#I do not condone cannibalism

[ineffably-graham]

hannibal lecter really said "eat the rich!" and honestly that is very cool of him

[ennuienthusiast]

I relate to Hannibal cause I am just as food obsessed as he is. Minus the cannibalism thing.

[not-athing]

I was reading a book where the main character had an effed up childhood. Due to something that happened she felt that her mouth and right ear weren't hers anymore (?? Or something like that)).

Anyways, all it took was a little murder and cannibalism to feel whole again.

Gotta respect that. She knew what she wanted (she didn't), and she did it with no remorse (that wasn't talked away by her husband). ((In her mind it wasn't /really/ cannibalism. And it took /years/ for her the realized she murdered somebody as a kid.))

Anyways, long story short. It was an effed up book and I needed to get something out there

[visualbrainrot]

cannibalism in queer horror media

the consumption of the body is the consumption of the soul. as shame prohibits an open love, it festers in silence until it has infected every part of the body. it is a sickness that cannot be cured, terminal. it impairs the mind turning desire into visceral hunger, turning "love" into all-consuming mindbending insanity. driving a person to the only understanding they can impart to another, the only satisfaction and placation of their being they can receive is to consume the object that caused this steady decline into a maddening and cyclical pattern of hellish obsession.

in part it is a triumph, in part it is a devastating blow, in another it is just another thing to numb the soul.

[rae-n-drop]

Fun fact!

Roughly 25% of the human female body is bone mass. Therefore, if someone wanted to calculate what percentage of their weight is bone mass they could simply take 25% of that.

For instance, roughly 25.3 pounds of a 101.2 pound female is bone mass. So the remaining 75.9 pounds of this person is flesh. In kilograms, this is 34.5.

There are 1,300 calories per kilogram of human flesh. For our female example, this would be 44,850 calories.

A Big Mac is roughly 540 calories.

Consequently, this person's flesh has the equivalent amount of calories as 83 Big Macs.

I am worth 83 Big Macs.

[fruityvermint]

You guys are so judgemental he's just a silly guy!! So what if he wants to fucking eat people?? He's hungry!!!! Let the man eat, DAMN.

[marchwardenofmordor]

“With a voice like thunder and a tongue to drown out all that is pure in the world, by the ice that flows through my veins, I would slaughter every man, woman, child, elf and dwarf so that he may conquer the world alone. And I, at his feet, reverently resting my head upon the fairest of all laps, would remain at his side. His one true faithful.

No matter how many times I administer my own penance with these skilled and loving hands, no matter how the scourge stings, how my muscles sing and scream in the same breath, nor how the cilice belts constrict and bite my tender thigh-flesh, the greatest honour would be to be finally slaughtered by him at his throne at the end of all things. To know he would cradle my severed head so lovingly and use it as he saw fit.

My duties are boundless. Endless. And I shall never rest; even when this weak flesh has crumbled into dust, when the maggots have earnestly chewed away at my carcass, my hope is that I might yet still serve him, even in death, as a wraith, and be permitted to behold the wonder of his greatness forevermore.

And then upon that mournful day of his demise, what is left of my soul would weep, but then rejoice, for the world would be lost to oblivion, and we might bask in the darkness together, as one. Always as one, and ready to be birthed again. And in that new life, this Lord of Gifts may grant me his greatest yet; to run him through first. O, what pleasure, what paramour paramount, and I would slather his viscera over myself, that it may yet retain the last of his warmth, and I would partake of his body, devouring him as mine own body most naturally dictates, for to sup upon him would be to hold him inside of me, close as can be. And then I would snuff myself out again. And again. And again. The most original sin, in all of its profane glory. I would let him murder me a thousand times over, and my rancid blood would dance through my veins at the prospect of bestowing such a gift upon him in return.

I am a simple creature, prone to desire and violence, and nothing grants me greater satisfaction, nothing can melt my brain nor shatter my body, better than seeing my affections returned in those terrible, wonderful eyes as his pupils expand and swallow the light. And I feel hungry. Ravenous.

Call me not a martyr, for I would have wantonly yearned for every second of it.”

- The Marchwarden

[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.

[mauricemetsfan]

Wėłļ ¥°ú ąřə ₩hãț ýøů ęăţ, j◇ķĕš āśīđě ī ām įñçŕéďīßĺý P1§ŠĔĐ Ø£F! :•(

... Am I in danger now?

[egharcourt]

Self-study as a Figure at the Base of My Lover’s Crucifixion

The 2024 calendar pulled a very funny card by having Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday fall on the same day

[ashersbraincell]

Im afraid my suspicions are about to be confirmed

[oceanwithouthermoon]

tired of being called boring cuz i hate toxic ships </33 im sorry i get triggered easily by stuff like that brah, the most toxic my ships r allowed to get before i get triggered is a lil possessiveness and a hint of unhealthy codependency 🤭 beyond that, i literally get sick to my stomach lmao..

do what u want but anyone whose never been abused before does NOT get the right to call ME boring for not liking abusive ships..

[daisies-on-a-cup]

i cant get the cool things i enjoy and put them up in my room bc if i bring people over and they ask about them, even if they are non-judgmental and genuine, i would be unable to explain why i like those things due to the massive levels of cringe that would overwhelm my brain

[wings-of-angels]

I love love love writing horror sm

[p33p33p00p00]

i think youtube and tiktok has worse reading comprehension than tumblr and that says alot considering i dont talk about half of my ocs here because of the bad reading comprehension