#// do I need the cannibalism tw?

[natjennie]

okay, bear with me this requires a lot of context. imagine that you wake up on a space ship with an alien species capable of telepathic communication with you. they are also capable of instilling you with the knowledge that everything they say is completely true, there is not a hint of uncertainty in your mind. they have weapons capable of obliterating earth pointed at the planet, and are forcing you to do one of two things in order to not fire. within the fiction of the scenario you are not being given the choice, but you the real you is picking which one of these things you'd rather have happen.

you must eat an 8 ounce serving of human baby meat, by default prepared like a steak (different preparations can be requested). you do not have to keep the meat down once you're done, but you have to get all of it in your body at one point. they do not provide any information about where the baby came from or how it died. if you complete this, they will deposit you back on earth and you will be free from legal repercussions of cannibalism, and it is generally agreed that you are also free from moral blame as it was against your will.

you will be surgically impregnated with a human embryo and must carry it to term and give birth. the embryo does not contain your dna, but otherwise you don't know anything about its origins. the aliens have advanced medical technology that gives you sufficient anatomy to carry and birth the baby, and keeps you healthy throughout, with no risk of long term complications or death. you have the choice to keep or give away the baby once you have given birth, and will be deposited back on earth.

if you refuse to comply in either situation, they destroy the earth and you are forced to live the rest of your life aboard the space ship as a prisoner, until you die of natural causes.

so,

[genesisvirus]

oh so the warning signs were just always there huh

[capn-twitchery]

thank you for the late night inspiration, pinterest

[bombshellsandbluebells]

The choice to depict that last scene not as a somber act of survival, but as a joyous feast - a celebration. And in Grecian clothing, no less, drinking wine, so you can’t help but immediately think of Dionysus, of hedonism, of abundance and pleasure. They’re pouring the wine into their mouth, wasting it. Not scrounging to survive, but eating for pleasure. They’ve been starving so long and now there’s food - enough to stuff themselves on.

Someone on here wrote about how the first act of cannibalism was an act of grief and they’re so right. And something about that is almost understandable. Reluctantly eating to survive would have been too. 

But how terrible is it, how much would it haunt you to know, that the second act of cannibalism was an act of pleasure. 

now excuse me while I try not to hurl

[pawtisserie-0022]

𖤐 Mild Gore ( simplified exposed muscle)

𖤐 Blood

𖤐 Cannibalism

Butcher Vanity

We discovered canine teeth have evolved in special ways to help each species kill and eat their favourite prey – helping to make mammals some of nature's most successful predators

Dividers 1 and 2

[friendlyfatbee]

Damn bro I love sweets

[cinematicnomad]

finished society of the snow and it was VERY good, like, so genuinely moving and harrowing and touching and so well acted. i am a little confused by the decision NOT to bring up the comparison of eating the dead for survival with the catholic act of communion, ie. the literal imbibing of the body and blood of christ. in real life this was brought up by the survivors, and it was one of the arguments that actually convinced some of the others that it was ok, that they wouldn't be sent to hell, etc. it's also an argument that as a former catholic has always made me understand the survivors actions, in a way? not sure if that makes sense entirely, but i just think it's something that's v humanizing in their debates about this choice—which the movie makes clear was very much a last resort. the survivors are eating shoelaces, they're eating cigarettes, they're eating anything but the obvious because they're just PRAYING they'll be rescued before they have to make that decision. the movie is full of catholic imagery and catholic faith and prayers, so it just seemed odd to not include that? it doesn't in any way lessen my praise of the movie, i'd just be very curious to talk to the screenwriter about this choice.

[archduke-enver-gortash]

ok i know i made that ‘father complex not in the daddy kink way but the saturn devouring his son way’ thing but i. probably should get into it a little more. under the cut!

one of my friends described gortash and zeke as ‘frankenstein but even more bible core’ once and that definitely holds true. i don’t think gortash ever uses the word ‘father’ exactly, but he desires to rip zeke from bhaal and be the only one in that place, so it’s pretty much an implied/subconscious truth to both of them anyways. (when zeke tries to pray he only sees gortash etc etc) he’s devouring the one he takes apart to rebuild countless times. the first thing zeke sees when born anew all these time is gortash (who makes it so) like a babe seeing the face of its parents the first time it opens it’s eyes. he feasts upon zeke’s fear, anger, hatred, sorrow. he ties zeke to the metaphorical crucifix just as it was always intended by god for his son. he violently shapes zeke into his martyr.

[dizzyspice717]

I’m gonna start a notes app note of things I’ve said to my parents that make them concerned for my mental wellness, starting strong with; “you gotta have fun with cannibalism”

[valeren-raven]

What's the big deal with eating humans? I eat dead humans all the time.

I don't KILL humans to eat them though.

