#never done gore before

[ecoxlar-arts]

I got really inspired by @pleasedontkickme's fic Sins of the Sun, accidentally imagined a whole scene.

Scene in question:

[redscrawl]

Brian Moser they could never make me hate you <3

Creds under the cut

Tv show: Dexter

Red song lyrics are from American Psycho the musical. (yes thats a thing)

Quote with the black background and the light blue are both from the Dexter fandom wiki

Blood quote is Kait Rolkowski

Characters are Dexter Morgan and Brian Moser from the show Dexter <3

[foolsocracy]

I can't help but notice you haven't posted any angst in a while and I'm suspicious

whipped this one up just for u anon

[hatchetmode]

Warm Bodies (2013) lighting studies 

[pepperpixel]

The adventures of goofball mcchucklefuck part 1, aka, art dump of myself / evil me stuff that I’ve drawn over the past 2 years! That I either never finished or just never posted! I’m gonna try my best to sort these in chronological order. But… I kinda forget exactly when I drew a few of them. Mostly it should all be correct tho.

This part featuring! Quite a bit of vent art! And a few sketch pages from my first forays into bars! Cuz… I was sad 2 years ago lol… and desperately searching for friends.. not all of the art is going to be venty tho I promise!!!

[uhohdad]

Do you have a moodboard or visuals for girl who conquered the mountain??? I love how you describe everything ❤️

⌞ THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN ⌟

⌞ KONIG X READER HUNGER GAMES AU ⌟

[agueforts]

me vs eternal grudges abt d20 captions

[drawbauchery]

Also I'm just wondering did you get the art I submitted?

yes

[defire]

For @kabie-whump 's magic whump week, this is part of The Gifted, an older story from the same world as Dance of Death.

Content: whumpee death, mild gore, magic overuse, broken bones

Merreth huffed in annoyance as he watched Len, the last Gravitor they had in stock, using up his powers to enchant their army.

Len stood at his side, sniffling irritatingly the way tortured kids do when you stop torturing them. More of a shaky breathing, hoarse, like some undead thing. Len had lost most of his hair, and the bits left were white and brittle. His nails had fallen off, and they had to drag him out there in the first place. He trembled, looking at the line of barbarians they had to enchant with this boy's gravity powers.

Merreth grabbed Len by the back of his collar before he could cringe away.

"Get used to it kid." He said. "I did. Look how well I turned out."

"Merreth," Len's chin trembled. Unhealed scars on his face and arms were opening up again as the boy tried to exert his power. "I'm... if I keep this up, I'm gonna die. I just know it's gonna kill me."

Merreth snorted.

"Tough it out, bitch." Merreth put his left hand on the back of the boy's neck, the right hand on the the priest's throat. Power sapped through his hands.

As Len drew too much magic out for Merreth, he would be experiencing all the abuse he'd recently been allowed to heal from, all at once.

"Can't you--ugh--" The boy gasped as his lip split back open.

Ah, split lips, broken noses. Merreth looked back with a grimace of... happiness? at his own past time in the facility. If you proved useful enough, you'd live; you'd even become more powerful, just like Merreth had.

Even so, it was rather unpleasant to watch the boy fall apart. It was like watching someone get beat up, backwards. It wasn't nice to recall precisely what had happened. Merreth focused on his powerful biceps, the thrill of the power of a gravitor rushing through his fingertips. 

Another enchantment, done. The next barbarian allowed Nogeree to lay hands upon him.

"Can't you use Clairvoyants for awhile?" Len whimpered. He was barely standing, gripping to Merreth's coat.

"They told me to do a gravitor enchantment." Merreth grunted. 

Chazans didn't give a fuck about using up their tools.

"I... Can't." The boy said. Then he let out a shuddering cry, that would've been a scream if it wasn't so weak.

Merreth looked down at the kid to see his nose bleeding, face twisted in silent anguish as he bent forward, half suspended by Merreth's grip. He was clutching his left arm. It was hanging at an odd angle. The kid shuddered, and gripped Merreth's arm. He held on like he wanted to give away everything.

"Can't?" Merreth said. "You better not mean that."

"I--I'm trying." Len sobbed, sniffing and forcing himself to stop. "It hurts... so much. My arm is re-broken. Please let me rest. My powers will come back."

"We'll torture you again." Merreth said. Torture always worked. Most of the time it always did, anyway.

The boy lowered his head, clenched his teeth, and poured power into Merreth's arm. He started sobbing, but he didn't stop again. Merreth could feel his will, pushing with the hope to expire with his power. 

Merreth felt the last bit of power, like life-force seeping into his arm. He had to wrench it away, this time, and he bestowed it on the barbarian.

