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westernyouths · 1 month

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I’m so pleased with the colours I chose for the bedrooms especially that ochre! Felt like such a bold choice but I think it ties the room together so nicely.

#gutting

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cyanidetears · 15 days

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4/15/2024, 6:44 AM [OOC: Before I start, I do want to clarify that 1. This is a genuine kinmem of mine, and 2. Ergo Sum I used He/They/It, and Ergo Sum II used She/They/It in my canon, so I will be referring to them as such.] I recently remembered something, something I don't think I ever wanted to know. I found out why I've always been so adversed Ergo Sum I.

I used to think it was just due to his childish antics, but Lord, was it something far, far worse.

He gutted me.

Why would he ever do such a thing as to gut a man he lived with? I was no angel, nor am I now, but I don't know what I did to warrant him taking his true form and doing what he did. His eyes, they still haunt me. The look on his face, his slightly glowing aura. His exposed bones and guts. My blood on his hands. And to think that mentally, he was only 13. Sure, I healed eventually, undead bodies never permanently keep most severe injuries, but that is no excuse to take advantage of it.

I may have been written to be a wretched, horrid shell of a man in your eyes, but trust me, and I am genuine, what I've done is nothing to warrant GUTTING ME. I am ALREADY DEAD. You are TRYING TO DO WHAT I TRIED TO A CENTURY AGO. You IMBECILE.

So, anyways, I got a new special interest-

[One more OOC thing, I WILL be dropping the italic part of my formatting just because I like using italics for emphasis.]

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quecksilvereyes · 2 years

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An Introduction to Medieval History - Prof. Dr. R. Gadling, 8 A.M. (or: a ruinous love in three scenes)

AO3

This is how a conversation goes, between something endless and something that refuses to end, cradled in between dreaming and waking:

- You’re not leaving again, are you?

- I will be your ruin. I will destroy you and take from you until you have nothing left to give.

- So what? There is nothing inside of me that I haven’t already given.

- You will love yourself to death. There are blades for these things.

- Cut me open, then. I’m not so fragile that I cannot be pieced together again.

- You’ve a class to teach.

- So come watch me. There is nothing left to ruin.

Professor Gadling stands at the overhead projector cradling his guts. He teaches an eight am class – medieval history, today – that sees one-hundred pairs of half-open eyes and cheap instant coffee gathering in little groups. It is silent, still, this early, and only the first row has their backs pulled taut, and their shoulders dropped. From his arms, something dark and warm drips into the carpet that was glued on antique hardwood floor in 1979. It has not been changed since.

When he opens his mouth, his words flood from him, slow and viscous.

“Good morning everyone”, says Professor Gadling. “Sorry about the mess.”

A student in the first row leans forwards. Their fingers tremble around the cardboard cup. Something careful lingers in their eyes. “I think you need an ambulance”, they say. Over them, the fluorescent light that was installed sometime in the 1950s flickers, and drips yellow light on their cheeks. It licks at their skin, and at the shadows sitting just under their cheekbones.

“Huh”, says Professor Gadling. “No, thank you.” When he speaks, something pulls at the skin of his jaw and at the stubble that is just forming. Dark, it falls from his fingertips, and wicks, ever slow, into the fabric at the bend of his elbows. His stomach.

Under the soles of his shoes, the carpet makes a sound.

The student grinds their teeth. Stone against stone against corn, amongst the roaring of water, something somewhere grinds things to dust.

“You’re bleeding”, they say. Their voice is quiet, almost too soft against the humming of the light and yet –

Professor Gadling grins.

His teeth are crooked in his mouth in a way they have never been. Like shrapnel, splintered things stuck in his gums, they drip all over the collar of his shirt. For a moment, his hair is a long, unkempt thing, tangled at his neck. For a moment, his hands are split open and his trousers are dripping wet.

For a moment, Professor Gadling’s eyes are white, and his mouth yawns open wide.

Someone screams. Someone else makes a sound at the back of their throat that might have once been a gasp.

Professor Gadling blinks. His hair is brushed. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are still as brown as they have ever been. His fingers are curled tightly around his dripping bowels.

