#Meat Cleaver Knife

[clear-givings-market]

Explore the Culinary Diversity with Meat Cleaver in World Culture Festival

End your festival journey with an eco-friendly shopping spree at Clear Givings Market. Every purchase ensures sustainability, from the wooden salad bowl to the ethically sourced meat cleaver.

[icy-saturday]

They’re all beautiful, beyond my affordability, but beautiful 🥺👉👈

(I REALLY WANT THE ROSE GOLD CLEAVER I REALLLLY REALLY WANT HER)

(AND THAT MOMMA KNIFE WITH HER BABIES SHE LOOKS SO CUTE AAAAAAAA IM GONNA EXPLODEEEE)

and then Silver Spoon just bound to his piece of cardboard :P lol he silly

I WANT THEM ALL GIMME GIMME GIMME

[fymo-blogs]

Warning for raw meat, cannibalism, major gore, and knives below cut!

🥩|🔪|🫀

🦴|🍖|🌑

🎭|🩸|⛓️

Butcher's Vanity stimboard

Themes: Raw meat, cleavers, cannibalism/gore

Note: I am obsessed with this song

Song:

[evilguywhoisevil]

WHEN I GET YOU SOUSUKE.

[klaunee]

(WIP) The Butcher

[whats-in-a-sentence]

"(...) He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. (...)"

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[pinkweirdbitch]

Taking out my frustrations on this ugly purse😇

[puppy-the-mask]

My contribution to Bob Vesleb fans- this man just showed up on my Fyp one day and made me binge the entire Spooky Month series so I could understand where he comes from… I like that his design is simple, it makes him fun to doodle :)

I doodled myself and then Amp in the style, this was all from memory so it’s a bit… rough *CoughSkidAndPumpCough*. I like to think that as civilians Amp and Bob could be friendly acquaintances by virtue of her actually listening to and enjoying his ‘Did You Know’ facts about meat and cannibalism. Then she meets his serial killer side and decidedly does Not like him anymore. Of course, what else would happen when you throw two unhinged cannibals in the same ring? She’s upset he tried to eat her- so now she’s determined to eat him first! (You don’t eat me- I eat You!) and he’s fed up with her because she just doesn’t die- that’s his shtick! It’s a ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’ kinda thing, except Amp isn’t actively looking to eat people and just wants to live a normal life despite being a very abnormal entity. I think she’d be kinda like Frank (the van driver) where she’s in the background doing shady shit but is nice to Skid and Pump when they interact with her. Like ‘oops I accidentally snapped and mauled this one rude asshole- oh children *wipes mouth* what’s up…”

She’d have wrecked that little doll- full on feral down on all fours shaking it in her jaws VIOLENTLY like a dog with a toy

[yourplayersaidwhat]

[We are standing in front of Vallaki and are required to identify ourselves and list every weapon we’re intending to bring with us into the city.]

Paladin: My name is [Paladin] I’m also a man of the Goddess…I guess. As you can see, I have this Greatsword, a Longbow, a crossbow, another crossbow, this kitchen knife, 19 arrows… yes, write that down please…“ (keeps talking)

Blood Hunter and Cleric visibly despair the longer Paladin keeps talking.

Paladin: ”…I also had a meat cleaver before, but I threw it at a corpse. My fists are weapons, I guess. Oh, and my wits the good looks…“

He got punched by the guards.

[fuckingrecipes]

Hey friend I basically learned to cook from you (you took all the intimidation out of it, and gave me my first meal that other people liked) so I come back like a decade later asking if you have any advice about knives. I don't love cooking but I recognize that the right tools make any task much more satisfying and also I am just so tired of my cheap knives going dull immediately so: what exactly is a "good knife"? Any advice on how to recognize one, and take care of it once acquired? Many many thanks.

Thank you so much, that's really heartwarming to hear <3

Regarding knives: I'm going to go over some basic care & maintenance that will help knives stay sharper, longer... and then some knife recommendations.

Always cut on a cutting board. Wood or plastic. Don't cut food against stone, metal, or glass as they'll fuck up the edge.

Don't use the sharp side of the knife to scrape food off the cutting board. If you wanna use the knife as a scraper, flip it over and use the non-sharpened edge.

Once or twice a year, sit down and sharpen all your knives.

Don't use those shitty little "knife sharpeners", they don't actually give the knife a good or stable edge. Instead, take 30 minutes to learn how to use a whetstone. They're shockingly easy to learn to use, and super effective. You can make a shitty $11 walmart knife razor sharp. Here's another video about it.

