#mild gore with hands? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

b0amagination · 2 months ago

Text

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.

22 notes · View notes

irellia · 11 months ago

Text

death/blood/gore tws.

( John wick Mizu au, where she's a young assassin that seeks revenge against the men, one of whom is her biological father, who brutally hunted down & killed her family when she was young. )

She can't remember their faces, but she remembers his voice.

She remembers him saying it's nothing personal. Just tying up... loose ends.

She remembers the river town, the fireworks off the dock. Someone running his fingers through her hair.

Mother dead in the bathtub, veins split open, a bullet to her head. She remembers watching them kill her through the mirror, choking on her tears trying not to scream under their bed.

She remembers the whistling, the promise not to hurt her if she comes out.

She remembers running and running and flames, smoke filling her lungs.

Someone pulling her from the fire.

She doesn't remember her mother's face now. She remembers the sound of her voice breaking as she screamed. The roar of the sea as Eiji carried her away.

The men stand before her house, this place she's been kept hidden all her life, far away from home where no one was supposed to find them, and watch it burn to ashes. Clad in black, black suits, black jackets, a black tiger tattooed on their wrists.

She spends all of her years in a prison of rage and fury; when she sleeps all she sees is fire. Mother torn away from her, and herself, a small, fragile thing, hiding; ashes in her lungs, blood in her mouth. Eiji's hands, scalded from the fire, reaching out to pull her from the flames. She hears Mother scream her name. She wakes up, gasping for air.

On the run, she takes shelter with Eiji, the assassin her Mother's father hired to keep her safe, who takes her in and teaches her the tricks of his trade as she dreams of revenge.

She never stops hungering for it; detached, cold, she does not make friends, she's not good with words; with people; she's got violence in her heart and murder in her eyes. She trains and trains, night and day, molds herself into a weapon; she does not want to be happy; she does not want to live; does not care if death becomes her shadow. She cares for one thing only: vengeance. She will have it, no matter what it costs the world around her.

you will get yourself killed! Eiji snaps at her one moonless night as he watches her walk away from him, desperation in his voice.

She stops, but does not look back. Her voice does not falter when she says Maybe one day. Not before they're dead.

She walks away and does not see him again, alive.

†

Trust no one. Everyone's either an obstacle that must be obliterated or a means to an end. Expendable. Inessential. Unimportant. It can not be any other way. This is what it takes if you want to succeed. she tells herself, over and over again.

She pretends to be a man to infiltrate an elite violent criminal syndicate that operates internationally for the purpose of obtaining access to the men she seeks, track them down and kill them. Every last one of them; only one of them is her father; but all of them have killed her.

Slick, precise, savage, effective, taciturn; run from her with everything you've got, if you've been marked for her bullet, it won't matter how fast you run or where you go; no one escapes The Ghost; they say; she's built a name for herself now- everyone wants him to work for them; no one knows where to find him; The Ghost; The Smoke; I watched Smoke kill three men in a bar with a pencil. Not even a pen. A fucking pencil, Violet says one late night over his drinks, smoke in his mouth and fire in his eyes. I would love to meet him. bring him to me. he says; he does not know, she's already coming for him.

The Cabinet of Curiosities is empty when she pries the door open and steps inside, steps slow, measured, perfectly controlled; her trademark precise, almost military, bearing, the one that hangs off of her like a burial shroud, cold, detached, powerfully controlled, firmly in place. Geraldine looks up from her desk. She looks like a renaissance painting brought to life; she’s got this long dark curly black hair all the way down to her back and limpid brown eyes that droop and she is wearing all black, leather and silk, a velvet choker around her neck and this slash of velvet red lipstick, blood on snow.

“You don’t look well, Smoke,” she says, and it’s perfect—the slinky dress, the way she’s leaning against the counter like a femme fatale, her knowing smile, slick and lovely as oil on film. It’s perfect, her performances always are: here, enveloped in low red neon lights and smoke (she is always smoking; one day Mizu, voice curt, cold, impassive, tells her It'll kill you; Geraldine inhales, blows out the smoke she's swallowed all over Mizu, then stabs her cig out, laughter sharp, chilling; lovely. Will it, now... You care? she taunts Mizu, reaching out to toy with the buttons of her shirt. Mizu does not answer, shrugs her hand off.) she's putting on quite the show.

Mizu grunts at it anyway, a hollow, bitter sort of sound. That’s the difference between Mizu and her, just then; Mizu can’t seem to stop being real. It is why she is effective, why she's come this far. She does not give a fuck. Geraldine can’t seem to be real at all. (Later they’ll meet somewhere between the two, but now? It’s unfortunate.)