“I’m fine”, he says.

“Hob, you’re gutted like a fish”, says the student in the first row.

Professor Gadling laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle under the pull of it and his eyes shine in the flickering of the fluorescent light. With a flourish, he turns on his heels.

The carpet squelches.

“I have ne’er met a fish what could walk, frend.” The lamp still flickers, and Professor Gadling still stands upright. His heart must beat, still, a steady rhythm as it pours and pours itself into the carpet and the floor underneath it.

Then, he tilts his head. “Now”, he says. “Hob. Interesting choice of nickname, isn’t it?” There is an accent in his voice, something sticky almost. As though he’s dragging his feet through soil, too wet to give halt, and too dry to give way.

“It fell out of use-“, a breath. In his arms, bowels twitch. “-A long time ago.”

A step. His shoes scrape against the carpet, drunk full.

Professor Gadling is still smiling. “We forget, I think”, he says, and looks at someone in the last row. His teeth are yellowed. His laughter sits in the fine wrinkles around his mouth where it has long since etched its place. “We forget, don’t we, that people back then were people, too. They had nicknames and they had lives. It is easy to open a history book and read about the kings. About the queens, even, or the nobility. We forget about the people who made the clothes, or the food.”

He opens his arms.

His guts drop, bleeding and alive still, to the carpeted floor. Professor Gadling’s mouth is smeared red. His stomach is cut, from the join of his ribs to the hard cup of his hips, and the shirt sticks to twitching muscle. To gaping flesh.

“We forget”, says Professor Gadling, and he is all teeth, somehow, all hollowed. Underneath his ribs, his belly caves in. “About the people who died for them.”

“Hob”, says the student in the first row. Their hair is a wild thing, standing from their hairline as if in the eye of a storm. They don’t move.

Professor Gadling slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and leans back against his desk. “Witch hunts are easy to put into an essay, too.” The light flickers. The carpet that has long since eaten up the antique flooring browns at the edges. “Easy to write about. Interesting, too. Have any of you ever sat with the thought of the drowning, though?”

A shrug. Someone mumbles something. Someone else draw a breath that is more salt than air. Professor Gadling unspools his smile, for a moment. A breath, really. “It takes about 3 minutes to lose consciousness if you can’t breathe, sitting in that thing. Takes about three times as long to die. Your brain just shuts off, really. Your lungs aren’t meant to breathe water. Which, of course, takes us back to the fish.”

He draws his hands from his pockets to the top of the table. Then, with a tilt of his head, the smile comes back. “The worst thing is the starving, though. Nothing worse than your stomach trying to eat itself.” Around the gash, his muscles twitch.

By now, the shirt is more liquid than cloth, and it drips from him heavily. With a shrug, Professor Gadling reaches for it, and starts twisting it between his palms. A slow thing, something red wells up between his fingers.

“Hunger hollows you out. It eats away at you. The things you are willing to eat if you’re hungry enough would haunt your dreams.” He doesn’t sway. The colour in his cheeks doesn’t drain. His smile is just as it has always been, dimpled and wrinkling the corners of his brown eyes. The overhead projector behind him hums softly. “Nothing lays a man bare like hunger.”

Professor Gadling stands at the front of his class on a Monday morning at eight am and teaches until he has bled out.

He keeps going, after.

“Hob”, says the student. Professor Gadling smiles at them, and there is something alight in his eyes.

“Are you hungry?”, he asks.

Dream needs no food. Dream needs no touch. He needs no mortal, cut open and bleeding still, with his hands on the expanse of his spine. Needs not the mouth on his throat or the teeth in his flesh. The warmth against his chest. The brown of mortal eyes, spilled over the steps of his throne room.

But something sits deep in his stomach, eating away at him.

Something scrapes against bones he does not possess, something takes pieces from lungs that need not move. Something somewhere in the hollow of this endless body whets its teeth on every soft part of Hob Gadling’s body.

The blood on his skin is warm, and Hob Gadling is alive, yet.

“Break me”, he says, with that same voice. With those same eyes. With his laughter etched into his face, and stubbornness sitting in the hollow of his teeth, he reaches for Dream.

