#body parts tw

[cametotheshowinsd]

Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

[boydswan]

SAMURAI ASSASSIN · 侍 (1965, 岡本喜八)

[shiningsilverarmor]

You all better give THANKS to him for all the hunting he'd done today and eat your fill..

[ruporas]

dragon meat, you, and me

[incorrectbatfam]

"They trick the other siblings into thinking there's a Robin test that only Dick and Jason have passed"

Okay, but what does each member of the family believe the test is?

Duke: *walks in wearing full winter gear covered in snow*

Bruce: Where have you been?! I've been searching for a week!

Duke: Climbing Mount Everest.

Bruce: But why?!?

Damian: I have returned with a wild Icelandic puffin!

Bruce: Damian, I said no more pets until next year.

Damian: But I thought you wanted it?

Bruce: Why would I want—

Steph, disheveled: It took a few tries but I finally wrestled Killer Croc with my bare hands.

Bruce: That is highly against protocol—

Tim: Here's that jar of kidneys you asked for.

Bruce: SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!

Duke: The Robin test.

Bruce: What test?

Damian: The final test to become Robin, of course.

Tim: Please tell me I passed. I can't do this again.

Steph: Hang on, why are they all different?

Dick and Jason: *whistle*

[kpmatthewskidd]

closed \ @hcrrifyinglocation \ pearl hotel ballroom

"This is driving me crazy," they muttered, shaking their head as they downed another shot. "Fucking body parts turning up everywhere—they found a head a few days ago—and we're still having a party today?" K.P. sighed. "This is nuts."

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Stanley wasn't sure if he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't all too sure if he was supposed to be alive, either.

He was... somewhere. He didn't know where exactly, but it didn't matter. Nothing really seemed to matter all that much in this strange place. Compared to the unfathomable expanse of nothingness that surrounded him, everything else practically paled in comparison. Still, Stanley felt as though this all-consuming abyss that kept him prisoner within its dark maw deserved a name; at the very least, a title. Yet, it didn't feel right to call this place anything. Death too egregious, and Life too extroadinary; either terms felt far too extreme to his liking. There was nothing particularly hideous nor amazing about where he was. He was simply somewhere in-between.

For as long as he could remember, Stanley's world was just that. This somewhere; this in-between of not quite Death and not quite Life. This empty, greedy abyss that seemed to swallow him whole, stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was no sky, no ground, no anything; only the daunting dakness engulfing his every senses and leaving him horribly, hopelessly blank.

That wasn't all there was to it, however. This... somewhere, it was more than just a lifeless void.

Stanley wasn't sure if he could find the right words to properly describe it. He didn't think he could ever come to fully understand the feeling himself, but. Somehow, the abyss felt... hungry. Unimaginably, insatiably, and unbearably hungry.

The hunger seemed to eat away at Stanley, tearing off pieces of him chunk by chunk, piece by piece. With every blink, another part of himself seemed to disappear into the ravenous darkness around him. The void never took much at once, only pieces; nigh imperceptible impossibly tiny crumbs of what made him- so little that they should have hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. But Stanley noticed. He noticed every particle, every atom that was taken away from him by this greedy hunger. The darkness was eating him; digesting him.

It was as though hunger was all that mattered in this somewhere, this stomach; the world itself a single immense digestive system. He could practically feel the void's biting hunger pangs reverberate through his bones. It was so hungry, so hungry.

The dark ate him slowly, ripping him apart from inside out and outside in. It took his flesh first; stealing away the muscles and fat beneath the skin, leaving behind nothing but meager skin stretched over bone. Sometimes, not even his bones were given the luxury of being spared, and he would find himself with an odd dip in his side where the abyss had taken a rib or two; or with half his face lopsidedly sagging into a limp mess with no muscles, fat, nor eye socket to properly hold up the skin of his face onto his skull.

The hunger took without mercy, without order nor preference. It ate anything, everything, as long it helped abate the forever stabbing, starving desperation that painfully twisted and tore at its non-existent stomach. It never really was satisfied.

It got worse when it started eating his memories.

Stanley despised the thought of losing more of himself than simply his physical body to this greedy void. However, what terrified him far more than the notion that this insatiable hunger could breach even his mind, was the fact that he couldn't remember which memories it took.

Stanley couldn't remember much; before the darkness; before the endless hunger. He liked to imagine, though, of what he could have been before. He'd probably had a warm home, warmer than the cold, cold abyss. He'd probably had a loving family. Probably. He couldn't remember.