Ideally, you should hand wash and towel dry your knives right after you're finished prepping food with them. Best practice is to avoid leaving it in water to soak, and to avoid putting it in the dishwasher. Cleaning it immediately keeps the edge nice, longer, and heads off any rust or corrosion that can happen from leaving acidic juice on the metal.

ALL KNIVES need to be sharpened 2-3x per year if you're a home chef who cooks almost every night. 4-6 months of excellent sharpness, then becoming kinda dull, is normal for a good knife.

Even a $700 knife will eventually get dull and need sharpening, if you're using it frequently. Because knives are tools, they get used, and in being used the metal gets a little damaged. The edge rolls, dents, or gets chipped. So, it needs to be sharpened.

--

This guy gives an EXCELLENT overview of knives.

You do not need to spend a ton of money for decent knives.

Victorinox and Mercer are solid workhorse brands that make good-quality knives, which you can get for between $20-$60 per knife. Really great for any home kitchen. Wusthof and Zwilling are a little more expensive, and even nicer quality. More expensive than that, and you're looking at high-carbon steels meant to be used by pros for hours and hours, every day. A home chef doesn't need that.

---

There's a lot of specialty knives out there, but I always come back to the 8" chef's knife. Two chef's knives lets me cut raw meat with one, and everything else with the other.

I also have a cleaver and a bread knife for Melons/Bones and Bread respectively, and a small set of smooth-blade steak knives.

Tbh, most people think they have a shitty knife, but really they've just been using it for 3 years straight and never once sharpened it.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Reader: (smirking) So, this is your Halloween costume, huh? A butcher?

Alastor: (grinning) What do you think? A slice of something different for tonight.

Reader: You definitely cut a striking figure…

Alastor: (leaning closer) Is that so? I’d say it’s all in the way I wield my… tools.

Reader: (flushes) Tools? You mean the… cleaver?

Alastor: Among other things. Care to see how I handle them?

Reader: (heart racing) I... I...?!

Alastor: (low voice, claw tipped fingers running along the knife) Life has its surprises, doesn’t it? You can never really know the quality of the meat before you cut into the carcass...

Reader: (trying to stay composed) Maybe you should just… keep that cleaver away from me for now.

Alastor: (smirking) No promises. You might find it thrilling.

[fear-is-truth]

THERE IS AN IDEA OF PATRICK BATEMAN, some sort of clean-cut abstraction. sleek and composed, an entity dressed in cerruti suits and armed with a flawless smile that mirrors the world’s shallow expectations. the surface is pristine, polished…perfection. but beneath it lies nothingness. tonight, the edges are fraying. the mask of sanity isn’t slipping—patrick doesn’t allow that—but the cracks are there, visible to those who know where to look.

he spears a piece of civet de lapin with savage precision, the tines of his fork puncturing the tender meat as though it’s timothy price’s chest cavity, the cleaver in his mind driving neatly between the sixth and seventh ribs. patrick doesn’t look at you directly, but his peripheral vision is locked on you, on price, on the distance between you that feels like it’s shrinking with every word that leaves price’s greasy lips. price thinks he’s clever. using dim-witted jokes as an excuse to lean just slightly into your personal space. saying your name like he’s tasting it on his tongue like wine—it’s all part of some pathetic attempt to needle patrick. jealousy churns like acid reflux, climbing up his throat.

patrick doesn’t interrupt; he never does. instead, his irritation manifests in small ways. the tight clench of his jaw as price makes another asinine comment about “the boy next door.” this isn’t just jealousy—it’s humiliation, resentment. patrick can’t stand price’s charm, especially how he can flirt so casually, so sloppily, and still get a response. patrick has spent years perfecting himself and yet here you are, humoring someone who doesn’t deserve a fraction of your attention. his chest tightens as he watches you laugh, the sound so soft and genuine. patrick stares at his plate, trying to blink away the heat stinging his eyes.

when the waitress approaches to refill his glass, he smiles up at her. “i’ll kill you, cut your throat, drain the blood from your corpse, and have you stuffed like one of those taxidermy animals at d’orsay.”