Dream, who is more than gods. Dream, whose lips are full of iron. Whose hands are full of human, coming apart at the seams.

“Hob”, he says.

“Ruin me”, says Hob. “I will live. I always live.”

He’s beautiful, says Despair – Desire – Delirium. Eyes shining, fingers sharpened at the tips, Desire’s lips sit on Hob’s throat. Despair’s palms fit into the crack of his bones. Delirium’s arms barely weigh down Hob’s shoulders.

Leave, says Dream. He’s mine.

“Nothing good can come from this”, he says flush against that body brimming with blood, and Hob laughs. It echoes, soft, a span of 600 years, callouses from swords long rotten pressed against endless ribs.

“Who cares?” His lips move, slow, against skin that is more dreaming than it is waking. “There is so much to live for, frend. Come live it with me. Sew me up and take me whole.”

“Hob Gadling-“

A hand on his jaw. Brown eyes. A smile, heavy with fondness. “I have known hunger in ways you cannot understand. Six centuries of hunger, sweeting”, says that mouth. Soft, and flush with life. Sticky with blood. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Dream kisses that mouth. And Hob Gadling doesn’t taste like iron at all. There is only the bubble of laughter that always sits in the corner of his eyes, given breath by that voice.

“Dream”, says something that refuses to end against endless lips. And in endless eyes sits the universe, bright as the north star.

Hob almost gets himself fired btw. Somehow, he manages to convince his boss that it was a very elaborate rpg thing. Very pedagogically worthwhile. Very realistic, too. And it was just the eight am class, most of those kids were probably still asleep.

He does teach medieval history and period accurate swords aren’t really safe to handle in class, you see.

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chilopodacrudus · 1 year

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And done with this last one. I can't promise the next thing I'll upload will be any more normal than this I'm sorry.

#consensual gore #guro #gore #gutting #guts #intestines #evisceration #eviscerate #knife #blade #bleeding #blood #nose bleed #humanoid monster #monster couple #monster partner #demon #goat

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lifblogs · 2 years

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SAVE DEAN WINCHESTER

Whumptober 2022 @whumptober-archive NO. 1 A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen."

Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Pairing: Destiel (sort of) Word Count: 1736 Summary: Castiel goes to Hell to save Dean Winchester, but something goes wrong, and Dean doesn't want to be saved. WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence READ ON AO3

This was not going how Castiel planned at all. RESCUE THE RIGHTEOUS MAN FROM HELL—those were his orders. The whole excursion should have been simple. Yet somehow when he’d gripped the Righteous Man, gripped Dean Winchester, and his hand had seared a mark into his flesh, Dean was able to resist. He took in the pain of Castiel’s brand, and somehow took more, took power too.

Now Castiel was in a dark stone room, a rusty metal grate closing off his only path of escape. A prison. It was lit by torches; lit by lava flows in the floor, bordering the room. Dean had him pressed against the wall, a knife to his throat. (Was it his throat? He’d chosen his vessel early, earlier than he should’ve. Yet, Jimmy was not in the back of his head anymore, as if Dean had somehow erased him. Oh, poor Jimmy Novak!)

“Dean,” Castiel got out in his rough voice, “I’m here to rescue you.”

Dean’s eyes were black, and despite his horrible situation, Castiel wondered what color they truly were. Were they beautiful? Were they kind? Could they be kind if he hadn’t been tortured for so long, twisted into this abominable thing before him?—a thing he was trying to save.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well, I don’t need rescuing.”

His lids flicked as he looked him up and down.

Castiel tried to grab him, despite the knife to his throat, and Dean threw him. Hard pressure made itself known against his body, almost numbing, and then it hurt—just a bit. He collapsed to the floor, trying to catch his breath back from surprise. It was so odd that this body wanted to breathe.

“I have fucking power down here!” Dean yelled, approaching him. “Those sons of bitches were torturing me, telling me that if I said just one little word that the tables could be turned, that I could have power. And now I do. Why would I give that up? For Earth? Earth’s a god damn nightmare.” He gave a dark laugh. “Earth is where people die, where things hunt you, and hurt you, and where you give up your life because you think you’re doing the right thing. And now?” Dean spread his hands. “There is no right thing. I don’t have to make any hard choices.”

