#tw Desecration

[solarpunkani]

This is a Twitter thread that shows video of some of what’s happened in Gaza so far this month. Many of them are hard to watch but important to watch or at least be aware of.

If anyone believes this violence is faked or not happening. Take a look for yourself.

[tenebris-lux]

Trigger Warning: discussion of the mutilation of human corpses for cannibalism, and mentions murder and kidnapping. If anyone knows of better trigger/content warnings for the tags, please let me know. This post is pretty gross and has some disturbing questions, so turn away if these topics bother you.

Sweeney Todd kills people, then drops their bodies down the chute. Mrs. Lovett then has the task of making the bodies edible. She grinds the meat herself, cooks it, makes all the extra ingredients and creates these pies that taste SO good, her business shoots through the roof. All by herself. Does she also debone them? Does she use the organs as other kinds of dishes? How long does one full-grown person take and how many pies are they? How much can be used compared to how much has to be thrown out? It just seems like a LOT of work for one person to do.

And what if Todd has a really good business day? How long before the meat starts to go bad? They still have to get rid of the body somehow.

The original story, The String of Pearls, covers the workload a bit, because (spoilers from here on) Lovett would trick some guy looking for work and he’d have to help her or die while trapped. In the musical, she doesn’t get any help until she puts Tobias down there, but her purpose for doing that wasn’t for extra help, it was because he was getting too suspicious.

Also in the book, Todd & Lovett were doing it to get a shit-ton of money, and they’d been doing it for a while. It was purely a business relationship, and it eventually took its toll on Lovett. She became an alcoholic, and wanted to be done with the whole thing and move to another country away from Todd. Apparently she was fine with the murdering and making money off utilizing the bodies, but over time it drained her. There’s a possible argument there about how one person takes a life, but the other mangles the remains, and the question of which one can fuck you up more and how.

[katyon2020]

‼️‼️ TW: Gore, Dead Bodies, Implied Desecration ‼️‼️

Goretober Day 1: Beware

Wonder if any actual pirates did this...

[raybluesock]

i love desecrating traditional roman cuisine by boiling lasagna sheets

[falloutspammer]

[serickswrites]

Deck the Halls

Warnings: gore, body modification, blood, corpse desecration, character death, mcd, captivity, restraints, gag

"Caretaker, I think you'll like my latest decoration," Whumper cooed as they dragged a bound and gagged Caretaker from the basement. "I worked extra hard on it this year."

Caretaker struggled against Whumper. They had been trying to find a way to liberate Whumpee when Whumper found them. Whumper had been quick to tie Caretaker up and shove them through the door to the basement, leaving them alone in the dark. Caretaker had vowed that they would find a way out and get Whumpee to safety before beating the ever loving fuck out of Whumper.

"Come now, come now, really, it's absolutely splendid. You just have to see it!" Whumper continued to drag Caretaker along. "I would hate to have to smack you unconscious so that you miss the debut of my new decoration. I dare say it is the prize of my collection and will be for years to come."

Caretaker stopped struggling. They would be of no use to Whumpee if they were unconscious. They glanced around looking for Whumpee. They were certain that Whumper would have dragged Whumpee out first, but Whumpee was nowhere to be seen.

Whumper shoved Caretaker to their knees in front of a drape of cloth. Whatever was beneath the cloth was huge, nearly as tall as Caretaker was. "Behold, my latest and greatest decoration."

Caretaker gasped as Whumper ripped away the cloth, revealing what was beneath. Or who was beneath rather.

Whumpee stood on a small pedestal. Their eyes were closed, but their head remained upright. Blood had dried on the corner of their lips. They were dressed like a nutcracker, complete with wooden sword on their hip, and large hat tucked under one of their arms that had been carefully bent. Caretaker's mouth went dry as they realized it had been sewn to Whumpee's fingers. They stood completely still on the pedestal.

"Aren't they fantastic? Look, I can even make them walk with my latest modification." Whumper stepped onto the platform behind Whumpee and grabbed onto something. Whumpee's head didn't move as Whumper made their legs lift stiffly. Whumper marched Whumpee forward a few steps before twirling them around.

