#throat gore

[injuryprompts]

Injury Prompts #1195

Bitten in throat

[stab-the-son-of-a]

But now face to face...

No. 17 HANGING BY A THREAT Breaking Point | Stress Positions | Reluctant Caretaker

No. 20 IT'S BEEN A LONG DAY Going into Shock | Fetal Position | Prisoner Trade

Last bit with this, I promise.

TWs: Suicidal ideation, body horror, gore, past murder, throat gore, noncon touching

Taglist: @painsandconfusion, @teamwhump, @pepperonyscience

At 7:00pm, he brews a cup of peppermint tea and places it on the coaster next to the remote. He pours out exactly three ounces of bourbon and places it directly on the table as far left from the tea as possible. He opens East of Eden to page 284 - On Thanksgiving of 1911 the family gathered at the ranch - and places it spine up on the right hand armrest of the couch; the binding is beginning to fray and he —

The book has split. Cracked. One half of the book remains held firm in his grasp but the other slides off the arm of the couch and hits the floor. 

All he recognizes is paper flapping, folding. The lakeshore is in the front yard. The front door is behind him. 

His mind is a blur of panic and terror and an endless refrain of not safe not safe as he jerks into motion. He leaps over the coffee table and past the television, down the hall. His breathing swells in his lungs like a roaring flame. 

Sterling yanks open the door to the attic. Before the stairs have even clattered to the floor, he's dragging himself up them with frantic haste.

"No, no, no, please, Sidney," Sterling begs, even as he knows its futility. Eyes screwed shut, he relies on blindly fumbling for the next step, and the next. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please!"

The last step gives way under his hand but momentum leaves him only with a sprained wrist as he sprawls forward. Lightning flashes and thunder shakes the entire houses. His chin hits the floor, blood on his tongue and pain in his jaw. There's pressure at his back unquantifiable but there's also still no reaching hands closing around his ankle or leg. 

The attic is dusty and stale, cluttered and in disarray, but it may as well be empty- he knows he can't hide from them, not up here. Maybe not anywhere. On the far wall, there's a small circular window overlooking the woods. His hands tremble so badly he can't even get a grip on the latch on the window. Water droplets pour down the glass, each one mocking his state.

"Don't do this, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll buy a new one," Sterling blabbers. "It was a mistake, just an accident!"

Unwillingly he remembers similar accidents. 

"Why, pray tell, is there glass on the floor?"

"It was an accident. My hand slipped. Please, sir, I'll pick it up—"

"And the wasted liquor? You can't pick that up."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. Yet always disappointing. Into position."

Panic and guilt and terror all combine into a sickening mixture as he puches through the glass. Blood and water run down his arm as the glass slices open his wrist and hand. It's ice cold, every part of him feels cold. A low keen crawls up his throat. He strikes at glass and wood, both splintering under the force, until he's punched out the majority of it. 

Slipping through the hole isn't a tight fit. It should be, it used to be, he knows this, but he hauls himself over the edge and hits the ground rolling. Rocks and shards of glass and dirt all bury in his skin but he doesn't stop. Gasping he races toward the tree line. 

The underbrush and tree limbs grasp and scratch at his arms and face and legs. Leaves and sticks crunch underneath each footfall and slice up his bare feet. Rain pelts his face and mud threatens his footing.

The lake is behind him, however, and there's a road some distance through the woods. 

There are people. People who can help, or at least try to save him from the monster he's created, or even just end this God awful cycle. He jumps over small trickling streams and darts around mossy stones, gasping for air. 

Something cold wraps around his ankle mid leap and he faceplants. His ears ring, an echo of coming pain. A fog covers his mind. He knows he needs to get back up, to run away. He needs to run. 

Instead something (oh he knows what) drags him. Scrambling for purchase, he digs his fingers into decaying leaves and much too small stones, dirt curling under his hands and giving him away to Sidney. 

"No! No, God, no, Sidney, stop!" 

It doesn't listen to him. He convinces himself he doesn't hear the absolute silence all around him broken only by his cries and the sound of his own body being dragged through the foliage. 

Instead, he begs. Never a complete sentence, just word salad with all the ingredients being fear, pain and desperation. 

Sobbing now, he kicks and flails but the grip holding him is iron. 