Everything turned unsure when his own mind started failing on him. Stanley tried to cling to what little he knew. He had his name held tight in his iron clad grip, repeating it to himself like a mantra. He would try and keep track of time, but it was all in vain. Time didn't seem to matter in the face of hunger. Perhaps it had been years since Stanley's arrival; hundred, maybe even thousands. Or, perhaps it had only been a few days, weeks, months. Stan once had a fleeting, terrifying thought that maybe Time too was already victim to the darkness' insatiable hunger.

However, as much as Stan could forget his past, his identity, and life, perhaps the most tragic loss to him greater than anything else was the memory of Him.

He was important to Stanley. He couldn't remember why, but he was. There was nothing of Him left in his memories. No face, no name; not even why He mattered to him in the first place. All he knew was that the loss of Him had struck him with such profound heartache and sorrow that it had left him weeping helplessly for so long, unable to move and rooted in one spot for days, weeks, years. He couldn't remember how long.

Stan was only snapped out of his comatose stupor by His hand.

It was all that was left of Him, other than the knowledge of His past existence. It was warm, a glowing red hand that pulsed almost reassuringly within Stanley's own, its long six digits curled tightly and firmly around his hand, never once faltering in its grip. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't have it. He's had it clutched within his own cold, rough palms like a lifeline since forever; every step he took and every move he made done hand in hand with Him.

Desperately, frantically, he held onto His hand, never once letting it go. Losing the hand meant losing Him for good, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with the consequences of that all alone.

However, ocasionally, even the the comforting presence of His hand was unable to keep his mind anchroed for too long, and Stanley would lose track of his memories. Plagued by odd laspes of utter emptiness, Stanley would suddenly forget. His own name, his face, everything he knew and remembered would slip withut warning between his fingers like sand; streaming down, down, down and getting lost in the gaping mouth of the void below him. He would wander aimlessly with no real destination in mind, simply roaming somwhere, anywhere.

He would come across all sorts of sights during these odd episodes of his. He'd crossed paths with hundreds upon thousands of partically decomposed remnants of once living, breathing organisms; All of them endeniably, for the lack of better words: dead. He'd walked past entire forests; enormous clusters of tall pine trees completely uprooted and floating in a massive mass of rotting leaves and half digested bark. He'd walked past countless animals, big and small, all in various stages of digestion. Animals always seemed to rot away faster than anything else, and Stanley wasn't so sure what that meant for him.

Once, Stan had somehow even found his way before the destroyed remains of a universe.

It was dead. There was no other way to describe the state it was in. He hadn't even known it was possible for entire universes to simply... die. Stolen away from its rightful place in the starry night sky.

The scene was everything he'd thought impossible to take place in this all-consuming abyss. It was extroadinary. A veritable bursting cacophany of light and heat. It was as though the universe's explosion had been paused at just the right moment, frozen in time at the very moment of its heat death. Its particles flickered, undulating softly and shifting ever so slightly like looking through a warped window. If Stanley stood still enough, and listened closely, he thought he could even hear the softest sound of the shattered screams of the broken remains of the universe ringing silently in the air. It was as ethereal as it was haunting.

The thought of the unimaginable power required to be able annihilate entire universes just like that... It scared Stan.

Stanley may not be sure of anything anymore, but as he watched the debris swirl gently in the blinding epicenter of the shattered universe from afar, he knew with a certainty that he didn't think he possessed anymore, that he did not belong here.

Part 1/2

[wolfchans]

BANG CHAN ♡ RAILWAY dominATE WORLD TOUR IN SEOUL (240901)

[brooklynislandgirl]