Caretaker began to sob as they saw the mechanism for what kept Whumpee upright and moving. Whumper had pierced Whumpee's body with a series of wooden dowels, each connecting to a main pole running the length of Whumpee's back. They realized that Whumpee was only upright and unmoving because of this. They realized as Whumper continued to speak that Whumpee was dead.

"I cried too when I first saw the completed project. Whumpee was simply to beautiful not to include them in my collection, don't you think?"

Whumpee was dead. Caretaker hadn't saved them. Caretaker hadn't saved them from anything but a terrible death. And a terrible thing after death. Whumper was going to find a way to preserve the body forever and keep them on display. This was all Caretaker's fault.

"I had to attach this main pole first and that proved trickiest because they wouldn't stop squirming and crying. The main anchor point here," Whumper pointed to the blood stain on the left side of Whumpee's upper back, "took care of that of course. I doubt they lived long after that pierced their heart, but I'll never know."

Caretaker stopped listening to Whumper as Whumper continued to prattle on and on about how they mutilated Whumpee's body. How they desecrated Whumpee's corpse. Whumpee was dead. Caretaker had failed and Whumpee was dead.

"I'm not sure how to get their mouth to open and close like a real nutcracker, but I'm sure you and I can work out how to do that in a matter of hours, what do you think?"

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[mylittlestims]

Day 9 of heartnosehalloween: something / someone you’d love to dress up as for halloween

(X) (X) (X)

(X) (X) (X)

(X) (X) (X)

[tarvyunderscore]

cradle robber

Goretober Day 1: Cannibalism

[mad-hunts]

oh, by the way, it's random headcanon time because i thought y'all should know this: barton's doll motif does, in fact, go deeper than his 'doll-making.' because although his hair isn't always this way, you can always sort of tell when barton is really spiraling, because he will just stop brushing his hair to let it become matted and resemble a ' doll's ' hair more closely. and as for what that looks like, think the ringlets that seem to resemble a doll's that has yarn for hair that i used in my pinned post, except they're blonde. so yeahhh. though, of course, there's nothing really wrong with that. however, comma, did i also mention that he is SO wack that he stitched someone else's arm onto himself and now uses it as his own like one of his ' doll-like ' creations?

and as you guys can probably already tell, there are definitely some things wrong with that 💀 i mean barton just cannot go even one day without causing some sort of horrific upset, am i right, guys? JSJSJ / j NAH i'm kidding, i'm kidding (... actually, i might not be this time. idk LMAO ). but anyhowww, i'll tell y'all more about that later because it will probably be a long post due to the nature of how that came to be, but how are we feeling about barton now with this information? like has your opinion of him changed or is it pretty much the same? i am just genuinely curious so feel free to leave a comment below to tell me.... because i know it is gross to think about and also terrifying, but barton is SEVERELY demented so he doesn't think of it that way personally

[hussyknee]

X

gotten to the point that's making me consider blocking the palestine tag because I heard about a mutilated baby in Gaza and still feel like someone sent my brain down a garbage disposal. Holding onto my kittens for dear life because all I want to do is either burn down the whole world or die.

I know that being forced to watch abuse and atrocity gives you PTSD too, but it feels shameful to admit that I can't do this anymore when nothing we onlookers feel could come close to what Palestinians are going through. But God. The rest of us who watch and care and pray are never going to recover from this either.

[deimosatellite]

I’m new here what’s the deal with the dostoevsky crossover seinen I keep seeing posts refer to ?? I say this with embarrassingly keen interest ehehe

LMAOOO ITS UHHH omg im so shy . its a manga idea i had like a year or maybe a year and a half ago that i just rotate in my brain and will probably never actually make in any timely manner bc i have too much going on but

basically its a seinen idea working title being 'virtue + desecration' about angels being assassins that are sent to carry out vigilante justice in the form of killing those viewed as 'guilty' by a higher power. the characters are all based off dostoevsky characters from various works and the main two characters are alyosha who is an angel sent to kill raskolnikov but instead finds that he wants to help him get better instead because he's deeply conflicted etc etc. yknow. they do hot girl shit together. the degree to being based on dostoevsky characters itself is very loose mostly based in somewhat the looks and character traits except for a few story beats like raskolnikov having murdered a woman with an axe a few years ago , and some relationships like ivan being alyosha's brother, dunya being rodya's sister, etc

supernatural elements in it are based in like. body horror kind of stuff with "angels" being like very uncanny and having been made into angels via an open heart surgery that only few people can do but like theres also religious supernatural elements and biblically accurate angel horror and some other vague things idk its like really specific but i think its fun dont lookat me . themes overall are about religious trauma + morals etc philosophy stuff that dostoy talks about idk.