“We need you.”

“And whose we?”

“The angels.”

“Pfft, the angels? Where were you sons of bitches when my mom burned on the ceiling? Huh? Where were you when Sammy died and I had to make a deal to bring him back? Where were you when every low, evil thing out there had it out for us? Where were you?”

“Dean—”

He came over and pressed the knife against his lips, a clear sign to be quiet. Castiel’s chest heaved.

The knife cut his lips, and a slow trickle of hot blood made its way onto his chin.

Dean eyed it, and bit his bottom lip.

Was this really the Righteous Man? Did he have the wrong person? No, it was him. It had to be. This was Dean Winchester, and Castiel had to deal with that.

Dean caressed his face with the knife, and Castiel shuddered. Dean did too, mouth open, black eyes drinking him all in. And then, he smiled.

Castiel thought maybe then his heart dropped down to his feet.

“I think I know what to do with you.”

“Dean,” Castiel enunciated sharply, “I am here to rescue you. Heaven needs you.”

“Screw that. I don’t need them!”

Castiel tried to shove Dean away, which turned into a desperate struggle. Castiel didn’t want to hurt Dean, but oh, Dean wanted to hurt him.

Despite several punches and having his head head slammed back against the rock wall, Castiel got on top of Dean. He started speaking in Enochian, hoping that would disorient him. Dean threw his head back, screaming, his ears starting to bleed. Castiel’s eyes glowed blue, his whole body filled with golden light, and he could feel their presences in Hell weakening.

Dean was thrashing beneath him, snarling like a rabid dog. His head came forward, and crunched up against Castiel’s nose.

Cartilage broke, blood flowed. Now he was at a disadvantage. While temporarily disoriented, Dean managed to grab the knife, and he drove it right into Castiel’s chest.

If this was a regular enemy Castiel would just pull the knife out of himself, uncaring, and stab his adversary. But this was Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man. He could not hurt him.

Then, an idea came to him. Dean was a demon now. Demons liked deals—no, loved them.

Powering down, he leaned over Dean, putting an arm across his collarbones. “What if we made a deal?” he offered in english.

Dean calmed, but Castiel noticed that his hips tilted upwards where he was being straddled. He tried to ignore it, but couldn’t help but notice how interesting it was to have a body, and to have someone beneath him. It felt good. Maybe too good.

“What kind of deal?” he asked.

“What do you want?”

“You. Bleeding and screaming. All the angels. They need to pay!”

Cas raised an eyebrow at that, tilting his head. “That’s a bit much.”

With a roar, Castiel was shoved off of Dean.

Dean stood, and then grabbed him by the tie, pulling him up, almost strangling him with it.

“Fine. Your pretty angelic guts in my hands, and you can take me wherever the fuck you want.”

Castiel swallowed roughly, the body he was in reacting in quite terrifying ways at the thought of what would need to happen to him. His mouth was dry, his tongue seemingly sticking to the roof of his mouth, his legs were weak, knees trembling. And he was hot and cold, and he could feel the pulse of his blood pumping through him as his heart raced. Ragged breaths dragged in and out of his throat.

RESCUE THE RIGHTEOUS MAN FROM HELL.

“Yes.”

Dean put his lips to his. Castiel had no idea how to react to this, had only a vague idea of what this actually was, but he felt like something was sealed between them.

After, Dean thumbed his bottom lip.

“Damn, you’re pretty.”

“Thank—you?” Castiel responded, confused by the situation.

A chuckle left his charge, his adversary, his responsibility.

“Now what’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m gonna call you Cas.”

Castiel couldn’t care less about this shortened version of his name. Not when Dean started roughly stripping him.

He let him. He let him bare his vessel, shivering at the implications of his treatment.

Sure, he didn’t feel pain like a human, not even in a vessel. But something as intense and dark and disgusting as Dean had planned would hurt.

Soon, Dean, the Righteous Man, had Castiel by the throat, blunt nails digging in, fingers squeezing, and he cut into him a few inches beneath his pectorals. What Castiel could tell of this body from his grace, Dean had been trained well.