“I need the Butcher.” Mizu says, plainly, and it’s just her, Geraldine-Riley-Jane-Isabelle, whoever she is just then—who sucks in a breath. The mask doesn’t fall (never, never) but it slips a little. Daughter of a high-ranking member of the High Table that provides people like her like him like Smoke, guns, ammo, shelter and anything they might desire; Mizu's heard the stories about her, too; an unstoppable force, The Thief. there is nothing I cannot get my hands on, she tells Mizu one night, enveloped in shadows and smoke in the corner of some slick bar in the underbelly of New York, her hand slipping down the curve of Mizu's chest, between her legs before Mizu's hand shoots out, catching her hand mid-way, a dark smirk on her mouth.

“Oh,” Geraldine says now. ”You've been shot.” Mizu does not answer, but Geraldine notices how tightly his left hand is pressed against his side. Mizu steps closer, grunting. “Who did this?” she asks, and Mizu laughs then, darkly. It’s a nastier sound, now, less bitter and more cruel, low. “Why, think it might have been one of your friends?” Something about Geraldine's face sharpens, hardens. Her eyes go dead, the warmth of them snuffed out like a candle. Mizu will never tell her, but that’s why she liked her—the playfulness balanced with the spite, like a single-sided blade. Serrated. “Don’t,” Geraldine-Riley-Jane-Isabelle says, and her voice is dead too. “No one's our friend.” And then, she too, becomes smoke, slinking away in a swirl of leather and smoke, snuffing out her cig against the counter. Come with me, she beckons Mizu closer, ushers her into the dark belly of the beast.

The Cabinet of Curiosities, is not, after all what it appears to be. Nothing ever is, around here, she's found. Not even herself. Least of all herself.

She’s masked under her own self illusions for her father, and she’s lying—she doesn’t speak for all of them, the terrible class of people who make up the criminal substratum; the one they all work for, here, where no one breathes or dies without him knowing: Violet. Some of them have morals and some of them don’t, and some of them will, if given the proper motivation; Mizu will learn that, soon. But just then she’s entirely scar tissue and aching, a tempest of rage roiling in her blood; she wants her mother back; she wants their blood on her hands. Everything about her is the profound ache of absence, of loss, of a life taken from her, running and running, she does not know when to stop, and she’s unwilling to believe her when she says they are not their friends. “It wasn’t one of them anyways,” Mizu mutters, a kind of slantwise half-apology that comes out gritty and dark. Geraldine-not-Geraldine says nothing, but something about her posture eases. Mizu's not sure how to take that. She watches out of the corner of her eye as Geraldine raises her eyes to her for a moment—almost lazily— but does not stop walking. Geraldine leads her through dark, long hallways, the walls thrumming with the pulse of distant music somewhere under their feet ( the Den; the underground club where anything is possible, accessible only through The Cabinet of Curiosities; she wonders who's down there, right now; looking for her). She makes her sit in the dark in some room she's never been taken before; pours her a drink, and when she says I don't drink, Geraldine knocks it back herself, flinching at its sharpness, pours another one, and pushes the glass towards Mizu where she sits on the edge of some bed. You'll fucking need it. she says, and then she is gone. “Fuck..." Mizu growls, peeling her shirt back to expose the gunshot wound, grunting as a sharp jolt of pain shoots through her ribcage. Geraldine comes back, carrying a white box which she wordlessly sets down near Mizu as she kneels before her. With a shock of realization, she blinks, eyes cold and empty, ice, snaps "What the fuck are you doing?" flinching away when Geraldine reaches for the buttons of her bloodsoaked shirt. She pulls her hand back and stares at Mizu, sighing. She does not say anything for a long moment, too long, but then, those delicate, slim shoulders of hers slump over under whatever tension they are holding, and she relents. "The butcher's with Violet." she admits, curtly, as though afraid of what Mizu might think. Smoke works for Violet, too; Geraldine told her as much once, and Mizu had sneered, had said, I don't work for anyone. She does not know what's happened; she does not know why he suddenly disappeared two weeks ago, only to come back now, shot half dead, growling about how Violet's men are somehow her friends, and not Smoke's. They've killed together. No?

What have you done, Smoke? What have you done? Geraldine wonders but does not ask the question, is not sure she wants to know...