Len screamed and crumpled, as if both legs had broken under him. Yep, looked like they had. The boy shook and convulsed, then slowly the convulsions became slower and quieter. Wasn't any juice left in him.

Merreth stooped over and covered the kid's mouth with his hand, to feel if he was breathing. He poked fingers into Len's neck to see if he had a pulse. Nothing.

Merreth glanced up to see irritated Chazans moving over to the scene.

He frowned, angry. Then he took a deep breath and stood up, a heavy weight on his chest. 

"Now look what you made me do." Merreth yelled at them. "We killed our last Gravitor."

[melissa-titanium]

OK SO THIS IS SCRAPEPD BUT IWANTEDTO SHOW THE ONES THAT ISKETCHED OUT .IDONT KNOW HOW TO DO COMICS EVEN SILLY LITTLE ONES IVELITERALLYNEEVBR DONE THEM BEFORE HLP . HELP ME

[ilasknives]

CREATION, SO DIVINE. (another new fic)

Hi, I keep creating new things instead of finishing my old ones. Here's another one! This exists because I saw an idea (thank you @whumpsday), loved it, and ran with it way too far so now I have an entirely new set of characters, oops. This one's about the kidnapped whumpees of an artist, dedicated to creating his perfect project, his masterpiece.

CW: med whump, whumpees being stitched together, creepy whumper, gore/descriptions of violence/medical procedures (the entire process is described and I tried to make it pretty graphic), restraints, whumpees awake during surgery.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpinthepot

There’s a scraping sound, a rasp of metal on metal, the scalpel dragging across the tray as the man at the foot of the table picks it up. Tenley can see it in his peripherals, the glint of fluorescents on steel, but he can’t turn his head to see it properly. Nothing but his eyelids move, and even that feels molasses-slow, like he has to work for it. He can breathe, but his chest is tight, heavy with fear and whatever drugs this man has put into him and oh, god, he’s terrified. He’s fucked. He’s so absolutely fucked. He’s going to die here, he’s going to die after being cut open and his organs harvested or whatever else by this creepy fucking man holding a scalpel and humming to himself and he’s going to be awake to see it and –

The man pauses. Fuck, something must have changed in his breathing, or he’s somehow gotten his attention, because the blade stops twisting, the glare of light off it holding steady, almost directly into Tenley’s eyes.

“Have you woken, my love?”

No. No, I haven’t. Go back to ignoring me.

A laugh. He still can’t move, and his silent pleas go unheard. “Beautiful, beautiful, that’s perfect. It’s perfect. That’s both of you, now.” He gives a delighted sigh. “How wonderful is that? You get to watch.”

He doesn’t want to watch. He’d have said as much, but his body is still not listening to him, and the most he can do is manage a noise that just sounds like a breathy sigh.

He hears it again from somewhere beside him, a drawn out sort of whine, like someone’s trying very hard to make noise. Both of you. There’s two of them here.

He can’t turn his head to confirm, but his stomach churns, acid rising to burn the base of his throat. Fuck this. Fuck this.

The man with the scalpel hums happily again, moving around behind the tables. There’s movement, and noise, the sound of things clicking into place, and whatever Tenley’s strapped down to sits up slowly. He doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t want to know, but now he’s going to, now he can see half the room and the rolling table with the tray of tools set just in between the foot of two beds. His right arm is unbound, but the rest of him isn’t, so even if he could move, he couldn’t go anywhere. The bed beside him sits up, too, and someone else’s left arm is pushed into his field of vision. The man wheels a table in between and reaches for Tenley’s arm.

Don’t touch me, he thinks, as he sees long, gloved fingers close around his wrist. Don’t fucking touch me. Get your hands off me. Please.

His arm is manoeuvred to rest on the table, and the same is done to the other boy’s arm. The scalpel is nowhere to be seen, for now, but that’s worse. It’s worse. When is it going to come back?

“This is wonderful,” the man is saying as he picks a pen, some bright purple marker, off the tray. “It really is. I wasn’t sure if you’d wake up, you know? I wasn’t sure if you’d get to be part of this.” He pauses, pen hovering above Tenley’s arm. “You’re part of it anyway, of course, really – but now you really get to understand, right?”

Tenley can’t answer him, but even if he could, his eyes are drawn to the quick and precise strokes of the pen over his skin, measured against the back of the other boy’s.

The man shifts their arms, lining up the marks on each of them, bottom lip between his teeth, like he’s really focusing.

“I’m just making sure I get it right,” he murmurs, like he feels Tenley’s eyes on him. “This is supposed to be perfect. I don’t want to get anything wrong.”

Tenley tries to scream again, to do something, but it’s just air that hisses out between his teeth.

