red scab

D̤͈͟E͖̤̦͖̳͈̩͡Ạ̻̞D͍͍͓ ͇̟͍̕I̫̮̜̗̤͜S̩̞̟͔̯ ̡͖̙ͅW̢̙̺H̵͎̗̘͚A҉̞͍͇͙ͅT͎̳̗̯́ ͍̬̹̻̻͘H̢̝͈͚̮̯̮͔E̫̬͜ ̶̝͍̳̝̲I̭̹̦̤̳͡S҉̭̥̺̙̭̼
͔̤̞͠ͅH͓E̜ ̰͠Ḏ̖͜O̵̜͓E̴͎͎͈̖͕̞ͅS̬̼̱̬̥͈ͅ ̧̜̗̗͕̣W͙̖̤̹̮̜͟H̖̹̯̘͟ͅA͟T̛̝̬͔ͅ ̙̜̮̼͙͘H̴̫̥̩͖E ҉P͕Ḻ̡͈̠̠̖̪̠E͈̰͚͍͈A̮̼͍̪S̝̣͚̞͙E

🔪🔪🔪

i dont think i’ve ever seen a post like this so! Here’s a great big shoutout to:

-boys with dermatillomania!!

-boys with scars all over their body from picking

-boys with big red scabs that never heal

-boys who eat the skin they pick!

-boys who are ashamed of their dermatillomania

-boys who dont wear short sleeves bc of scars

-boys with trichotillomania!!

-boys with big bald spots

-boys who shaved their head to hide their bald spots!

-boys who eat the hair they pull

-boys who are ashamed of their hair pulling

i love all boys with bfrb’s, youre not disgusting or gross because of your mental illnesses and youre all beautiful

10

2007 - Gifs from an 18-minute documentary on the Ssangyong Motors factory occupation, produced by militant railroad workers from Doro Chiba in Japan.

The Ssangyong strike and factory occupation in Pyeongtaek, South Korea, ended on August 5, 2009, having lasted 77 days. It began when 1700 workers seized the small auto plant on on May 22. Yet 976 workers were able to successfully defend it to the end – against repeated military assaults by riot cops, company-hired goons, and scabs.

The settlement, signed by Ssangyong court receivership management and the Korean Metal Workers’ Union local president, was a negotiated defeat for the workers; the surrender of the factory was followed by felony charges and heavy sentences against occupiers, as well a massive lawsuit against the KMWU.

Despite this, the workers fought valiantly and uncompromisingly for over 2 months, demonstrating a militancy and class consciousness sorely lacking in the world today. The Ssangyong struggle is an inspiration to workers everywhere – especially as the current crisis has been used as a pretext to further attack the working class. It’s about time we turned the class war back on its feet; the Ssangyong struggle offers many lessons for fighting back. [video] / [part 2]

the worst thing about have dermatillomania is that i want perfect skin. i want flawless skin. but i know im never going to get it, theres always going to be ONE bump, somewhere, that im going to want to pick at. i pick at very, very tiny blemishes, and they turn into redness and scabs and make everything worse, so i just pick at them again and no matter how hard i try, even if i dont have any scabs at a given time, ill never have perfect skin, therell always be something ill want to pick at

Wounds

Originally posted by nervouspearl

Imagine Thranduil letting you see his scars in shame but you assure him it means nothing as you show him your own scars from battles

Warnings: None

Word Count: 994

Thranduil lounges in his favorite chair that is ornately decorated with embroidered tree branches and leaves. His crown is resting on the end table, forgotten and left in an unfamiliar space. The ornate crowns that line Thranduil’s room has a spot missing for that forgotten branch crown. One of his thin hands cups his face, exhaustion evident in the way his brows furrow and the corners of his lips are turned downward. The Dwarves’ visit has taken more out of him than Thranduil would admit.

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3

William Shatner’s daughters Leslie (top) and Lisabeth (middle) both appeared in “Miri” as two of the Onlies, children left behind after a plague devastates a suspiciously Earth-like planet. Lisabeth described the experience on her blog and in her father’s book about the making of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (in which she appeared as a yeoman, shown in the bottom image.)

