush. Ain’t you-your fault.” The rancher shifts, wincing slightly as he does so. “And don’t you try…arguing that-that it is.”

Warriors smiles, dryly. He had been thinking up an argument – more than one – while they spoke.

“You’re too much like the old man, you know that?” he says, with a sigh.

Twilight’s lips upturn in a grin, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes have slipped closed now. Warriors can tell unconsciousness isn’t far off. 

Shoving his tumultuous thoughts aside, he gives the rancher a gentle nudge. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet. We still have to get out of this place.”

And the sooner, the better.

“Can you stand?”

Slowly, Twilight nods. He drags his eyes open again, blinking up at the captain.

“Don worry, I’ll hang on. You’re skinny little self could…couldn’t lug me out of here.”

Warriors chuckles, despite himself. “Don’t sell me short, rancher. Believe me, I’ve carried heavier than you.”

Twilight sends him a look that says he doubts that. But he allows Warriors to help him to his feet. And as they start toward the door, he leans against the captain, not even bothering to protest his support.  

Despite the complaints of his own body, Warriors is glad of it. The very least he can do is get his brother away from this place where violet eyes gleam and long-fingered hands reach out to imprison. These are his demons to face, not Twilight’s. The rancher has endured more than enough on his behalf. And if Cia shows up again – and Warriors is not foolish enough to assume that she won’t – he will do whatever is necessary to ensure she never harms his brothers again.

[cauliarty]

Dotty but they’re the protagonist of a normal horror game about a girl and a well

[kyuhu]

today in Kyuhu tries to draw stuff they usually don't.

these were completely unrelated but I noticed they kinda fit together so I'm posting them like this.

[inkykeiji]

may i please request (8) bunny for twin touya + dabi? 👀

prompt: bunny series: twins AU warnings: an injured/hurt animal, use of the word Daddy, female reader, the twins + reader are in a poly relationship words: 1k

of course u can anon!!! thank you so much for this, it’s such a joy to write something for the twins again <3

It’s wounded; something wrong with its leg, tiny bones all twisted and gnarled. Its little tummy rises and falls with its erratic breaths, pink nose twitching rapidly, big brown eyes wide and alert as they dart around its surroundings—a small clearing beneath an overgrown bush.

Honestly, you wouldn’t have even known it was there, had it not been making soft, wheezy little squeaks, exhaled on harsh breaths. 

With gentle hands you push some branches out of the way, an attempt to get a better look at the poor animal, the bunny flinching violently at the rustle of leaves.

“Oh, no, no, no,” you’re whimpering quietly, a stab of guilt penetrating your stomach. “No, lil guy, I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“What are you doing over here, playin’ in the bushes?” Dabi teases as he jogs up to you. “You’re gonna get poison ivy or oak or whatever the fuck it is, and I’m not gonna help you rub ointment on it. Touya isn’t, either, y’know. Can already hear him—”

“There’s a bunny—a baby rabbit. I think it’s hurt, badly,” wrapping your arms around your folded knees and hugging them tightly to your chest, you glance up at Dabi with glassy eyes, vision thick with tears, rendering him nothing more than a wavering figure of black.

“What?”

Dabi crouches next to you, elbows resting on his thighs, and peers through the mess of leaves, lips tugging down into a deep frown. 

“Ah, fuck.” He reaches forward, large hands clumsy and cumbersome, and the bunny startles again, a yelp of terror shuddering its form. The cracked sound has Dabi wincing harshly, hands recoiling into his chest in one quick jerk. “I—I can’t touch it,” he’s shaking his head, already stumbling to his feet, backing up a little. “I’ll just—It might get hurt more. I’ll go get Touya.” 

Yes, you’re nodding. Touya will know what to do, Touya will know how to handle this, just like he always does. 

“A bunny?” you hear Touya ask a few moments later, voice faint but growing in volume as he advances towards you. “You can’t be serious—” 

Low murmurs cut him off—no doubt Dabi’s—their tone testy and panicked. 

“Alright, alright,” Touya’s chuckling, easygoing and dismissive. “I’ll take a look.”

“Daddy,” you whine as Touya’s shadow crawls over you.

“What do we have here?” Touya asks as he bends, body blanketing your back, thighs cushioning your own, chin hooked over your shoulder.