"No more, please, no more," Sterling cries as Sid— as it drags him ever backwards, out of the woods. The sun has set, plunging the clearing behind his house, his prison, into stark darkness. He cuts his hands on sticks and stones and turns dirt to mud with his blood, inexorably drawn back. Dirt and grass give way for wet sand and moss and reeds. 

Still, he can see the thing wearing most of Sidney's face clearly as it bodily flips him onto his back.

"I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't!"

It leans in. Fetid breath and sharp pressure on his shoulders, a long, icy tongue running up the side of his face. He sobs and fists his hands into the mud. He can't tell which will swallow him whole first.

"Funny," it murmurs, and its teeth graze his flesh. "I do mean to."

"It wasn't meant to happen, it wasn't, I didn't want you to die!"

Claws on his shoulders. The weight of a ghost and guilt on his chest. He can't breathe. Their face is twisted, both with rot and hate and festering wounds. Bloat puffs their skin. Grass blades make a mockery of thatching the holes in their face, flesh and slimy grass intertwining.

"You weren't meant to die, I didn't want you to die!"

Teeth on his neck. A pinprick and then a dribble of blood and pain rolling down his skin.

"Sidney, God, please, please…" Sterling tries and fails to angle his head away from every disgusting, hateful touch but there's nowhere to run, nowhere to escape to. 

"I begged too," it laughs. "I begged you and begged you. Don't tell me you have buyer's remorse."

"I'm sorry- I shouldn't- I never should have bought you, never should have hurt you- never ever–"

It growls low, a warning. Wisely, he stops, but not before swallowing his grief and guilt with a whimper.

"What do you want from me? For me to suffer?" It's so absurdly accurate he can't help but laugh with Sidney. His laughter turns to choked whines readily. "I am suffering." 

"Not enough. Never enough. You deserve this all."

A sob rattles his chest and sets his head nodding weakly. "I know. I know. Just… Please, God, just… Let it end. Let go. It's been seven years."

Seven years since his hand slipped, since he dropped Sidney down the stairs (face smashed, head at an angle, and so, so much blood) and buried the evidence in the lake only for this to resurface in their place. 

Silence falls. He can scarcely hear his own breathing, shuddering and shallow. The woods are quiet, the rain falls in delicate sheets, and even the waves against the shore seem to hold their breath. Nothing in the area dares make a sound. Sterling turns tired eyes back to their distorted figure and waits.

"Seven years?" it repeats the words slowly, as if testing how they feel in its throat.

"Yes! Don't- don't you want me to pay? Properly? I can go- I can turn myself in. Please, God, please, they'll hurt me, you don't have to, they'll do it!"

For a single moment, Sterling is almost sure there is something left of Sidney, enough to stare at him rather than through him, enough to listen to him. 

Abruptly, its face splits open. Jaw bones crack and creak. Flesh tears as its stolen face stretches inhumanly. 

It swallows Sterling's screams right at the source, teeth carving through cartilage, and brackish water pours from its mouth to mingle with his blood.

Iggy picks through the woods carrying a bundle of daisies and lilies. Her hair is sweat slicked to her face and her shirt clings to her back as if the oppressive heat has fused the fabric to her skin. It's only a little after dawn, yet the humidity has already shed the nighttime chill.

Still, a shiver runs down her back as she finds the house. 

It looks so different than when she first saw it. The once proud peaks seem to sag; the bold, deep paint flakes away from the wood like it too wants to abandon the memories here; windows are boarded up and broken in equal measure, tongues of drapery fluttering through the holes. 

She licks at her lower lip as her eyes dart around, searching for even one single sign of human life in the area. There's a single light on in the living room, a pale yellow glow, but she keeps it to her back. Glass crunches under her shoes as she approaches the shore. 

"Hey Sid," Iggy whispers. Mindful of the mud already seeping up around her boots, she crouches down with one hand to hold her skirt away from the dirt. "I've missed you. Sorry I couldn't come yesterday. The storm…"

Of course, Sidney doesn't answer. Iggy hesitantly lays down the bouquet at her feet and hugs her knees. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't find you in time. I'm really… I'm so sorry."

This time, the silence feels heavier, damning. 

She swallows a lump of grief and bolts to her feet, bringing her hoodie in closer around her. "I- I really should get back home. Love you." Her final words sink into the mud with her footsteps and the flowers. Turning on her heel, she ignores the anxiety and paranoia telling her to turn back around, to look over her shoulder and see whatever is staring at her back, but there's nothing there. 