There’s a tsk. “Don’t worry, my love. You’ll see. You’ll understand. You don’t need to be afraid.”

God, yes, he does. He’s so afraid that he can feel it in his bones, in his chest. He feels weak with it, like if he tries to let it go he’ll fall apart. He tries to move, and nothing happens.

He wants to go home.

His head lolls until his chin rests on his shoulder. He can still see everything in between the beds, and he does not win the fight to close his eyes. He doesn’t want to see, but something inside is screaming for him to not look away.

He doesn’t see the man reach for it, but the scalpel’s back.

Get that the fuck away from me. Don’t touch me with it. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.

The first press of the blade to his skin has him screwing his eyes shut in terrified anticipation, but he can’t feel it. The only sensation is the gentle tugging of his skin drawing apart under the steel, and somehow that’s worse, and he’s watching again now the blood spilling from the opening seam. It’s almost effortless, the way the scalpel pulls along the marker line, a steady hand on a steadier canvas. He can’t move. He can’t move, and his arm’s being carved open like he’s in a fucking butcher’s shop.  

Bile rises in his throat again when the blade goes up the back of his hand, curving around his knuckles, exposing tendons and muscles to the air. Oh, fuck, he’s going to be sick, or pass out, or both. He can’t just – watch this. He can’t. He can’t sit here and watch this man cut him open and hum to himself like this is just another day. The things he would give to be able to move, even just to twitch a finger, to give himself a hint of hope instead of sitting here like a goddamned corpse that someone’s decided to take a look inside of.

Beside him, there’s another drawn out whine, and it spikes his fear so badly that his vision blacks over for a second. That reminder of someone else - another person witnessing this – makes his heart race, his throat constrict. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this, and he doesn’t want someone else to be there with him.

When he blinks away the fog, he wishes he hadn’t. The scalpel’s looped back around and is nearly back to his elbow now, the back of his forearm sectioned off in a neat shape.

There’s blood everywhere.

The blade crosses again, connects the end of the line to the beginning, and fuck, why couldn’t he have passed out properly? He doesn’t want to see this. He’d give anything to be able to close his eyes. But he can’t, so he’s stuck watching helplessly as the man fits the blade of the scalpel carefully under the edge of the cuts and lifts, peeling back skin and fat and god knows what else, blood spilling from beneath it, opening up to a gaping mess of muscles that shift and pull when his arm is turned to each side so the man can peer inside the wound.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.  He can’t even scream.

It’s now that the man turns to the other boy’s arm, lifting it gently from the puddle of Tenley’s blood on the table and inspecting the marker lines. The scalpel presses in there, too, and it’s the same process. Up from the elbow to the back of the hand, the blade sliding smoothly across the back of the knuckles, and back down again. The lines join. The skin gets lifted away.

It’s disgusting, Tenley thinks, and it’s terrifying. Blood and tissue everywhere, their arms coated in it, the man’s gloves stained red. Open wounds and writhing muscle, things he was never supposed to see, things that were never meant to be opened up to the air. It’s – fuck, it’s awful. He can’t take his eyes off it.

He doesn’t realise that he’s started to cry until the man picks both of their arms up, measuring them against each other again. His vision blurs over the scene of him making several small slices at the corners of each wound and lifting carefully the piece of skin on each side, but not removing it.

No, he says to himself when their arms are fitted together. He can barely see through his tears, but he can make out the way the gloves slide against their blood-slick skin. No, no, no. Stop touching me. Let me go.

“Loves,” the man breathes. “I know. I know, it’s an emotional moment. But don’t cry. Look, look how well you fit together.” He holds their arms together, fingertips to fingertips, elbow to elbow. The missing pieces of skin are perfectly matched, the edges lining up like puzzle pieces.

It’s then that Tenley has the nauseating realisation of what this man really intends to do. He makes a desperate sort of moan, a protest that barely reaches the front of his mouth, and the tears fall harder. His vision blurs again.

“Shh,” soothes the man, and he only cries harder. “It’s okay.”

He steps away but comes back half a second later with some sort of restraint that he uses to strap their arms together in position. He takes a needle off the tray, and some sort of thread. Tenley can barely see at all, but it’s clear what he’s doing, shucking off his dirty gloves in favour of new ones and threading the needle and thread together. He lifts their arms to check, then sets them down again, bringing the needle close.

He still can’t feel anything but the pulling of the edges of the wound, that lifted skin that the needle is travelling through, down under one side and up on the other, through the other boy’s skin, and his. Together. Through his tears, he sees the man shift the restraint to get past it. From the back of the hand to the elbow on one side now, and each stitch feels like it lasts hours, the horror building with each loop of the thread. Needle down, needle up, thread tightened. Tied off. Again. Over and over, he watches it dip beneath his skin and come back out through someone else’s, and he can only imagine the sound of it tearing if he ripped his arm away. It’s flesh on flesh, insides on insides, skin held together by thread and a careful hand.