idk its a silly thing i like to think about and draw things for when im stressed out but i mean maybe in the future i would looove to like. write it out or something. LOL BUT THANKS FOR ASKING im literally so shy about it though bc its so sillie and SU9D0OJKSD

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

big fan of Mordred fumbling his brother so bad he starts a civil war about it resulting in the extinction of his entire family line and then convincing himself that no, he wasn't in love with Lleu, poisoning him and fucking his frozen corpse were all necessary to the plan.

[lycoperdales]

Peter Hale, January 2011: Allegedly in a rage fuelled haze, so out of it he even killed his niece while not yet fully recovered from his coma

Peter the month before: “ooh let me draw a pretty spiral in the middle of a deer I so carefully killed as to not ruin the aesthetic”🥰🥰💅💅

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Public Execution/Torture

CW: Gore, emeto, death wish, corpse desecration

--

“What’s this?” Paul Waldrop, co-owner of Waldrop-Thornton industries, asked his old friend, accepting an ornate envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I have an announcement to make,” John Thorton replied.  “I’ve found the people who took Jinn.”

People, not person, Paul noted, trying to decipher where this was headed from John’s icy, distant expression.  As much as Paul hadn’t liked the disruptively softening influence that John’s missing wife had been having on his partner and their operation, he found this new version of his friend even more unpalatable.

“I’ll be needing to make some changes in management as a result.”

Paul’s blood ran as cold as John’s eyes.  “I’ll be there,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Good,” John said with a thin smile, staring at his friend intently.  “I’ll need your support if things get messy.”

–

“Be careful of his eyes,” Thornton had said to his goons before they’d set in on Barclay Fletcher some seemingly interminable length of time ago. “I’ll want them good and open.”  After the beating, they’d left him bruised and with what he could only imagine were at least a couple broken ribs, alone in a dark room in the depths of the labs to think about this terrifyingly specific request.

When the door finally opened to his cell, his mismatched eyes were untouched but nonetheless ringed by dark circles and temporarily blinded by the slightly flickering overhead fluorescent lights at that.  Before he could fully adjust, Thornton’s men roughly hauled him forward by the arms, not bothering to let him try to keep his balance on his own.

“Ow – Where are we going?!” he demanded in a voice hoarse from screaming and then disuse.

One of his escorts backhanded him hard to the back of his head, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“Hey, careful,” the other said.  “The Director wants him conscious for this.”

They dragged and pushed him as necessary through the lab’s countless winding halls until he was biting back screams of pain from the effort of walking on beaten legs.  Finally, when they came to a wide room cleared of equipment, the two guards released him, leaving him to stumble forward and fall to his knees.  His face flushed with shame, and he looked up, a furious expression on his face.  He immediately went pale as he registered the scene around him.

Genmods.  Dozens of them, as many as a hundred.  He recognized some of them, the ones he had personally experimented on – tortured, some part of his brain corrected, despite himself.  The ones that even bothered to look at him had stone-faced, pitiless stares for him at best, and mocking smirks at his injuries more often than not.

Thornton stood toward the back of the room, looking down at him contemptuously.  Director Waldrop stood next to him, nervously adjusting his tie and pointedly not looking at Barclay, or really, anyone in particular.

“Hey, Fletcher,” came a snide voice from off to his left.  Barclay whipped his head to the side to see Ryan, Thornton’s monstrous, hulking genmod son, smirking at him and towering over another figure.

Director Richardson.

The last time they’d seen each other before he’d been hoisted from his bed, beaten, and locked in a cell some days – weeks? – back, the Director had been furious at him.  He was supposed to dispose of a subject who’d outlived its usefulness… his subject.  He couldn’t, though, for whatever goddamn stupid sentimental reason.  So he’d had one of the med techs sneak it out to the safety of Medbay, conveniently out of his or even the Director’s control.  Unfortunately, the Director had found proof of the call he’d made to arrange it.