"Don't worry—" she begins, but Smoke cuts her off, breathless, voice hard, piercing the air between the two of them, like a knife, stabbing. "Violet's here?" Mizu's voice is a growl, salivating over its prey; god help us, he's got murder in his eyes. What have you done? she wonders again, and fear, deep and unfathomable, burrows into Geraldine's stomach as she gathers her needle and thread, sterile gauze and antiseptics from her box, says, resolutely, No, Mizu. He's not. But Mizu's already on her feet and heading for the door, dragging her feet, grunting in pain, blood streaming profusely from her open wound,

stop, god. he's not here. Butcher left two hours ago. Come back to the bed, you'll fucking bleed to death. she snaps, impatient, astonished yet somehow unsurprised by Mizu's stubborn, infuriating disregard of anything but whatever he thinks must be done.

Mizu grunts, but in the end, she comes back to her bed; they are in her room, she realizes; they must be. There's silk all over her bed, black sheets, crimson curtains, blocking out the light. There's smoke in the air, sweet and cloying, thick with Geraldine's perfume, lilacs and something sour, bitter. Mizu watches her clean away the blood, hissing through her teeth at the touch— firm yet gentle— but not flinching, too familiar with the pain, the death, the anguish to mind it.

"Do you even know what you are doing?" she huffs, impatient, watching Geraldine's fingers come away slick with her blood, relief flooding those brown eyes when she realises the bullet's not been lodged somewhere into her side, it's passed through her, cleanly. “You’re drunk,” Mizu says, after swallowing a mouthful of the drink she's brought her, growling in pain as Geraldine begins to disinfect the wound. “Join the club.” she snaps back, says, it's deep, it'll hurt, which Mizu does not answer, only knocks back the bourbon in her glass, bearing the pain wordlessly, unflinchingly.

The needle buries into her side, over and over again, the wound must have been deeper than she thought. She grits her teeth through it, ice-blue eyes fixed on the threads of silver light pouring over the crimson curtains.

Somewhere at her feet, she hears a phone ring, an incoming message. Geraldine pauses for far longer than she has ever seen her pause away from a task at hand before. Then, she calmly returns to her job, patching her up, soft, small hands tender against her torn skin, far gentler than they need to be.

“Smoke…”

“What?” Mizu turns to look at her, and she’s struck—all over again, by how she looks at her, like she’s tearing into her with her eyes and vivisecting whatever organs are left there beneath her skin. Surely, not a heart. Maybe a liver. She probably has a liver, somewhere for all the rage to go, like liquor flooding her bloodstream,: she does not drink; anger is her addiction; her obsession; the poison in her blood.

Geraldine looks up at her with something dark in her eyes, something frighteningly hopeless; desperate.

For a long, long moment Isabelle (who isn’t Isabelle to Mizu, not yet, she's still Geraldine, the pretty girl that greets her into The Cabinet) looks back at her, letting herself be looked at. Letting him look. Then, as though something important has been wordlessly decided, she leans in, her voice pitched low in her ear, and says— “What,” Mizu echoes, surprised at the closeness, cutting her off.

Geraldine does not pull away.

“The map, it’s in the storage container at the Bunker. Number 1-11. The combination for the lock is 03-12-77, my mother’s birthday. Find him on new year's eve. At the Cellar.” Mizu blinks, shock swiftly jolting right through her system, like lightning, striking: powerful; absolute. Inevitable. “Are you…” “Mark it down as a win,” Geraldine says. She drains the last of the bourbon left in Mizu's glass, sets it back on the bed near them. Her hand, Mizu notices, is shaking. “I think you might need one, right now...”

She holds her phone up for Mizu to look at the message sent to her not ten minutes ago.

UNKNOWN NUMBER WORLDWIDE OPEN CONTRACT THE SMOKE $10 MILLION USD

Mizu does not flinch; she does not gasp in shock. It's not fear in her eyes; it is not desperation; it's something darker, violent. It's death. It's murder. A detached sneer, a cold, fleeting touch to her hand. A nod. Smoke rises, filling the air between the two of them, hungered, inescapable, like breath shared between lungs.

Geraldine doesn’t try to keep her, when she goes.

#blue eye samurai mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai #bes mizu #BEGGIN the maneskin cover playing in the background as she murders entire gangs with her knife gun bare hands screaming her rage #crisp white shirt crimson with blood leather jacket torn blood on her face and fury in her eyes. Unstoppable.#gore cw #blood cw #tws galore but still mild #mizu x female oc #john wick tag.#writing tag.

30 notes · View notes