Iggy cuts a more direct path back to the path in the woods, cutting through the reeds rather keeping to the path circling the clearing.

Something catches her foot. Screaming, she kicks blindly at it and races forward, desperately telling herself she didn't hear anything. 

Several feet into the reeds, several yards away from the clearing still, she stops, panting and ripping her knife free from her boot. "Who's fucking there?" she snarls. "I'll gut you!"

Nothing answers her, nothing except for water folding over itself on the shore and grass blades scraping over themselves. Nature's soundtrack.

Nothing else, except for another soft sound. 

A human sound. Her heart pounds in her ears as she keeps her knife held at the ready and cautiously approaches the source.

Iggy covers her nose with her sleeve as the overbearing stench of blood fills her nose. She should turn back, she rationalizes, and yet she takes another footstep closer. Then another.

"Sorry… sorry… please… so sorry…"

The person huddling in the dirt and grime could charitably described as anything but. Pathetic, broken, a wreckage in humanoid shape. He doesn't react to her approach except to curl tighter in on himself, protecting his fragile middle with one arm while the other covers his head, as if anticipating a blow.

His whole body is covered in bruises and burns and small cuts, some an inflamed, angry crimson that spoke of untreated infection with weeping language. Every inch of his flesh is discolored in some way, either by blood, tears, dirt or some cakey mixture of all of the above. Torn clothes expose more wounds, some still freshly weeping, and every bone seems far too close to the surface, skin shrink wrapped around his frame.

"Sterling?" Iggy whispers. Her grip on the knife only tightens, but watching him flinch and beg for mercy sets off an uncomfortable sensation in her chest. 

He looks like hell. 

Iggy reluctantly replaces her knife in its holder and kneels down next to him, only for him to flinch away from her and all but sob and insist that he's sorry.

That sick feeling in her chest tightens further. 

"We'll get you out of here," she sighs finally. She can't leave him here. Whoever did this to him could still be nearby, and not even he deserved to be left like this.

Ignoring his whimpering, she pulls him into her arms as best she can. There doesn't seem to be a single part of his body that doesn't hurt him for her to touch, and despite the fact he's a foot taller, he's deceptively easy to help to his feet.

"I've got a first aid kit in my car. Just, shush. Alright? Walk with me."

Finally his begging seems to run out. Sterling leans against her and stumbles with each step, but he obeys her readily.

He doesn't speak again.

[cosmicpoutine]

slit open like a skittles package

uncensored under the cut, but please beware i don't fuck around, it's very graphic.

[starry-bi-sky]

more cfau miscellaneous things because Childhood Friends Danny and Jason have my head and heart always and I need to finish rewriting chapter two dammit (and redo the half-finished chapter 4 because its just Not The Vibes). i'm almost through I need to get through the graveyard scene. (i just stubbornly refuse to have it be shorter than the original chapter and thats the little death. that is the mind killer.)

Danny and jason’s ghost forms both smell faintly like burnt flesh and cigarettes. However, Jason has a more smokey smell while Danny’s smells almost,,, electrical? In a sense? Like he just straight up smells like burnt flesh and sulphur while Jason smells like someone put him in a smoker first.

It’s very much an unpleasant smell but Danny finds an odd comfort in it just as much as he finds a comfort in the smell of nicotine.

(Jason post-revival smells burnt flesh once and is immediately offput by the fact that it brings him an instinctive comfort. He doesn’t realize its because it reminds him of Danny, and is uncomfortable by it.)

-

In an au of an au, Danny’s altercation with Rath ends with Rath regaining enough of his sanity to snap out of the grieving state and ends with him breaking down. Instead of being souped and imprisoned, Rath, who is permanently 14, decides to Move On into the unknown. He’s exhausted, heartbroken, and tired.

(Is this influenced heavily by the ParaNorman scene where he talks to Agatha and helps her move on? Yes. But it doesn’t fit with the Original Storyline so im shoving it into an Au of an Au.)

Rath tells Danny that Jason lied to them (which he genuinely believes), and that he’s tired of waiting/looking for him/grieving. Jason is gone. He isn’t coming back, he abandoned them. And he wants his mom and dad, and his sister, and his friends. And he’s ready to join them.