Dean walked forward, backing Castiel against the bars of his cell.

There was nothing he could do as he watched the horrid delight on the Righteous Man’s face as he made one clean cut downward, knife digging deep. He tried to hold in a scream, but he couldn’t, couldn’t control any of his reactions as Dean carved expertly.

As he slashed above his pelvis he almost collapsed, but the hold on his neck kept him standing. His spine stretched, his weight pulling against Dean’s grip.

Ugly sounds escaped him, sounds he didn’t know humans could make. It disturbed him, disturbed him to the point of wanting all this to end, to the point where he was berating himself for every choice he’d made since being given this mission. SAVE DEAN WINCHESTER. Well, as Dean would say: what a load of crap.

Another slash, and then Dean reached his hand into him.

Castiel choked and spluttered, and tried to fight Dean, but he was so weak now. Weak from pain. Pain. Oh, Father, why did you create such a thing as pain?

As Dean cut and pulled, ripping him apart, Castiel tried to remember his mission.

SAVE DEAN WINCHESTER.

SAVE—

With a pull, his guts were out. Blood was splashing down onto the floor, rolling down his body, soaking into his pants.

Something fell out of him, maybe something Dean didn’t care about, but Castiel felt the wrongness, the hollow, gaping emptiness.

This body was broken, belonging solely to the Righteous Man.

Dean tossed the knife aside, and used both hands to pull his intestines out. His torturer was breathing heavy, voice leaking into his breaths, nearly moaning.

And then he turned Castiel around, leaving him with the air to scream and scream and scream, Dean’s ears surely bleeding from his angelic voice.

Despite that, hardness pressed against his backside—an unfamiliar hardness.

Wrists pulled behind his back now, a wet, slimy, ropy thing encased them. Blood slithered down to coat his hands. They wrapped all the way to his forearms, and then he was tossed onto his side on the floor, something cracking (his hip?), sparking more pain through him. Oh, how was it possible to feel more pain?

Castiel was lying in a pool of his own blood, of this vessel’s blood. Yet, in these moments where Dean had made him so intimately know this body, it really was his own. There was no other way to see it now.

Vision going in and out, the world spinning, he couldn’t see much as Dean put his ankles together, and started tying. His intestines didn’t make good restraints, but he didn’t even want to squirm against them or try to break free. They were no longer a part of his utterly ruined and degraded body, but to feel them break against his flesh would be too much.

Tied up, he lay there, participating in the action of what he thought might have been uncontrollable sobbing.

Dean knelt by him, and grabbed his chin. His grip was clumsy, fingers soaked in red.

“Ha! After all that, I’m not sure I want to leave. Maybe, just maybe, Cas, I’ll keep you as my little pet.”

Too weak to do much, Castiel continued to sob.

Dean pulled him into his lap, and let him sob against his chest.

#whumptober2022 #no.1 #unconventional restraints #spn #fanfiction #graphic depictions of violence #gutting #blood #gore #extreme gore #torture #non-consensual themes #nsfwhump #dean winchester #castiel #demon!dean #writing #my writing

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atissi · 3 months

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i don't really like when people say dungeon meshi is accidentally good autistic representation, because while i understand not wanting to make conclusions without explicit confirmation from the author, there's always the weird assumption that non-western authors somehow don't know about things like neurodivergency/queerness/etc. (on top of the assumptions that east asian authors are somehow more naive or oblivious to "western" social issues).

given that dungeon meshi started being published in 2014, it's not really a "work belonging to its times"—it's as contemporary as any other media we discuss on this site, which means it should be fair to assume it engages with contemporary topics (and at the very least, you shouldn't say that the representation is accidental with so much confidence)

but anyways, the chapter "perfect communication" in ryoko kui's "terrarium in a drawer" is some of the most straightforward autistic representation I've seen, and from now on I'm going to assume that laios's character writing is absolutely intentional in that regard:

#beepbeep.txt #dungeon meshi #ryoko kui #this is me trying to explain h/ollow knight lore #also yayyyy reading new things. chapter 18 'spring' is basically UFUT if you squint (sorry for the jumpscare if you know UFUT)#but the last two pages were such a surprising gut punch....it's hard not to see it as a metaphor for both the experience of raising childre #and of taking care of your parents in old age....aughh....