“A little baby rabbit. It looks—I think there’s something wrong with its leg. If we—If we don’t  help it, I don’t think it’ll survive.” 

“That’s just the circle of life, baby,” Touya responds with a solemn shrug.

“Nii-san,” Dabi hisses, eyes narrowed. “We can’t just leave it.”

“We can’t?”

“No!” you and Dabi cry in unison. 

Twisting in Touya’s grasp, you break free easily, rising to stand over him and look at him properly, a hand vaguely gesturing the bush.

“Look at it, Daddy, it’s suffering. We can’t just—” a hiccup cuts you off, vicious and abrupt, and Dabi draws you into his arms with a clicked tongue and a coo, biceps wound around yours, hands rubbing your arms in comfort. 

His touch, characteristically just a hint too rough, his grip just a hint too tight, causes something inside you to snap—an emotional dam that begins to fracture deep behind your ribs, weeped out little sobs oozing from the cracks—and you bury your face in his chest, body quivering slightly with half-stifled sniffles. 

“We can’t just leave it to die,” Dabi finishes your sentence. “Not when we know we can help.”

Sapphire eyes sweep between your faces, slow and assessing as the gears of his mind whir and click, weighing all his options and considering the most optimal outcome.

“Fine,” Touya sighs after a moment of contemplation, turning back to peer at the injured animal, squinting a little in evaluation. “Get me a popsicle stick, gauze, and some tape.” 

Despite Touya’s apparent apathy, he is surprisingly sweet, tender hands exceptionally careful, his movements purposeful and meticulous, just like everything else he does in life. 

It’s as though Touya’s innate caregiving instincts have snapped into action, the shift in his demeanour almost immediate, a shift you and Dabi have experienced more than once—though it’s difficult to tell if such a shift was triggered by you and Dabi, or by the small, wounded animal itself.

You can’t watch—Dabi can’t, either, the two of you clinging to one another, faces hidden in shoulders and hair, fingers curling in denim and linen as Touya works.

“Okay, little buddy, I’ve got you,” Touya murmurs softly as he scoops the ball of fur, now with a makeshift splint, up with one palm, cupping his other hand over it gently. “We’re going to get you some help.”

In the end, the three of you keep the bunny, you and Dabi loving the stupid thing way too much for Touya to say no. And although he doesn’t care for the thing a whole lot, fairly indifferent to its entire existence, it reminds him of the both of you in separate ways; cute and sweet and fluffy like you, mistrusting and cautious and jumpy like Dabi. 

He thinks that, maybe, caring for it might be beneficial for the two of you, that having something to look after and tend to and protect just like he does for the both of you might bring you each a shred of the validation and satisfaction he gets from nurturing each of you.

It isn’t unusual to find the two of you flat on your backs, on the floor of Dabi’s studio, stained with paint in the shape of bunny footprints as the fluffy little thing hops around, across your skin and over your bodies and onto canvases, creating little pieces of art, your twined laughter ringing throughout the house. It’s a nice sound, a welcomed sound, a warm sound that fills him with something buzzing and bubbly, and, most recently, Touya’s favourite sound to come home to. 

[thebramblewood]

An Ill-Fated Afterparty: Part III

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Lilith: [frantically] CALEB!!!

Caleb: [mutters] This isn't your problem, Caleb. Do not get involved. Do not get involved. Do not-

Lilith: [hysterically] CALEB!!!

Caleb: Damn it.

-

Caleb: Jesus Christ, Lilith.

Lilith: I didn't mean to do it, I swear!

Caleb: You always go too far.

Lilith: It was an accident!

Caleb: Well, maybe if you exercised even a sliver of self-control-

Lilith: You can lecture me later, Caleb. Fix her!

Caleb: Look at her, Lil. She's beyond repair.

Lilith: Then turn her!

Caleb: It’s far too late for-

Lilith: Please try. It was a moment of weakness. Is that what you want to hear? I'm weak and you're strong and I need your help! I'll get on my knees and beg if I must!

Caleb: [sighs heavily] Just get out of my way.

-

Caleb: I’m sorry, Lilith. I think she’s too far gone.

Lilith: Then get rid of her.