You’re on thin ice, boy, the Director had told him.  First you let my servants leave from right under your nose, and now you’re letting useless subjects out against orders… I’m beginning to think through which sort of tests you’d be the best material for.

He’d slammed Barclay roughly against the wall by his throat and watched him frantically struggle and choke out pleas, only to switch his grasp to Barclay’s hair and send him hurtling back toward his room in staff quarters.

We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, the Director had threatened.

Now, though, the man looked if anything more beaten than Barclay imagined himself to be.  His face was blotchy with bruises, one of his eyes thoroughly blackened and swollen shut.  He steadied his trembling, kneeling body on one hand, the other being horrifically twisted and broken beyond all recognition.  He wheezed in pain from injuries Barclay couldn’t see and definitely didn’t want to imagine.

“SIR!” Barclay shouted, or at least tried to.  His voice nearly shook, but he held it together.  For now.

The Director jerked his head up and over toward Barclay with an agonized expression.  “CLAY!” he responded just as frantically, and turned toward Thornton.  “My assistant has nothing to do with any of this, John,” he choked out.  “No more than I do.  Let him go.  If you do anything for me before whatever happens here –” He swallowed.  “Let Clay leave.”

Thornton narrowed his icy blue eyes and scowled.  “I owe you nothing, Dave,” he said cuttingly.  “And your boy here has done enough all on his own.  Pick him up,” he ordered his men, who Barclay vaguely remembered as having tried to drown him some years back.  

They hoisted him roughly to his feet, one of them not-so-accidentally brushing a hand against his broken ribs.  He let out an undignified squeal of pain, thrashing against the men on either side of him.  He glared, humiliated, in the direction of one of the genmods in the crowd who’d started to laugh at him, struggling for his freedom and what was left of his pride but causing himself more pain in the process.

“Don’t let him look away,” Thornton instructed.

“What - what is this?!” Barclay shouted, his voice tinged with panic.  He looked toward Thornton and Waldrop and briefly noticed that the latter quickly averted his gaze.  One of the men at Barclay’s side grabbed either side of his face and forcibly turned it back to face Ryan and the Director.

Ryan smirked at him.

Barclay tried to glare back, but from the genmod’s expression it was clear that he’d utterly failed to be the least bit intimidating.

“Now that everyone’s here, Dad,” Ryan said to John, “mind if I start opening my present?”

Barclay’s stomach turned at the euphemism while some of the genmods surrounding him chortled, if nervously.

“Don’t make it too quick,” Thornton said from behind Barclay, annoyance in his voice.

“Let him go!” Barclay screamed frantically.  “He didn’t kill your wife or whatever, Thornton.  Please!  Let him –”

“What, Fletcher, you’d prefer it was you, then?” Ryan said with a hideously sadistic grin.  With no further warning, he tore the Director’s left arm clean off at the elbow with a sickening sound, made worse by the older man’s seemingly endless shriek of pain.  Barclay’s own scream joined in to create a cacophony of agony.  He felt nauseous.

The Director collapsed forward onto his face, his remaining, shattered hand unable to support his weight.

“Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have started with your good arm,” Ryan said with mock-concern.  “Sorry about that.  Here, catch,” he said, turning to Barclay and throwing the severed limb at him.

Blood spattered Barclay’s shirt as the arm made contact, followed by vomit as the remaining contents of his stomach spilled uncontrollably out of his mouth.  He let out a sob, only to begin loudly dry-retching.  He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the bloodied Director writhing at Ryan’s feet.  This earned him another smack to the back of the head.

“Don’t get yourself knocked out, Fletcher,” Ryan warned him. “Unless you want to give Dave here a few days to develop an infection before we start up again.  Though… hm.  I actually kind of like it.  What do you say, Dad?” Ryan looked past Barclay at Thornton.  Apparently Thornton shook his head, because Ryan followed up with, “So that’s a no.  Eh.  I’m not exactly the patient type, so… works for me!”

With that, he lifted Richardson upside down by the leg opposite to his missing arm and tore it off before letting him drop to the ground with another, hoarser screech.

“STOP!  Stop, please stop!” Barclay begged, trying to pull free from the larger, stronger men holding him back.  Tears flowed freely from his eyes as vomit continued to drip from his mouth onto his knees and feet.

Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow.  “What, you want to just leave him to suffer like this?  I knew you were a dick, Fletcher, but really, that’s a bit much.”  He shook his head chidingly.

“F-fuck you,” Barclay snapped, then involuntarily sniffled.

“Eh,” Ryan replied with a grimace.  “You’re really not my type.  Anyway!  Here we go with Arm Number Two!”

Even some of the Director’s former subjects were looking away as Ryan knelt down onto Richardson’s prone form, dislocated his remaining arm with a loud snap, and then tore it off with an expression of (im)pure glee.  He was as bloody as his victim now, if not moreso.  The Director, for his part, could no longer force out pleas that were even slightly comprehensible, reduced to sobs, gasps and shrieks.

“Make it stop, you bastards!” Barclay screamed over the din, thrashing as tears and snot ran down his face.  “What do you want?!  You’ve got whatever fucking revenge you could’ve wanted, now let us… let him…!”  He let out a despairing whine. “Sir… sir, please hold on, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Fletcher?” Thornton said from behind him, sharply enough that Barclay flinched.  The guards turned to let -- or rather make – him face Thornton, who stared completely unimpressed at the pathetic sight in front of him.

Other than the Director’s screaming, the room was silent as Thornton studied Barclay.  Finally, he nodded to his men.  “Let go of him.”  Looking back in Barclay’s direction, Thornton spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear.  “Go save your Director, then, Fletcher.  If you manage to fight off Ryan, I might even let the two of you go.”

“C’mon, Fletcher,” Barclay heard from behind him.  “Davey here can only wait so long before he runs out of blood.”

Barclay swallowed and turned around to face Ryan, eyes burning with tears and hatred.  His whole body was trembling.  He clenched his hands into fists and took a tentative step forward.  He was just steeling himself to make a run at Ryan when the huge man tossed the blood-soaked Director to the side and bore up to his full height, challenging Barclay to attack him with an upward jerk of his equally-bloodied chin.

Barclay forced himself a few halting steps forward on quivering legs.  He faltered as Ryan’s grin widened, and flinched when the genmod picked up one of the Director’s arms and bit a finger off with a gut-twisting crunch, never taking his eyes off Barclay.  He tried to will himself on with everything he had in him, but…

“I-I can’t,” Barclay admitted in a small, shaking voice as he sank to his knees.

“You want to say that again?” Ryan taunted.  “Dave’s screaming made it a bit hard to hear you just now.”

Instead of further humiliating himself for Ryan, Barclay jerked back around to look at Thornton and Waldrop.  “What am I supposed to do here, get myself torn apart?  Was that the plan?  Because - ha - I’m not playing along.  I’m not going to go and let that…” He let out a whimper, with an involuntary look back at Ryan.  “I just… I can’t, okay?” He finished weakly.

“And after all you’ve done for him,” Thornton said to the screaming Director as Barclay let out another sob.  “Hold him, and make sure he’s watching,” he ordered his men.

Barclay bolted before he could think it through, making a run for the door as two, then three sets of footsteps pounded after him.  He had to make it, or at least get them to make it quick for him, get it over with; he couldn’t let them drag him back to face the Director after his failure.

His determination meant nothing, though, as an enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, scruffing him as easily as if he were a newborn kitten.  “And here I didn’t think you were capable of disappointing me, Fletcher,” Ryan said.  “But that… ‘ey, Dad, you sure I”m killing the right person here?”

Barclay started flailing in panic before Thornton even started to answer, imagining Ryan’s powerful hand wrapping around his arm, snapping bones, tearing them apart, his limbs one by one dropping to the ground in front of him.  “NO!  No, no, no, let me go, LET ME –”

“He’s made his choice,” Thornton interrupted with a shake of his head.  “And you have a job to finish in any case.  One thing at a time, Ryan.”

“Do you have to go and make this feel like work, Dad?” Ryan teased as Barclay shuddered at Thornton’s comment.  “Anyway.  Here.”  With no further warning, he pushed Barclay forward, sending him stumbling into the grip of Thornton’s guards.

Either because of the blood loss or because he’d screamed himself raw, the Director had gone quiet other than letting out low whimpers.  As Ryan approached, though, he resumed his pointless struggling, his one remaining limb useless in allowing him to escape.  With the rest of the room gone silent, Barclay could hear his defeated words, let out between painful, ragged breaths.  “Get it over with, you freak.  And then – !” The Director gasped in pain.  “And then let Clay go, he did nothing!”