He lifts their arms, shifts the position of their elbows so he can get to the underside, and Tenley still can’t stop looking. He wants to. He doesn’t want to see this. Neither, by the sounds he can hear from beside him, does the other person.

Another wave of nausea washes over him. The other person. The other person whose arm is being stitched to his. He struggles to get his breathing back under control, head spinning, sick to his stomach. The stitches are nearly back to the elbow now, the circuit almost closed. The needle goes in, the needle comes out. And in. And out. The gap pulls together with one last lift of the needle, and it’s tied off with deft fingers.  

Now that their arms are held together, the restraint is removed entirely, the metal of the buckle clicking when it drops down onto the tray. There’s not as much blood flowing now, but what spilled is still there, a thick puddle underneath their arms and dried smears of it on everything.

Tenley tries to breathe, but he can’t, not well. The tears won’t stop.

The man steps back to admire his work and gives a delighted laugh. “Oh, look at that. Look at that,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s talking to Tenley anymore. “It’s beautiful.”

He turns and drags over a cart piled with unopened bandages, and the finality of it all sends Tenley into a harder fit of tears. The man makes a sympathetic noise and grabs his face with his blood-wet fingers. He can feel it smear across his cheek.

“You’ll see,” he says, and presses a kiss to the top of Tenley’s head. “Don’t worry.”

He changes his gloves again, and swaps out the bloodied table with something cleaner to rest their arms on. The wetness on Tenley’s cheek dries slowly.

He fits the end of a bandage into Tenley’s palm and wraps it backward to the other boy’s hand. It wraps around, and around, and around, and around, covering the evidence, hiding that gruesome mess beneath it. Tenley’s almost grateful.

The man doesn’t pay much more attention to either of their crying, anymore, too invested in what he’d done.

“Beautiful,” he’s saying. “It’s beautiful.”

[googiesita]

forgot to post this one ywsterday dont rlly like it

day 2: candy gore

[halfdeadsacrifice]

anatomical heart + exposed ribs under the cut

Be careful. It's delicate.

(or: Vayu has extremely normal feelings about emotional intimacy wyd)

[theclisterz]

Cringetober day 14 ! Candygore!!

[what-yadoking-likes]

The heisters occasionally hold ‘Slides Parties’.

The premise is very simple - any heister who wants to participate as a presenter can do so. They must prepare and present a short PowerPoint presentation on the topic of their choosing - and it can, indeed, be on absolutely ANYTHING - under 10 minutes in length, and then their captive audience are free to ask a few questions before the next presentation.

Of course, sometimes the presentations descend into chaos, because the presenter is a chaotic entity - nobody expected Duke’s presentation to be of this sort.

“Well,” Duke began, smiling broadly at his audience, “it’s so wonderful to have the opportunity to talk to you all about my passion - art!

“But I am no fool. I know not everyone shares my appreciation for paintings and sculptures.” He sighed, as if disappointed in his coworkers.

“So that’s why I thought I’d share with you my favourite - and I’m trying to use language all of you will understand - horniest art.”

He clicks the mouse, and this image appears on-screen:

“First, we have Perseus with the head of Medusa by Cellini. Lovely work, truly - but perhaps we ought to rename it Perseus with a bubble butt. I believe it was Sydney who taught me that, ah, delightful phrase.”

Sydney nodded, grinning and cackling to herself in the corner, a can of beer clasped loosely in her fingers.

“Now-” Another click -

“Does anyone know who this is?”

Immediately the heisters began shouting out various theories.

“Jesus!”

“The angel Gabriel!”

“BAIN!”

Raucous laughter, followed by a hollow beep, and: “I wish.”

The suggestions continue, until finally someone gets it.

“My next Grindr hook-up!”

“Satan-”

“Yes! This is Lucifer, the fallen angel, the devil Himself.”

“Damn,” Sokol whistled, leaning forward on his knees with his elbows, “really do wish he was next Grindr hookup. He’s a... handsome devil.”

Duke managed to only show one more picture before his time was up.

“This has all been rather... male centric so far. So, how about the Ecstasy of St Teresa? Uh, literally.”

“What,” Hoxton asked, once the uproar had somewhat died down, “err. What’s got her so...”

“She’s having a religious experience, of course,” Duke answered, barely able to contain his own laughter. “She’s having a most holy, spiritual moment, Hoxton.”

[recovering-vamp]

Composition studies of Suspiria (2018).