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aye-of-newt · 23 days

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guillermo del toro’s pinocchio is a beautiful film but my god no one has adapted that story like neverafter. you can never look at it the same way again after listening to lou wilson, a black man, explaining that he chose to play as pinocchio because it’s a story about a little boy who isn’t allowed to make mistakes. that in pinocchio's story, he is fundamentally barred from childhood at once upon a time. he must earn something that everyone else is granted from birth. the other boys get to tell lies and play and get into trouble, but when pinocchio does the same thing there are grave and violent consequences. his pinocchio is trying to understand why the world is so unfair, why the rules are so different for him, why everyone else gets to be a real boy.

and I think about it every day.

#I'm sure so many other people have said it better than me but I think it deserves being said a thousand upon a thousand times #lou wilson is a phenomenal talent and storyteller and actor #and his ability to bring that character from the most ridiculous heights of comedy to gut wrenching emotion on a pinhead was unforgettable #I have so much respect for everyone in the dome but I don't think any story gripped me as much as pinocchio #d20 #dimension 20 #d20 neverafter #lou wilson

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majormeilani · 1 year

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something about foreshadowing being more prominent the second time around reading a story but in a way that the meaning is changed forever and you can never view a story the same as you once did before. do you know what i mean.

#the way some innocuous line is now a punch in the gut and it's like a pain that persists till the end of the line

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westernyouths · 27 days

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A nice little before and after

#no one can accuse me of making it a grey box #gutting

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narrie · 6 months

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jewishvoiceforpeace: This is what genocide looks like. These are the 2913 Palestinian children killed by the Israeli military this month, as of Thursday, October 26. As the Israeli airstrikes on Gaza intensify, we recognize with horror and grief that this death toll is already inaccurate.

We demand a ceasefire now to save lives. To stop a genocide. The Israeli military has already erased 47 entire Palestinian families from Gaza's population registry; all members of the family, from all generations, are dead. This is loss beyond measure.

The U.S. is also responsible for this horror. 80% of the bombs that the Israeli military drops on Gaza, that are used to kill these children, are American-made. We are called to do everything we can to stop this genocide.

As we continue to demand a ceasefire and fight for a future where everyone is free and equal and safe, we refuse to forget these lives. We will always affirm that every life is precious.

Every single one of these deaths was preventable. When we say Never Again-for anyone, this is who we mean. Never Again is right now.

Source: Gaza Ministry of Health

#palestine #gaza #again: these are JUST the children #and there are def even more names now #it's gut-wrenching

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brucewaynehater101 · 2 months

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It's my hc that the Bats are freaky good with their intuition, and it drives the JL mad. Why? Because Batman gets cranky if someone deviates from the plan and his lectures last for 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. On the flip side, he or the Birds will suddenly freeze, stare at seemingly nothing, and then force everyone to take long detours out of nowhere. When asked what the hell is going on, all they say is they "got a feeling."

Most of the JL is comprised of metahumans or nonhumans so they straight up don't understand what is going on. The non-metahumans also don't understand why the Bats trust their gut instict so much.

I hc that the Bats trust their feeling so well because Bruce taught them to be more observant than the rest of the population, and because of some specific training of Bruce's. He learned it before he became Batman.

Out of all the bats, Jason is the best with his intuition because of his training with All Caste.

After Jason, Cass is the best with feeling out people. It's not because she can read their intentions through their body language. It's a proven instict based on that one guy she didn't like 3 years before they committed their first major crime.

Dick is the best at situational intuition and "reading a room." If he suddenly tenses, the Bats trust that instinct for trouble.

Tim has the best foreboding instinct because he's dealt with so much stupid shit that it might as well be a 6th sense.

#dc comics #dc universe #dc robin #tim drake #batman #dc red robin #dick grayson #red hood #bruce wayne #jason todd #cassandra wayne #gut instinct #the bats are cryptids

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disease · 2 months

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