#tooth gore

[stuffed-gutz]

Nerve still attached to tooth- Oren Gottfried, MD

[undead-nothosaur]

Blasphemous Rumours by Depeche Mode is everything to me

little dnd comic, this song specifically always felt like how my character feels some of his resentment towards the gods because of how our team leader's life has been unfair

[saccharine-suffering]

Let's talk about teeth.

I can't imagine too many whumpers are giving their captives toothbrushes. And when teeth are uncared for, cavities form. And when cavities are untreated, infections happen. And when infections happen, whumpee is left in agony.

You see, the nerves in your head are very sensitive, and very connected. An infected cavity isn't a mere pain in the jaw, no, it will radiate into the eye, the ear, the skull, the nose. A passive torture that only gets worse and worse the longer it goes untreated.

Imagine a whumpee, curled up on themself, teeth clenched and hands desperately massaging their temples, praying that they'll black out so they don't have to endure this for another second.

Imagine a whumpee volunteering to get their teeth yanked out if it means the offending infection goes with it. Imagine the whumper's reaction when they eagerly open wide for the pliers.

Imagine the relief and agony that comes with the moment their tooth is pulled from their head. Gushing blood and throbbing pain, but also pure bliss knowing that the sleepless nights of throbbing and pounding are finally over.

[jaws-and-canines]

Broken Teeth, #1

A Count The Days story. Comes after Respite. Contains brief mentions of tooth gore, brief non-con implication. --- The coridoor stinks of rubbing alcohol and bleach at the tail-end of the night shift. Iverson rubs the grit from his eyes and picks up the keys from his key-chain, turning on the lights in the cell as he unlocks it.

Haskell is asleep, almost exactly where Iverson left him, crumpled up like a discarded piece of paper. Iverson sets the leather roll-up down on the floor, the tools shining in the fluorescents, and beside them, a first-aid kit, a paper cup with two white pills in it on top. 

Iverson smiles, the dimple in his cheek showing, as it always does when he is genuinely happy. “Good morning,” he coos.

Haskell stirs. He opens his eyes slowly, peeling them apart. Blood and tears and God-only-knows what else is tracked down his cheeks. He feels like death. Lying on a plastic mattress on the floor, utterly naked save for the carpet of bruises and cuts and scrapes that layer over his skin like a half-finished oil painting. His shoulder burns like hell, slipped out of its socket and then not-so-gently put back in by someone he doesn’t remember. He puts a hand over his face for a moment, wondering if he can just ignore the noise and go back to sleep. 

“Hello there, little one,” says Iverson again, stooping down to look at Haskell.

Haskell groans. He can’t ignore the noise. The pain smothers any hope of that. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, a sort of prayer of frustration. It turns into weeping with the sheer agony he’s languishing in, the knowledge that his exposed and bruised body is revolting against what it has been put through.

He tries to drag himself off of the stained mattress he’s lying on, only to find that almost every inch of him is cut and bruised, and the motion of dragging reopens cuts and snags bruises. He reaches out for his boxer shorts, crumpled on the floor a little way out of his reach, and then collapses onto the floor, halfway off the mattress. “Fuck,” he groans, but it comes out more like two indistinct syllables.

“I wouldn’t do that, darling,” says Iverson. Haskell tries to look about, to see where he’s standing but can barely see through swollen eyelids. Iverson puts a hand on Haskell’s head and pushes him back down. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

Haskell tries again, reaching out towards his clothes again, and there’s a sharp crack from his shoulder as it slips out again. He barely reacts, just sets his head on the floor with a whimper drawn from the depths of his chest.

“I told you, hm?” says Iverson.

Haskell whines again. “Help,” he tries to say. “Help me,” he sobs with a mouthful of blood. He’s met with a leather glove under the chin, a thumb trailed along his bottom lip. Haskell hears Iverson kneel down and reaches out with trembling hands to grab onto Iverson, clenching fists in the cool fabric of his coat, burying his head in Iverson’s chest. 