He leads Danny out to Gotham, which other than Amity Park might’ve been the only city left untouched due to Rath’s own mental block on the place. They go out to the park he and Jason used to frequent or up to one of crime alley’s rooftops, and there Rath lies down and goes to sleep. Only to never wake up again, materializing into nothing as his soul moves on.

Before Rath leaves, he forces Danny to promise him that he’ll only wait for Jason for ten years. After that if he doesn’t find him, or if Jason doesn’t show, then Danny has to move on. Whether that be like how Rath does, or if its inly mentally/emotionally, doesn’t matter. He has to move on. Don’t wait for him. Don’t waste his time any more.

(“Oh, and if you find him, kick his ass for me.”)

Danny reluctantly agrees, and Rath lies down. Danny sings to him as he falls asleep.

(Angsty points if the vigilantes including Red Hood caught wind of their presence and were silently watching from the shadows. Rath might know they’re there, but Danny’s too focused on Rath to notice.)

(If only so that Red Hood realizes that this is what happened to Danny, and that Danny is gone before he can make things right. The tragedy, folks. The angst. The initial realization that Danny was Rath, and then also that Danny was dead and has been dead for years, and that before he moved on, he moved on believing that Jason abandoned him.)

(like i said it doesn't fit in the original timeline/storyline hence why its an au of an au and isn't nearly a fleshed out, but i was largely just focusing on the tragedy of Rath moving on and Jason being alive to see it and realize just who Rath is.)

-

Just like how the Lazarus pits shot Jason's twiggy 4'6-5'4 (depending on what you find) feet tall and 86lb ass up like a tree an essentially fixed his malnutrition, the portal did the same thing for Danny.

(granted i forgot about malnutrition and danny's likely stunted growth at first -- his family lived in crime alley and despite both his parents working, I don't think they had enough food all the time. He probably wasn't as badly malnourished as Jason was, but he wasn't healthy either.)

Granted his ghost in its "natural" state (14) is short, and his growth spurts were slow at first, it did result in him reaching his dad's height. There were points where it just happened overnight, like a baby. He went to bed one night 5’6 and woke up the next day 5’10.

Jazz is shorter than him. Although I have't decided if she's even liminal at all (and if she is, it didn't cure everything because she would have also suffered childhood malnutrition, and since in au canon their parents didn't get their hands on physical ectoplasm until after they got to Amity Park. So the exposure is less.)

-

Danny's voice absolutely sounds like canon Dan's. It kinda just dropped one day when he was 16-17 and never went back up. Sam and Tucker sometimes ask him to just talk about anything because they find his voice soothing.

I'm not sure yet how Danny would feel about it at first considering Rath, but I imagine that Rath, when he did speak, would have had a quieter and scratchier/weaker voice considering he's spent the last decade shrieking and crying.

(and i suppose technically that shouldn't have any effect on his throat considering he's a ghost and idk if that would actually affect him, but i like the idea so im keeping it)

In the beginning you could hear him from a mile away by the sound of his loud, echoing wails, but ten years later you can only really hear him by the soft, shuddering sobs he makes. Like he's gasping for air that isn't there. The future is full of very quiet survivors.

And it's much easier to speak when you pitch your voice upwards (especially when whispering/speaking quietly) so he might've spoken in a higher, airy pitch in order to be heard. So Danny might actually find a comfort in having a lower voice.

[kagoutiss]

bottom of the well

[toxicdykecocaine]

Beware the swallowing homoerotic cannibalism in Yellowjackets! /ref

[bloodaria]

3.09 | 3.13

[frogandbird]

@sharkfinn i bring your child :))

this is the non gore version, that’s below cut w progress video

[injuryprompts]

Injury Prompt #1160

Internal bleeding in the throat

[grimalkinmessor]

I think more people should draw Light Yagami covered in blood. And being wildly deranged. Maybe ripping someone's heart out with his bare hands. As a treat.

[flamet-draws]

Mechtober Day 5: Backstory

TS is just a funky lil guy. It’s just having a laugh. A jest. A jolly good time.

[gloomyforrest]

YOU'RE A LEECH AND A SNAKE

YOU'RE THE DIRT TO MY NAME

I'M THE DIRT IN YOUR GRAVE

[moonsun2010]

It's finally over.