Deeper than Skin || Accepting

It creeps up on them both; in innocence he is with her when she buys a fistful of new sable brushes ~some of which she stroked across his palm so he could feel the full softness~, a basket-full of charcoals, pastels, and oil paints. He signs for the delivery of canvases, frames, bottles of gesso. Art and its creation is one of her favourite hobbies. Much like yoga and surfing and sometimes dancing, it is a solitary pursuit. There are worlds and alien vistas that live and thrive only inside of her head. Only a fraction of which make it to the waking world where others could see or touch them. And of these, nearly none of them feature humans. The faces, body references, and perfectly reproduced anatomy both inside and out are confined at best to sketch pads. She portions off a small part of the living room where the light comes streaming through the windows in the morning, where the dogs can't come in contact with the oils and the gesso. Sets up a little electrical kettle and a station of flavoured coffees, different trees. The first day she even has breakfast; fresh fruit slices and berries in her water jug, refrigerated to near icy perfection. She stretches the canvases, primes them. Sometimes she murmurs to him about the Van Gogh that the family owns ~hangs in her Auntie's study~ or how she prefers Impressionism over Vorticism. Soon though, conversation falls by the wayside as she puts in her air-pods and begins to work in earnest with only music in her ears or lips. The opening salvo. Food is the first casualty. Never really one with a robust appetite, she first picks at the things she collects for herself. Then they get set aside, in favour of the very same hot drinks she'd laid in before she started. Short sweeps of the charcoal outline her dreams, long and slow fine brush strokes bleeding colour into the work. Increasingly erratic movements, multiple projects in various stages of completion when he finally steps in at day four stretching into five, after she's passed on sleep, personal hygiene, barely takes the time to tend to other imperative functions. Deep shadows etch hollows beneath her fervently bright eyes. She puts up a token protest, explaining that she has to finish them. They need life. She squirms, wriggles, writhes within his gentle grasp, one heavy arm beneath the crook of her legs, the other wrapped securely around her shoulders. One thing Beth tends to forget is that most of his dogs have a good three or more stone on her and he wrestles them for fun and exercise. She stands petulant as he takes care to strip her out of the things she wears. As he pulls the pins out of her hair so that it falls down her shoulders. She finally concedes defeat when he sets her into the tub and the hot waer works to soothe the muscles she doesn't realise ache as if tormented by fiends from the pit. And even if she turns her face away, his hands stay gentle as he draws the sponge over every tawny inch of her with the same meticulous patience as she had shown with her paintings. He tries to coax her into conversation with the simple sounding question, punctuated with a little vocalisation on either end of it. She'd ventured into portraits this time. One hand drips soapy water to soak the white dress shirt he's wearing, sleeves rolled up to show his ink and the veins beneath his skin. She strokes his traps carefully. "Dis." Fingers saunter down and stroke between elbow and wrist, then each of his fingers in turn. "Dis." She glances toward him though her gaze rises no higher than the plush tiers of his lips.

"But really, mebbe is da liver. No one really stops to t'ink about alla crazy kine it does or can do, when it function properly. "

A small pause.

"Hyoid bone. Is horse-shoe shape bone you find in da anterior midline of da neck between da chin an' thyroid cartilage. When it rest, it lie between da base of da mandible an' third vertebrae of da c-spine. Is da only bone in da human body not connect to any oddahs near by, so I often wonder if it get lonely. It is anchored by muscles from da anterior, posterior, an' inferior. Dey discover a modern lookin' hyoid bone in a Neandert'al man from da Kebara Cave in Israel, an' dat lead to an argument as to wheddah Neandert'al had a descended larynx, an' was capable of makin' human like speech. Plus, I t'ink it kind of neat. Look like dat movie Loki's horns."

[nitefise-art]

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[boydswan]

Rhapsody in August (1991) dir. Akira Kurosawa

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

Hunger

~

Okay hear me out!

We have all talked about how Jason gets pit rage because of the Lazarus waters being gross ecto, or how his obssession is the Joker and needing to kill him and a bunch of other things,

Yes?

With me so far?

Okay!

Let me give that a twist,

That Pit Rage Jason feels is hunger, specifically a ghosts hunger.

Jason came back from the dead not fully, he's a starving ghost with a malnourished proto-core, until he properly eats it will stay weak and hungry.

How does the Joker fit in all this?

Easy, With the lack of good ecto for Jason to feed and stabilize from the next best option is his murderer.

Consuming that who killed you is very nourishing for a new ghost.

So Jason getting angry with the bats and others when they tell him not to kill the Joker or actively prevent him from even getting near him is like putting all his favourite foods right in front of him and then taking it away from him,

Each time getting worse for Jason, only getting hungrier and hungrier each time it happens.

How would you feel if you were starving and people kept offering you food and then pulling it away before you could eat it?

Confused?

Desperate?

Anger?

It doesn't count as cannibalism if you're not the same

~

Jason biting the bars of his holding cell like a dog

Dick: "Is it just me or where his teeth always that sharp?"

~

Oracle: "I lost sight of the Joker!"

Jason hunched over with glowing green eyes while drooling: "No worries he's nearby I can smell him."

Other Bats listening on the comms: " ...What the hell do you mean smell ! Are you drooling ?!"

~

Bats: "Wow Jason sure is getting creative trying to get the Joker!"

Jason:

~

Check tags for some funny extras

~

Just an Idea

[love-filter]

Lou Gala as Neifile and Karan Gill as Panfilo

in The Decameron (2024)

[teamingmate]

Herber

[incorrectbatfam]

Duke: How's it going?

Tim: New spleen, same assassins.

[hinamie]

the same flame that burns you; birthed you first

p1