“Oh, my darling,” Iverson mutters, running a gloved hand through Haskell’s hair. Haskell sighs contentedly as he cards his hand through his hair, teasing out the mats and knots, then immediately feels his stomach drop as he realises he is leaning in to Iverson’s touch, like a cat to its owner.  He pushes Iverson away from him with a start, looking at Iverson with a look of irritation. “Eugh,” he exclaims. Iverson just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Cover yourself up, come on,” says Iverson, and picks the crumpled trousers and boxer shorts from the floor, handing them to Haskell. 

Haskell grasps them with broken fingers, pulling them tentatively over his flayed feet and up over bruised hips. “I’m… not getting up,” he says, and swallows a mouthful of blood. “I can’t. You fucking… put me through the ringer.”

“I’m not expecting you to. Sit up properly,” says Iverson. Haskell feels around tentatively, trying to find a way that doesn’t hurt to sit up. Iverson tuts, impatient. He puts his hands under Haskell’s arms to pull him up to a sitting position. 

Haskell hisses through his teeth, but eventually finds his balance, leaning against the wall. Iverson watches him for a moment, as he pinches the top of his nose, trying to smooth out a headache from sinuses full of blood. He holds up the paper cup. “These should help.”

Haskell looks at the cup. “What are those?”

“Painkillers. You can trust me, or you can not have any. That’s up to you.”

“If you… if you fucking… dare,” he begins, leaving the sentence unfinished. If you dare drug me with an aphrodisiac. He swallows sharply.  “I will knock myself out… against this floor, right here and now and you can deal with the paperwork.”

“It’s coedine. Like I said, trust me, or not.”

Haskell swallows the bloody spit in his mouth with an irritated sigh. “Fine.”

Iverson stoops down, rattling the paper cup. “Tongue out,” he says. Haskell opens his mouth tentatively, and puts his tongue out, feeling it catch against broken teeth where it’s already torn open. Iverson empties the two pills onto his tongue and then picks up the metal bowl from beneath the tap, filling it with a little water. He holds it up to Haskell's lips and lets him drink.

Haskell swallows sharply. “Gone,” he croaks, opening his mouth again so Iverson can see.

Iverson sets the metal bowl down back where he found it. “Good.”

“It better fucking be coedine.”

Iverson tuts. “Relax. I want you to be lucid. There’s someone asking after you and I want you talk to them.”

“I don’t… I can’t do that. My… mouth hurts,” Haskell scowls at him, slurring his words and drooling bloody spit as he tries to form the syllables around the swollen mess in his mouth. “This is your fault.”

“Then those broken teeth need to come out,” Iverson says- and he smiles.

[riphimopen]

tooth abscess tuesday

[punkrockmixtapes]

Tooth Gore - Ghoul

[mj-iza-writer]

It sucked getting a tooth pulled out with pain management. The sounds, the pressure, everything going on inside of your mouth and the room. Healing it after. The stitches. To think I will have to do it again for my wisdom teeth. Tooth whump is definitely for real.

I love a good teeth extraction scene during torture. Pulling each tooth out while a whumpee cries or tries to bear it. The whumpee licking their gums after realising that the tooth had been pulled out from the root. A messy extraction without pain killers. Bits of calcium still left inside the gum. It's throbbing, it's painful. Blood from each extraction.

Eventually the whumpee just cries for it to be all over. That they can't take any more of this. That this is their limit.

I love it so much.

[tea-the-not-understanding]

I was wondering, like

Nautila, what whould she be in Dandy Wasteland au from @fizzyboy?

MINOR GORE WARNING ---

Have you seen her? She's like death in the game idea I had. While in the Dandy's Wasteland au, there are phases.

She would not survived through phase 2 at all, not even halfway and with her lack or survival instinct and seeing herself as below then everybody, she would've just accepted her death immediately. Even while being like this, all she wish was death due to how much pain she's suffering at the moment.

Not only that but I bet that she would get mauled easily by many creatures in this Wasteland.

[crazysodomite]

@luckyshouse is it ok if i squeeze him lovingly

[sluckythewizard]

YOU JUST HƎARD IT FROM [HIS MOUTH] FOR SURƎ!!!