“Someone handed me a box with a costume in it, and told me to put it on. Since Halloween was one of my favorite holidays, I opened the box eagerly–I was getting a chance to dress up, and it wasn’t even Halloween! However, my excitement was somewhat lessened when I saw the costume. It was a beige, apron-like dress with the words "I Spy” printed on the left pocket. Even at the age of five, I considered myself too mature to wear such a silly costume. I spent the next hour with my left hand over the print … my mother made matters worse when she asked the costumer if they had any green wigs left. She had seen a little girl walk by with a wig of long, green ratty hair and she wanted one for me. I breathed a sigh of relief when she was informed none were left.

“Leslie, who was also appearing in the episode (and got a much better costume than I did), accompanied me to the make-up room to visit dad. When we walked into the room, he was sitting in the make-up chair, his back to us. We ran forward excitedly, relieved to see his familiar outline. When he turned towards us, I caught a glimpse of his arm and saw the skin on the inside of his elbow was covered with a long, bluish-red scab! I blanched, and my dad burst out laughing, and told us to touch the sore. It was made of rubber–at that moment, I realized everything was "pretend.” Once I understood that, I relaxed.“

Let Me Help You

Am I allowed to request another? If so… Can I have one where the reader is being abused and tries to cover bruises from the team. Hotch eventually find out and gets really worried and tries to help her. Thank you ☺️

I can most certainly do this one!  Obvious trigger warnings for the prompt at hand.  Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!

(Part 2  Part 3)


Even in your manipulated state, you knew this was getting out of hand.  You had run out of tattoo foundation, so you had stopped to wearing the only sweater you owned in the middle of July.

In a room full of profilers.

You thought you had covered everything up well.  You never cried on the way to work.  You were a make-up wearer, so the switch in foundation went unnoticed.  You were even able to look up ways to fake a genuine smile when someone asked about him.

But today you slipped up.

Today, you knew someone would figure it out.

“Feeling cold?” Morgan jousts as you walk through the door.

And that gave you an idea.

“A bit, honestly,” you muse lowly as you drop your eyes, tensing as you make your body shiver a bit.

“You feeling alright?” Reid asks, looking up from his coffee as you flop down into your chair.

You were scaring yourself as to how easy it was for you to look sick.

“Eh, I’ll live,” you murmur, laying your head down on your desk.

Were you even lying at this point?

“Y/L/N?” Hotch bellows from the rafters.

Sliding your chair out as you give another fake shiver, you wrap your arms across your chest as you lazily ascend the stairs and slump into Hotch’s office.

“Yes, sir?” you ask weakly.

“Go home.  You’re obviously sick,” he says as he sits his bum back onto the edge of his desk, crossing his legs over one another as he folds his hands in his lap.

But he was home today.

You didn’t think about that.

Oh, no.

And as the panic began to rise in your chest, Hotch saw it rise behind your eyes.

“Y/L/N?” Hotch asks, ripping you from your thoughts.

“I swear I’m good, boss.  Some tylenol’ll fix me right up,” you say, brightening your spirits instantly as Hotch furrows his brow at you.

You were being seen.  You faltered in your make-up purchasing, and you came in without a plan, and it was revealing your lie.

“Shut the door,” he motions with his head.

Locking eyes with your boss, you swallow thickly as you slowly turn, reaching your arm out to toss the door closed.

But you reached out a bit too far.

Turning back around to your boss, you are met with his wide-eyed stare.

“What the hell is that?” he asks.

“W-w-…what…what is what, boss?”

But you knew.

You knew he saw.

Feeling involuntary tears rise in your eyes, you watch as he strides over to the windows, shutting the blinds as you fold your arms even tighter around your chest, causing you to wince as your mind drifts back to last night.

A night you wanted to wholly forget.

“Talk to me, Y/N,” Hotch urges, grasping your upper arms as he sees you wince.

“Come here.  Come here, sit down,” he urges, walking alongside you as your feeble legs move you to the couch in the corner, watching your boss-turned-friend sit down beside you as you sniffle and avoid his gaze.

“What is going on?” he asks soothingly.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

What if he heard?

“Then show me,” Hotch says, almost as if reading your mind’s thoughts whipping across your face.

Drawing in a shaky breath, you grasp the bottom of your sweater, your fingertips vibrating with fear as you finally drift your wide-eyed, wet, fearful stare back up to his.