..

later, in patrick’s pristine kitchen, you lean against the marble counter, still wearing the faint glow of wine and conversation. the scent of citrus cleaner lingers in the air. patrick stands by the fridge, unscrewing an evian. you’re recounting something from dinner, a moment you found vaguely amusing. “timothy really has this commendable switch,” you say, reminiscing about the way his ability to shift the tone of a conversation in order to keep it afloat.

the words register—or, rather, what patrick thinks he hears registers. his brows knit for a moment before his expression smooths, and he nods with agreement. “he is a contemptible bitch,” as though this has been a universally acknowledged fact all along.

you blink. “what?”

patrick sets the bottle down on the counter, his face impassive as he adjusts his cufflinks.

“price. a contemptible bitch. very true.”

your lips part to correct him, but the sheer absurdity of the situation stops you. patrick doesn’t notice your reaction—or if he does, he ignores it. he’s already moved on, straightening the lapel of his suit jacket, his mind cycling through another round of imagined violence involving price and a very large knife.

[radioisntdead]

Ok. So…you can’t just put potential Rosie HeadCanons in my face like that and NOT expect me to start gushing girl.

Rosie with a reader who has a powerful instant regeneration ability. Just imaging they chop off a limb or some fingers and offer them up to Rosie like - “Flame grilled or Sushi?”

Being cute while she’s devouring their pinkie finger while having tea, and reader is SO nonchalant about it.

Good evening my dear! Rosie is just munchin' on the reader like a snack.

Warnings!!

Cannibalism [Fun fact, this is one of the main warnings in the fics I write, out of context this is concerning, EVEN WITH CONTEXT ITS KINDA CONCERNING??] mild gore for obvious reasons, temporary self mutilation??? The seasoning of limbs I don't know but this gets weird, as per usual this more then likely isn't proofread, I wrote headcanons and a drabble but this is somewhat short my apologies!

You and Rosie's relationship is odd to say the least, I mean y'all are in hell but still, but it's healthier then the majority of relationships down there,

I imagine you just carry around like a butcher knife so whenever Rosie is hungry you just go CHOP and hand her your hand or something,

Also if you carry around a bag I imagine you put some seasonings and sauces in for her to choose as well, because unseasoned meat is gross.

Rosie seems like the type to season her food.

The first time you popped off a limb you did with without warning and almost scared Rosie half to double death!

Give the gal a warning and tell her that you can regenerate limbs! She did enjoy munching on it afterwards though!

If you're an overlord you supply her with snacks at meetings,

She just whispers to you that she's hungry and that after the meeting you should get a meal,

And then you with zero discretion chop off a finger and offer it to her,

Carmilla Carmine wasn't pleased, neither were the other overlords [excluding Alastor, he finds it entertaining] and that's saying something since they've more then likely done horrendous things to get to their overlord status.

Rosie however is pleased with the snack, she would prefer if you didn't get blood on the table though,

Maybe in advance you go chop chop and put fingers in a Ziploc bag and hand it to her like it's baby carrots.

Less mess that way,

During tea time I imagine you do prep work in advance so you have an assortment of your fingers in different flavors, so your hand is mess free to be able to hold Rosie's hand while sipping tea,

Or maybe having a picnic, you just pop off an arm and thinly slice it and put it in a little sandwich, maybe some type of dessert? I don't know

Similar to the Alastor biting headcanons I did, Rosie bites you,

But unlike Alastor she doesn't just break skin, she takes CHUNKS OUT, I image you either have a really REALLY REALLY high pain tolerance or you can't feel pain because this has to be painful.

Also you probably need to have towels nearby because this gets messy, like it looks like a murder scene, but without the murder.

You are a snack, literally, a walking talking snack that Rosie adores with all her cannibalistic heart.

....................

You hummed as Rosie sat nearby sipping tea, it was a decent day in hell, the sky was red, sinners were screaming in the distance, and you were pulling back a meat cleaver to provide more fingers,

"Rosie darling, Should I take out the bone or leave it in this time?"

"Leave it in, it gives the fingers a nice crunch!"

Rosie said looking at you, grinning her sharp teeth shining like a razer sharp knife, eyes like a endless void of pitch black that one could get lost in, you could wander in and never escape.

You were completely and utterly in love with her,

Giving a lovely smile back you nodded before ramming down the cleaver, spattering blood across the counter, you pulled your now fingerless hand back, giving it a slight shake before a swirl of black smoke covered it and within seconds you had fingers again, you pull back the cleaver to repeat the process, after all your beloved Rosie was hungry and five fingers wasn't much!

Good evening folks! Thank you for tuning in!