[jacktheeldergod2]

You find a pamphlet describing a shop where you can exchange irregular currencies for supernatural phenomena,items or favors

for the price of your vocal cords you can make sure that none of the secrets you wish not to be revealed will stay secrets till you decide otherwise

For the price of your name you'll never be able to be locked up,found or kept in captivity longer than you wish for,for to define is to limit

For the price of your memories from 12 years old and before you'll become twice more skilled in all things and be able to learn skills twice as fast

For the price of your legs you'll see prophetic dreams that warn you of the future and always be seeing 1 hour 1 minute and six seconds into the future

For the price of your fear you can get a blade made out of blood clots and iron from the blood of those who dove into danger with their teeth out and their eyes delighted. Though it's edge is jagged and unrefined the blade will always succeed in killing what it strikes

For the price of your pack animal instincts and mercy you'll be given a needle. By taking blood out of someone with it and injecting into you you'll gain half their lifespan. And as long as you have years you'll be able to sacrifice them to regenerate. A constant youth as long as you can steal the youth of others

For the price of 70 percent of your self control you'll never feel shame,guilt or moral failure ever again

For the price of your satisfaction with sustenance you'll be able to consume anything without ever producing excrement. Flesh,glass,fire anything that can fit in your mouth will be rendered harmless

For the price of your solidity you'll become plasma,living lighting free to run through the world and strike down from the clouds,unable to be hurt any longer

For the price of your pleasure you'll be able to incite satisfaction in people by the mere touch of your skin

For the price of your teeth you'll never need or be able to consume anything ever again

For the price of your heart all your loved ones will become happy,leading fulfilling,joyful lives without you

@1969chevycamaro @whereserpentswalk @everythingismadeofchaos @techiekittie @trashsouppossum @your-average-toast-enjoyer @ononpetitecroissant @polkadotsunshine @ana-isnt-dead @sentient-marshmallow-woman @doyoudreamofwater @dackychansworldofhoshino @dh-ng @decoysender @foxundermoon @frozen-antifreeze @gloriousvermin @kinkshame-puncher-666 @kirkland-brand-witch @leavesswaytoday @mmmmmmky @mun-urufu @moonsfavoritedaughter

[sweettoothvn]

🍡

[calypsosystem]

CW gore talk

it's so funny sometimes when people write heart's eyes being stabbed and there's just blood. like bro , eyes are organs, there would be entrails, there's a nerve connecting the eyes to the brain called and optic nerve and that shit is noodley, the actual eyeballs themselves. they're mostly made up of clear liquid and like a fucked up water balloon... imagine what would happen if you would puncture it. (they're pretty squishy if you touch them try it)

like I get it's not supposed to be real but comeeee onn :[ go harder or go home, it's like your liver being sent to the shadow realm, you aren't going to be the same. eyes are sensitive to damage and if they're stabbed, nothing's going to remain, let alone be enough to even partially see.

if you're gonna have a gruesome moment then go all in or don't. you can't have your cake and eat it too,

please try to learn how to write disabled characterrsssss it's good as writers to think about how a character's quality of life is impacted by their disabilities. not every character will be comfortable to write, and that's okay, the important thing is trying to understand and learn.

[disguisedcheezed]

[brightgoat]

quine's paradox

LORE UNDERNEATH CUT

When Cinna R. Addison got captured by Scroll, she managed to escape, but not without losing her arm and landing a nice big bite on him. Through that bite, she happened to consume a bit of his blood, and his cannibalistic code, which gave her a taste for... cannibalism.

She ran away to the Deep Web, and slowly gave in to the appetite. Becoming enraged at the City and manic with her new 'strength', she started her own business: The Rainbow Buffet and took on the persona of 'The Waitress'.

She had her own distinct cooking style, focusing on more raw foods and theatric preparation, which resulted in her feeling an effect of cannibalism that Scrollon doesn't get to as much: Code mutation.

... Which for the most part works in her favour, she is much stronger than a regular Addi, but is of course a dangerous practice and made her grow... much more teeth than she needs

[pybun]

he got 2 lives left 🧐