“I’m not angry at you, Y/N,” he soothes.

And that’s when you let your tears fall as you slowly lift your baggy sweater over your head.

Placing it in your lap as you close your eyes, you bring your hand to your mouth as you stifle your sobs, Hotch’s eyes watering at the bruises his eyes are taking in as he feels the anger begin to bubble in his chest.

Bruising around your neck.  Black, angry rings around your wrists.  Deep, welting, scabbed over bite marks along your breasts.

And that was just the skin he could see.

“Do you have your go-bag with you?” he asks you lowly.

You met his question with a nod of your head.

“How many outfits does it have?” he asks.

“F-…five…sir…” your lips tremble.

“Y/N, listen to me.”

And that’s when you felt Aaron’s hands take yours.

“Do you want out?”

The question hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Is that even an option?” you breathe, meeting his gaze as a tear slips out and down his cheek.

“It’s always a choice,” he whispers.

What a relief it was to nod.

“Alright.  Who are you more comfortable seeing the doctor with?”

You felt your body seize up.

“No.  No, Hotch.  Please…just…no…no just…please…”

Your pleading broke his heart.

“You need to be seen by one.  Not just for evidence, but for your own well-being,” he urges.

“Noooo…” you moan lightly as you shake your head.

But you knew he was right.

Feeling him keep your hands steady you close your eyes as your tears begin to streak the cover-up make-up from your face, revealing the yellow and pale-black bruising under both of your eyes.

Hotch began to see nothing but red.

“J.J., please…” you whisper.

And just like that, he was up off of the couch, throwing his office door open and bellowing down to the crowd.

“J.J., up here with Y/N.  Take her to the doctor on the premises.  Rossi, I need you to go home and make sure one of your guest bedrooms is prepped for Y/N.  She’s gonna need a place to stay for a while.”

The entire team was looking around in shocked and confused states as J.J. flies her legs up the stairs.

You slumped your shoulders in shame as you heard her run into the room, bending down in front of you as her wide, worried eyes take in the make-up dripping off of your face and onto Hotch’s couch.

“Oh, Y/N…” she whispers as you begin to whimper with your sobs.

“Morgan.  Reid.  With me,” Hotch commands as he jogs down the stairs.

“What’s going on, boss?” Reid asks as they all begin to make their way to the elevator.

“We were right,” was all he says, his eyes connecting heavily with Rossi’s before they all step onto the elevator.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“FBI!” Morgan roars out as he bangs on the front door of your apartment.

But he was met with silence.

Nodding to Reid, Reid throws his shoulder into the door as Morgan rears back and kicks at the doorknob, the three of them stumbling into the apartment with their weapons drawn as they take stock of the disheveled apartment: vases overturned and broken, furniture flipped, your glass coffee table shattered.

It made their blood boil.

“Nick!  Get out here you sonofabitch!” Morgan roars.

And then the cocky little bastard came striding out of the room.

“The fuck!?” he yells, holding his arms out, clad in nothing but his boxers.

But no amount of emotion about seeing the apartment in shambles could’ve compared to the anger that wafted through Hotch’s system when he saw them.

The red, scabbed, bruised, angry marks running down his chest.

The red, scabbed, bruised, angry marks of nails.

Nails raked in desperation.

Nails raked in horror.

Nails raked in fear…

It stunned both Morgan and Reid in their spots.

“You, Nicholas Purdy, are under arrest,” Hotch growls, holstering his weapon as he whips Nick’s arms around his body tightly, the man groaning in pain as Morgan’s face contorts in disgust.

“Did she wail in pain like that as you pinned her down?” Morgan glowers.

“Arrested for what!?” Nick bites.

“For the assault and rape of Y/F/N Y/L/N,” Reid growls.

“What-…how-…”

But Nick’s sentiment was cut short as Hotch rips him towards the door, Nick’s feet stumbling under him as he tries to catch his footing.

But then Nick ripped his head back and began to yell

“How the fuck can you rape your own girlfriend!?”

And like clockwork, Aaron finds his lips against the man’s ear.

“When she says no, and you keep going,” Hotch snarls.

“Ngh!” Nick puffs, his head colliding with the stair banister as Hotch’s attack stance quickly straightens into a professional one after shoving Nick out into the hallway.