“You’ve got that right,” Ryan said with a vicious grin at Barclay as tears streamed down the younger man’s face.  “So, what do you say, Fletcher?  Should I make it quick for him so I can start on you, or should I have some more fun here?”

Barclay shook his head as he mutely sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut to get both the Director’s mangled body and Ryan’s knowing, contemptuous grin out of his sight.

“Oops, you broke the rules there, Fletcher.  Not supposed to look away, remember?  Guess I get to choose, then.”  Ryan picked the Director up by his ankle, holding him up high enough to look him in the eyes.  “You really should’ve chosen a better assistant, man,” he said with a shake of his head.

He then tore another strained shriek out of the Director along with his last leg before dropping the helpless torso of a man to the ground, with an air of being disappointed at having broken his favorite new toy.  Ryan shrugged at the onlookers and started to walk away, only to abruptly turn back and make a running start, giving the Director’s head a vicious kick that severed it from his body with a sickening snap and sent it into the crowd of his former victims.

Barclay was helplessly dry-retching at the corpse now twitching lifelessly mere feet away from him.  The arms holding him let him go, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, surrounded and overwhelmed by voices.

“John, what was –”

“Good on you, getting an eyeball!”

“ – disappeared my wife, Paul, they –”

“Get a knife, I want an ear.”

“ – gonna be sick…” The sound of vomiting.

“ – will you do with the boy, then?”

“He’s hardly a boy.  You don’t need to worry –”

Blood stained Barclay’s shirt as he wrapped his arms tightly around something.  It had been thrown at him, or maybe he’d crawled over to it.  He’d already forgotten; it hardly mattered.

“Should we take the arm from him, sir?” a voice standing over him called out.

“Get the rest of the body.  We’ll bring them back to the cell with him.”

Barclay clung for dear life to what he now felt to be Richardson’s mutilated hand, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as a guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked him hard toward the door.  He squealed and thrashed in pain, but his mind was somewhere else, or trying to get there.

In the end, it went blank.  He barely registered being thrown roughly back into his cell - only enough to crawl onto what was supposed to pass for a cot and curl in tightly around the severed arm, still oozing blood.

He didn’t know how long it had been by the time the door opened again, letting Thornton in to loom over him.  He didn’t dare move.

“What a mess,” Thornton said disgustedly, stepping on something laying on the floor with a crack and a squelch.  “And here you are doing nothing about it.”  He walked over and scruffed Barclay by the neck, holding him face down over the side of the cot so he could see.

The Director.  Or at least what remained of him.  Three limbs, stomped and bent all to hell.  A torso with ribs poking out through the bloodied remains of clothing.  And a head torn and beaten and mutilated beyond all recognition if Barclay hadn’t known what had happened to him.

Barclay abruptly started dry-retching again, his shaking arms finally letting go of his macabre comfort object.

Thornton’s hand squeezed tighter around the back of Barclay’s throat, turning his retching into struggling gasps.  “Pathetic,” he sneered, and tossed Barclay face first onto the hard floor.  A beat later, he dropped a bag in front of Barclay.  “I’ll give you three days to clean him up and put him back together,” Thornton said as Barclay shakily emptied the bag to find needles, thread, water bottles, glue, and a handful of other supplies that were hardly up to the task.  “The least you can do is allow him a good burial.”

I couldn’t do anything! Barclay wanted to shout.  You would’ve killed him anyways, and then me…!

He looked at the pack of needles for a long moment.

Maybe I should just…

“If you try to use those for anything other than their intended purpose, Fletcher, I will know,” Thornton cut in as if reading his thoughts.  “There are much more creative things I could do with a corpse.”

Barclay nodded, very much not wanting to know what they were.  “Y-yes sir,” he answered meekly.

Thornton’s lip curled in further disgust at this servile display, and he kicked him hard to the face.  Blood gushed from Barclay’s nose, and his voice was almost entirely too weak to be heard over the crack of breaking bone.

“Get to work.”