I never thought I would be writing cannibal x readers but here we are, anyways I'm still working through requests! I got a Found family Rosie, an parental Alastor, an angsty Velvette and another one that I can't remember but It's in the drafts! Also Alrighty tune in time!

[krysalla]

hide me from the cleaver, i'll hang with you forever! - iii

thomas hewitt x fat f!reader

part one | part two

read on ao3

word count: 1.7k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, kidnapping

a brief interlude.

He doesn’t usually come down to the station, there’s really no need for it now that there’s no more deliveries to keep the shelves fully stocked, but his mother asked him to come and like any dutiful son, he listened. He sticks close to home or the slaughterhouse, that’s where he feels comfortable. Too many bad memories here–getting stared at and hearing the comments whispered over bottles of cold soda, too bold in their assumption that he wouldn’t hear them. At least at the slaughterhouse, the others mostly kept to themselves. Holding a cleaver near others seemed to put them off any insults and jabs at him, thought he was too angry, too unpredictable, a dumb animal that would attack when provoked. Maybe they were right.

He’s just about done clearing out the storage closet when his mother pulls back the sun bleached curtain and peers out the window.

“Looks like we got some fresh meat comin’ in.”

It’s been about a month now since the last time someone drove through town. Though that’s really no surprise to any of them, even before the town dried up and died, late summer was always the slowest time of the year, not many people willing to drive through a hundred and ten degree weather with a humidity that made the air thick and unbearable. Even the few families that could afford it here left for a month or two during the summer. It picks up again in the fall.

His mother grumbles under her breath, “I’ll be back.”

The door slams shut behind her. He can hear her speaking in that rough way of hers, she isn’t in the mood to play games today, doesn’t feel like slipping on the mask of the gentle, mother hen, clucking away as she tries to usher them into her parlor with tea and cookies and soothing words, telling the meat they will be okay while she serves them the sedative laced tea. He can hear frustrated voices. Miserable, old hag! His blood boils. He can just barely see the outline of three people from his spot near the storage closet.

She comes back in, shaking her head and a trail of smoke following after her. She coughs roughly and puts the cigarette out under her foot. She really ought to quit smoking those things, they always make her cough worse, but she brushes him off, tells him not to worry too much about an old woman like her, but he does, he always worries. 

She turns off toward the backroom where shelves full of groceries used to be, now they only hold dust and grime just like everything else in this town. She calls out to him, “‘M callin’ Charlie. They ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not with no gas in the tank. You can pick ‘em off when he gets here. There’s five of ‘em, young. One of ‘em shouldn’t be too hard to get.”

He’s got one of his knives in the pocket of his leather apron, a small boning knife, something he took from the slaughterhouse. It would be easy to pick them off one by one, but he’ll wait like his mother says. He runs his fingers over the wooden handle. The young ones are usually intoxicated, whether it’s drugs or alcohol, it doesn’t matter, it slows them down and clouds their mind, think the bulk of him coming at them is a hallucination put on by the drugs in their system combined with the heat and lack of water. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide should one escape. There’s not another soul for miles and miles. It would be so easy–

The door opens.

You peek your head around the door and knock gently, trying to announce yourself.

He freezes in the doorway. You look around the inside, swinging your head from side to side, and he can see the wrinkle of your nose and crinkle of your eyes. You’re too busy staring at the rotting pig to see him. It’ll be easier, quicker to slink out of the shadows and surprise you, slice the blade straight across your throat. Mama will be pissed at the mess in her station, she’s already got to clean up after their messes in the house and doesn’t want to deal with any more work than she has too. More often than not, the station is the meat's first contact with them, the setting stage to the final hours of their lives. Tommy rarely worked in the slaughter room, it was a team effort to kill the bovine and no one wanted to work with him nor was he good at working with others. The few times he did go down to the killing floor, he could tell that the cattle knew what was about to happen. They fought every step of the way to him where he waited with a sledgehammer. They snorted and huffed and made all sorts of pitiful noises while they trashed against the ropes leading them to the end, their eyes wide enough you could see the whites of their eyes. The men said that animals that die scared taste worse than ones that don’t. Tommy’s not sure how much he believes that. All meat dies in fear. It’s natural to fear death, even more so to fear being eaten.

Maybe he could try that. Kill you quick before you even knew what was happening, see if there’s a difference. 

He reaches for his knife.

“Hello?”

He brings his hand out of the pocket.