“Oops,” he rumbles lowly, “you really should watch your footing.”

“Police brutality!” Nick roars into the hallway.

And as Hotch slowly turns his head towards Reid and Morgan, the both shrug their shoulders as they holster their weapons.

“What?” Reid asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Morgan grunts.

197: fire

Fire in the clouds, a flaming beast of a storm. Howling circles around the summit of Red Mountain, ready to descend in ravenous fury and devour the slopes.

Iriel, on the slopes, almost wished it would. Anything to break this living mummification in a smothering shroud of smog. Anything to know something other than the scab-red darkness, and the ash coming down. But here inside the Fence, it was always dark, the ash always coming down.

The moment we fall, the ash will cover us. We’ll vanish in seconds, drowned in a senseless sea of wasted life. Wasted energy.

Perhaps in another thousand years, someone will find our relics, and wonder who we were.

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The color red

Is so much more.

Red is the color of her hair,

Her nails,

Her bed sheets and her cheeks.

Red is the scabs she picked,

And the blotches on her face.

Red is one of her favorite sweaters,

Her Instagram name.

Red is the blood she might as well

Have ripped from my throat

And swallowed.

Red is the memory of her face,

Harsh,

Sharp,

Angry.

Red is regret and red is longing,

Wishing for when every time

I saw the color red

I didn’t think of the last time I saw her face

And how she cried.

Red is begging the world to take me back to where I messed up so much

That it made her hurt me

That it made her take away the rainbow that I looked to every day

And stain it red.

—  2 am me, thinking over some bs
Cloud Diner: A Bellarke Soulmates AU

Summary: Clarke Griffin dreams about the same boy every night after her father’s death. He helps her through tough times and she returns the favor. There’s no way he’s real, right?

WC: ~6,500  [AO3]

A/N: The love of my life and bane of my existence, aka goldenfredheckledfart (yeah…I know) gave me the idea for this fic and has been telling me to write it for ages. I kept claiming that it would take like, five chapters minimum to capture its glory, not to mention a bunch of plot holes I had no idea how to fill. BUT since I love her and her birthday was last week, here it is in flesh and blood. Thanks also to my bae romancereadercoffeedrinker for helping me with the end and shout out to okteivia-blakes, because, by some happy coincidence, her recent vigilantes fic and this one both feature the same [SLIGHT SPOILER WARNING] ‘I only know the first letter of your name, and wow, what a coincidence that I’m meeting someone who looks a lot like you and has a name that starts with that letter’ trope, and it made me laugh. 

Clarke meets him when she’s thirteen and her father is two weeks dead.

And by ‘meets’ she means she dreams him into being. She must still be pretty messed up in the head; Why else would she make up someone who wants nothing to do with her?

In her dream, she walks into a 1950s style diner that’s nearly identical to the one her father used to take her to on his days off work, complete with red vinyl seats and checkered linoleum floor. And it seems perfectly natural, as things do in dreams, that when she looks out the windows, nothing surrounds the establishment but fluffy white clouds and a clear blue sky.

She orders a chocolate milkshake—because that’s what you do in diners—before she notices him, sulking in the back corner. He’s wearing all black in a way that looks more like he doesn’t care than any intentional style and he’s sitting sideways in the booth, back against the wall and long legs extending to the end of the bench seat. If she had to guess, she’d say he was two years older than her.

She approaches him without intending to, sipping at her milkshake before she pipes up.

“Hi.”

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hepzheba  asked:

When first son stiles gets out of the hospital is he anxious and afraid or does he shake it off and Derek's the one who's anxious and doesn't trust anyone?

(previously on first son stiles stilinski: one, two, three)

After the incident, everything is different.

Once Stiles starts going to his classes again, Derek and Parrish follow him everywhere he goes, both in suits— no more exceptions. Derek hovers near classroom doorways with his arms crossed and his intimidating face on. Parrish sits next to Stiles, back straight, jaw clenched.

“Dude,” Stiles whispers to him, toward the end of his first week back. “Relax. No one’s gonna kidnap me from a packed lecture hall in broad daylight.”

“I need to look alert and professional,” Parrish hisses at him from the corner of his mouth. “You think you took a beating? Should’ve seen me after Derek kicked my ass for losing you. I had to eat through a straw for two weeks straight.”

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