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[stiffyck]

Right this one is a bit more messed up (and i do mean messed up) than the others (checks the tws in the tags) but this idea just came to me so suddenly I have to share it and i need you all to be as uncomfy as i am:

So, its season 8 and Pearl is new there. She's happy to build near her brother and his friends. They get along well, it's all fun and games.

Until, one day, she hears screams. The most horrifying and gut wrenching screams coming from Grians midnight alley.

So, terrified, she goes to investigate. It sounds like someone is being tortured.

As she comes closer, she realises its her brother who's screaming. So she runs. But there's no one in the alley.

She hears the screams again - this time coming from a little hidden alley on the side.

She comes through and sees a very dark and creepy hidden alleyway and sees a red door at the end.

She approaches and opens it to reveal a staircase leading down.

Shes holding her breath as she stalks down the stairs, listening to those awful screams from her brother.

She finally comes all the way down to see-

Grian, lying on a bed, literally being eaten alive.

By their own neighbour, Scar. Scar, the friendliest and happy person on the server.

And shes about to interrupt when grian dies and respawns.

"Ey, how was that?"

"Delicous, thank you."

AND PEARL IS JUST STANDING THERE, MOUTH OPEN AS SHE WATCHES SCAR LICK HIMSELF CLEAN AND GRIAN JUST CHATTING WITH HIM LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED.

Anyway yea, someone forgot to mention to the new hermits that they have a cannibal on the server.

[gallowsheart]

@alwaysxinxtrouble

Jesse had no idea how long the woman had been in the camouflaged pit. He didn’t have time to check the twins' traps every day and knew they weren't exactly diligent about it either, despite repeated reminders that rotten meat that had been dead for days was no good to anyone. He guessed it was anywhere from a day or two to only a few hours. He’d had to bind her wrists and ankles and gag her to haul her out, but he’d removed the gag once they reached the slaughterhouse.

Nobody was going to hear her from in there, and he liked having someone to talk to while he worked, even if the conversations could be sort of one-sided. She didn't seem reassured by his promises that he would kill her so quickly she wouldn't even feel it, or that it was lucky he'd found her before the twins did. They liked to play with their food, no matter how many times Abram raged at them that fear and pain affected the flavor. Conversations could be sort of one-sided with them too. Their listening skills were highly selective.

Blood dripped from the edge of a sharp knife while he carved up meat at the counter. He wasn't trying to scare her more, but it was possible he didn't realize what a frightening scene that was. He was waiting for one of his brothers to get home to help with her. Contrary to popular horror movie myth, it was difficult to single-handedly butcher and preserve the meat from anything larger than a pig. Not impossible, but they didn't like to waste anything. The whole process would be smoother with another set of hands. Though Jesse had a tendency to run his mouth, that was not a detail he'd shared with his captive.

He didn’t look up from what he was doing at the sound of the sliding door, assuming it was one of the twins come to check on their haul, until Jed's voice snapped through the space. He had that oldest brother talent of commanding instant attention and making him feel vaguely guilty, even when he hadn't done anything wrong. Or maybe it was just that he was already shouting.

"What the hell are you doing? Jesse, what the fuck."

Jed was staring at Robin, bound on the floor, filthy and crying and looking like she'd just been pulled out of a pit, which, he realized with a sinking feeling, was probably exactly what had happened. He knew the twins had traps set up all over the property, and none of the locals ever made noise about the occasional missing hiker. But this was bad. This was bad. Robin wasn't just some random hiker. Locals were off limits. They never killed people they knew, and he’d already been seen in town with her on multiple dates. They couldn't just kill her, as Jesse had clearly been planning to do.

But they couldn't just let her go either. It was plain at a glance that she'd already seen and heard too much. Jesse never did know how to shut his goddamn mouth.

"Fuck!" He was still yelling, his younger brother's voice competing with his.

"What are you talking about? She was in the trap!"

"That's Robin! That's the girl I'm going out with! Goddamnit, Jesse!" He shoved him hard, heedless of the knife in his hand. It was no threat to him. The Ashworth brothers might infight from time to time, but they always stopped short of actually hurting each other.

"Well what the fuck, Jed! How was I supposed to know?"

Jed ignored him, moving almost on autopilot to Robin. He knelt by her, reaching to loosen the restraints on her wrists. He didn’t like seeing her like that, helpless and terrified. It was still relatively new between them, but he’d liked her. More than he’d liked anyone in a long time. And they would probably have to kill her now. Robin would die for nothing, and her disappearance would bring unwanted attention to the family. Shit.

[down-thedrain]

made this (mutual targetted) graphic on why you should play sjm because god please play it i need to be ill i need to be ILLLLLL

[catinasink]

thinking cannibalism + vampirism thoughts but its ok since im filled w joy n whimsy ^^

[quietwingsinthesky]

supernatural should be more about people getting cannibalized. not enough of it in the show. metaphorically and literally. someone should eat those winchesters.