You make your way to him, hesitant in your step, and he can smell the stench of fear on you. He takes a step back, deeper into the shadows of the station to cover his face, but you don’t stop, despite your fear, you trudge forward until you’re right in front of him. You reach out, gently touching his right wrist and he comes to a screeching stop in his backtracking. His hands itch for the knife, he can make it quick. Your friends will notice you are gone and come looking. It will be a hell of a mess to clean up for both him and his uncle. You notice the twitch in his hand and let go, looking up at him sheepishly with a small smile that makes your round cheeks even rounder, clearly defined by the stretch of skin and pull of muscle.

You must be the one his mother was talking about–the easy one.

“Excuse me, sir.”

No one’s ever called him that before. Sir, that’s much too respectable for a man like him, dirtied and scarred and mute, hands always crusted over with dirt and blood and grime that he can’t scrub out no matter how hard he tries. Hands that are covered in calluses and scars from meat hooks and cleavers and boning knives and the sharp edges of bones that don’t get cut right by the old electric bone saw. Men called sir don’t look like him. He’s at the worst an animal, a freak of nature and, at best, called Hewitt by others. No, sir is much too generous. But how can he argue with you, a pretty little thing, soft and round with a plain, natural sort of beauty. He’s been around all sorts of beauty, has coveted all his life for just a taste of his own, and yet, this is a different kind of want. It pulls at his stomach, twists him up into knots. Your eyes are kind despite your fear. His wrist burns where you touched him.

Would you flinch if he touched you? Would you be repulsed by the idea of him touching you, tainting your soft, clean skin? 

“I was looking for the woman that works here.”

He sees his mother emerge from the backroom with a look of fury he’s never seen before.

“What are you doin’ here?” 

You jump and turn to face his mother, terrified as you explain yourself, and taking small steps backward into him as she comes closer and closer, boxing you in between him and his mother. Trapped. So close. He can smell the sweet smell of flowers on you. Is it your hair or your skin? He ducks his head down closer to you, trying to scent it out. 

You cower under the gaze of his mother and flinch as she demands you leave.

He’s not ready to let you go, not yet. There’s still so much to explore. Your legs and arms are exposed to him, but what about your torso? So much skin to touch and pet at. He hasn’t had a chance. He’s getting ideas about a future with you.

His hand hovers over your elbow and he catches his mother looking down at it, eyes flashing back up to him with something like surprise.

You scurry out of the station.

His mother looks at him, arms crossed over her chest.

“City girl like her won’t make it out here. Too damn soft for her own good,” his mother tries to reason. She knows, of course she does, she knows him like the back of her hand.

He fixes out his posture and looks out through the thin curtains at you. All he can catch is your silhouette. His mother’s right, city girls aren’t built for this kind of life. It’s too harsh, it works you down to the bone and demands you do it all over again the next day, but you look tough enough to bear it and even if you couldn’t, he could bear it for you. Tommy could take the beating of the sun, the grinding of his bones and muscles under the weight of all the responsibilities and work that come with running a home like theirs, he could do that all and more, snatch the north star out of the sky and bring it home for you if you wanted, so long as he had you to come home to. A soft, willing wife to lead him to the dinner table and rub out the tension in his shoulder, someone to enjoy a quiet night out on the back porch in the old rocking chairs, hand in hand while the crickets chirp and the lightning bugs light up the fields. A warm, pliant body beneath him. A baby on your hip and a couple kids hanging off his arms.

He touches his still burning wrist.

His mother sighs heavily, “Alright, I’ll go play nice.” 

[melefim]

Swearing in Dead Boy Detectives: Episode 8- The Case of the Hungry Snake

Episode Overview:

58 total, 12 different words said by 12 characters.

Charles: 1 Bloody Hell

Crystal: 5 Fuck, 5 Shit, 2 Bitch, 7 God. 1 Jesus, 1 Prick

Jenny: 10 Fuck, 1 Shit, 1 Ass, 1 God, 1 Jesus, 1 Screw

Niko: 2 God

Esther: 3 Fuck, 4 God, 1 Screw

Cat King: 1 Fuck, 1 Dick

Kingham: 3 Fuck

Girl in Memory 1 (Cheating BF): 1 Damn

Crystal's Mom: 1 Damn

Crystal's Dad: 1 Jesus

Girl in Memory 2 (Club Fight): 1 Fuck, 1 Slut

Girl in Memory 3 (Traffic): 1 God

Curses Per Character:

Charles: 1

Crystal: 21

Jenny: 15

Niko: 2

Esther: 8

Cat King: 2

Kingham: 3

Girl in Memory 1 (Cheating BF): 1

Crystal's Mom: 1

Crystal's Dad: 1

Girl in Memory 2 (Club Fight): 2

Girl in Memory 3 (Traffic): 1

Uses Per Word:

Fuck: 23

Shit: 6

Bitch: 2

Ass: 1

Damn: 2

Bloody Hell: 1

God: 15

Jesus: 3

Dick: 1

Prick: 1

Slut: 1

Screw: 2

Lines:

Girl in Memory 1 (Cheating BF): Why are you being so goddamn mean?

Crystal: Am I ever wrong about this shit?

Crystal: My parents won't say shit, they don't even--

Crystal: Jesus Christ! You guys scared me.

Crystal: God, it's like being punched in the face and the stomach.

Crystal: Yeah, well blame my parents. Holy shit!

Esther: God, you're nosy.

Crystal: Mom? Oh my God. Mom is that--

Crystal’s Mom: They're wasting our goddamn time, Seth, go tell him!

Crystal’s Dad: This is Art, for Christ’s sake!

Girl in Memory 2 (Club Fight): Get your fucking hands off my boyfriend, you slut!

Girl in Memory 3 (Traffic): Oh my God, did you guys hear? James got hit by a car.

Crystal: Maybe karma is just a bitch.

Crystal: Oh, my God. Oh, I'm a fucking awful person. Oh, God, I'm the worst.

Crystal: God, I was a bad person before him.

Crystal: Because if you did, God, you'd hate me.

Jenny: What the actual fuck?

Jenny: And why the ever-loving fuck is my hair braided?

Jenny: Fuck that! That is bullshit!

Jenny: No fucking way.

Kingham: "No fucking way" to you. "No fucking way" to that side braid. What the fuck is that?"

Jenny: Fucking fuck!

Jenny: Screw it. I'd rather know my own life, no matter how fucked up.

Jenny: Jesus, fuck!

Crystal: Oh my God, Jenny are you OK?

Crystal: Shit (digging Niko out of rubble)

Niko: Oh my God. Am I dead?

Niko: Oh my God. Is that why the magic eight ball kept saying "outlook not so good"?

Jenny: Esther's a witch? I thought she was just an asshole.

Crystal: Fuck! (Realizes Esther has the boys)

Jenny: I figure a meat cleaver can cut up a witch, but what the fuck do I know anymore?

Crystal: Because whatever fucked-up little thing you have going on with Edwin, you must care about him a little.

Cat King: So was her wayward husband. A real swinging dick.

Cat King: Fuck me. Did you even listen to my story?

Crystal: She probably put a, like, kill-you-instantly spell or some witchy shit on the door.

Esther: Don't ever trust a goddess to grant your wishes, because she'll definitely screw you over good.

Esther: Oh, God! Oh, God, no, my face… Is fine.

Esther: Oh my God, my own sacrificial knife? I'm impressed. But I'm not fucking around that you're also gonna patch that wall before you die too.

Crystal: I am so sorry he was a colossal prick.

Esther: Who the fuck are you?

Esther: What the fuck? Hey hey hey no! What did you just do?

Crystal: Hubris is a bitch, am I right?

Jenny: God, that sounds so fucking procedural.

Crystal: I don't have to give up my new fucked-up life while I'm trying to sort out my old fucked-up life.

Charles: Oh, bloody hell. And you're always just popping up. Where do you even come from?

Notes:

Previously on Dead Boy Detectives…

Shown in this episode’s recap but not counted above:

David: I can’t, you stupid bitch! (Episode 7)

Bonus:

Esther: Oh, shoot. Or as the French say, merde.

‘Merde’ is French for ‘shit’

Updates:

-Added ‘slut’, updating charts and counts.

-Added bonus quote from Esther

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

More Dead Boy Detectives Swearing Posts:

Masterlist

Swearing by Episode

Swearing by Character

Swearing by Word

All Swearing Posts

And if you like lists of things like I do, you can check out my other Dead Boy Detectives ones here!

When Charles’ Shirt Colors Change

George Rextrew’s Edwin comic inspo board

Full soundtrack with timestamps

Moves, Incidents, and Cases Masterlist

First pass at finding where the songs in the score are used- full post with timestamps in progress