Other portraits:

Mina | Jonathan | Dracula | Lucy | Lucy...? | Lucy (Final) | Jonathan (3 Oct) | Mina (3 Oct) | Dracula (Final)

[saltycryptid]

Another Shadowheart and Maram sketch for the soul 🫶

[tai-janai]

Maybe more ship art of Stubborn and Skeptic? I personally really like their dynamic!

when i say powercouple. i mean whatever these two have. i also. really . like their dynamic.

[painsandconfusion]

Rot

(tw: character death, murder, overdose, broken bones, sliced vocal chords, hospital setting, drugging, abuse mention) [Drabble Masterpost]

Whumpee’s feet ground to a stop as they entered the hospital room.

Eyes locked on the bed.

The bandage-wrapped being lying on it.

Whumper.

They step softly into the window-lit room. It was grey. Silent. Just the bustling sounds of nurses moving through the halls, a few children playing in a waiting room below, and the steady whirr and beep of machines that faded listlessly into the background. 

It felt like a dream.

Familiarity surrounded Whumpee. Their scrubs - the soft fabric pressed to their skin. The room they worked in every day - or at least ones just like it. The sounds and smells all around them.

Then Whumper’s face.

Also familiar - far too familiar, but…not here. It didn’t belong here. It made the familiar unfamiliar in the most unsettling ways.

Whumper still wasn’t looking at them, sleepy from painkillers and the exhaustion of the pain itself.

About fucking time they got a taste of pain. Exhausting, isn’t it?

Whumpee stepped closer, fingers dipping down to a bandage that wrapped Whumper’s leg.

Whumper winced - their entire body recoiling and tensing under Whumpee’s grip as they pressed against the wound - still tender from the reconstruction surgery.

Whumper’s eyes lock soundlessly onto them. 

Fear.

All Whumpee could see in them was fear. 

About time.

Whumpee’s fingers bit down, thumb pressing into the stitches and pulling a hoarse whine from Whumper’s throat. 

“They told me you were here. I didn’t believe it. Thought there must be two people with the same name. But no.” They gripped tighter. “Here you are.”

Whumper squirmed under Whumpee’s grip. Warm and wriggling and panicked, all wrapped up and absolutely nowhere to go.

Whumpee’s eyes flicked to the door. “Technically, you’re not on my floor.” They release Whumper’s leg to pluck up their chart from its place, skimming through it. “So let’s make this fast.”

Whumper’s lips moved, but no sound came out - windshield glass to the trachea would do that to a guy.

“You always drove too fast,” Whumpee mused, eyes locking on ‘morphine - 15 mg’. “Breaking the law got you killed.” They tisked softly, tongue clicking against their teeth as they shifted to the cabinet and unlocked it, rifling through the supplies. 

They turned back with a small bottle of morphine. 

A syringe.

They stabbed it into the rubber and pulled out 30 more mg, eyes tracking the filling of the syringe. Plenty.

Flicking it idly, they replaced the bottle and closed the cabinet doors.

Whumper was wriggling now, cast-clad arm trying to bend up to the call button.

Whumpee took it, shifting it a few inches - just out of reach. 

They directed their attention to Whumper’s other arm, holding it down with one hand while the other pricked the morphine into the access port as Whumper hissed lightly, trying to pull away. 

“Shhhhhhhh,” Whumpee cooed, pressing the syringe down and letting it drip through the tubing. Manic, focused eyes watched the clear liquid’s journey down the catheter, through the needle, and into Whumper’s bloodstream, heart beating faster at their own audacity and the thrill of this moment.

Whumper’s lips kept shifting, shaping around the building blocks of a word. “P-s - pls- ps- d-dnt-”

Whumpee’s eyes flicked up, dark and wild. “How many times did I beg you to stop?” 

Whumper shook their head in desperate, twitching jolts.

“And how many times did you listen?” They pressed the rest of the morphine into Whumper’s bloodstream as Whumper tried to thrash away. 

But Whumpee’s work was done. They popped the syringe from the access point, capping and pocketing it to throw away in a different garbage. 

“Never. You never stopped. Not even once.”

Whumpee stepped back, watching Whumper fumble uselessly for the call button, hoarse, pathetic attempts at a whisper-shout whining from their lips. 

Whumpee pushed down the urge to watch, hand finding the doorknob. “I hope you rot.” They shoved the handle down and disappeared into the hall.

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @cat-anony @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog) 

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!