He couldn’t, not for the first two days.  Finally, he summoned the nerve to creep up to the body, arrange its dismembered pieces, set out the equipment with shaking hands, and then…  Where was he even supposed to start?!  Everything was slick with blood; the glue held the torn skin together for a matter of seconds before it tore open again.  Trying to sew the Director’s body back together was hardly more successful; even if he had any real experience working with a needle and thread, he could barely see what he was doing in the darkness.

He could only guess that he was running up against the deadline at a certain point, making him desperate enough to do whatever small amount he could for his murdered mentor.  Still, it seemed like he’d spent days making large, choppy stitches and applying thick layers of glue in some small hope of making the Director recognizable again.

The result was, if anything, more horrifying than the dismembered remains had been.

“You never fail to disappoint me, Fletcher,” Thornton said as he picked up Barclay’s best attempt, only to abruptly drop it to the floor.  The glued-on head lolled to the side and broke off halfway.  The more damaged arm flopped to the side, revealing that Barclay had sewn it on backward in his haste.  Barclay let out a sob.  

His eyes went wide, though, as Thornton’s two favorite guards stepped in with hands full of trash bags.

Thornton nodded to them.

“NO!” Barclay screamed, jumping from the cot and landing on the Director’s remains.  One of the two men chortled as he lay face down and trembling in the mess of decomposing flesh. “No, don’t, don’t, DON’T, I tried my best, I tried… sir,” Barclay begged, of Thornton, of the guard standing above him, of the Director’s ghost, he wasn’t sure which.

The man who had laughed grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him away despite his scrabbling hands, and he watched helplessly as Thornton’s other goon scooped up the crumbling body and dumped it piecemeal into the various bags with a look of disgust.

“Consider yourself lucky, kid,” the man restraining him threatened.  “We could throw you into the incinerator with him.  Keep making a pain in the ass of yourself, and maybe we will.”

Barclay froze up, his blood running cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thornton said, not even looking in his direction.  “The dumpster will work perfectly fine.”

“No…. you said… you said you were going to give him a real burial!” Barclay yelled in despair.

“Well, you certainly fucked up that chance,” Thornton said dismissively.  “If nothing else, you gave Dave exactly what he deserved.”

With that, he walked out of the cell with a wave to his men, the first of whom flung Barclay against the wall with another short laugh.

Barclay didn’t dare move until the door slammed behind them, and even then he only slowly curled his aching body into a ball.  He tried not to think about how long he’d be here, or for what purposes.  There was no point, where no one would be coming to get him this time.

His nails dug into his knees until they drew blood.  It ran down to the cell floor, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

–

It had been two months, and Paul was having the same damn dream again.  The one where John’s son had…

Where Dave had been…

Dave’s eyes had been so desperate, and so unbearably reproachful.

But worse was the boy.

No, not a boy, just like John had said.  Barclay Fletcher had killed subjects.  Tortured them.  Including the now-missing Mrs. Thornton.

Still, he hadn’t disappeared her.  That had been Paul’s own doing.

It was too late to confess it now, he told himself.  It wouldn’t bring Dave back even if he wanted to, and it was probably too late to save Fletcher too.  And besides.

“Paul?” his wife asked drowsily, turning over to face him with a look of concern.  “Is everything alright?”

He couldn’t let that happen to him.

“You know you can tell me,” she tried to reassure him.

For her sake, he told himself.

“I’m fine,” he told her, sinking back into his comfortable bed and disturbed dreams.

--

Based on an in-person roleplay scene between @skinofafish and I. Barclay Fletcher and Paul Waldrop are my characters. John, Jinn, and Ryan Thornton along with David Richardson are @skinofafish's characters.

--

Taglist:

@whumpsday / @skinofafish

@badthingshappenbingo

[dopepoisonivyoncrack]

News tonight: Man arrested for desecration of grave after digging out his sister at night to put a stake through her heart, accusing she is a vampire/poltergeist that haunts him ever since she passed away.

Yes, it was slightly South of Transylvania. Yes, many people in this country still believe and take these things seriously, keeping old traditions, why do you ask? 💀

[pechebeche]

both amigara fault and hanging balloons is just like. there is another you. you are drawn irrevocably towards each other regardless of what you do. there is a twisted, grotesque, monstrous you, and it is waiting to kill you. and it is waiting for you to kill yourself with it.