#cannibalism metaphor lovers rise

[aimseytv]

“cannibalism as a metaphor for love” you can’t even order your coffee without shaking lets wrap it up

[annikin-annotates]

Tear You Apart - Chapter 1

Hi hello, back with another chapter! This chapter deals heavily with SA trauma, so if that isn't something you feel comfy reading; please take care of yourselves first, love ya'll.

Content warnings: Non-con, Cannibalism as a metaphor for love, Smut, Dom/Sub, BDSM, Choking, Antagonist is NOT Astarion, Collaring.

Word Count: 5,282

Sunsets were always gorgeous this time of year, when the waters became frigid and the pack moved on to warmer waters. She would always spend the last night watching the sunset from the mouth of the Chionthar. The deep gold of the setting sun waning to hues of purple and blue, broken up by mottled clouds of violet and gold. It sent the waves around her shimmering with the last moments of sunlight as it dipped below the horizon, giving way to the moon.  

She had always found great comfort in these moments, the tranquillity of being surrounded by nothing but the ocean and all those who lived under her protection. Her pack had found safety and protection beneath her waves for centuries, each generation more fearful of the surface than the last. They had every right to be terrified, humans had hunted them to near extinction for the sake of their own selfishness and curiosity, sentencing them to a miserable life on land, forever longing for the touch of the sea.   

Another head surfaced from the depths of the water, slitted eyes and familiar dark tresses spreading a smile across her face. “Decided to brave the surface, have you?” she asked her friend, her eyebrows raised as she watched her sink below the surface again and popping up closer to her. 

“No Na-Mara, I’m here to tell you to hurry up. Everyone is leaving,” she huffed, feigned annoyance crossing her delicate features as she rolled her eyes. 

“Oh come on Muir - Who knows how long it’ll be before we see another sunset like this. I mean, look at it, it’s gorgeous isn’t it?” she countered, grabbing her friends shoulders and angling her towards the sunset, the hue changing almost entirely over the course of their short conversation. The light blues and violets traded for deep indigo, the seemingly endless expanse beginning to sprout stars that glittered like jewels. 

Her eyes scanned across the cityscape, watching shadows pass by windows in houses and lovers walking along the boardwalk arm in arm. She couldn’t deny the pang of jealousy that shifted in her, digging its claws into the pit of her stomach. What a delight it would be to walk among them, to enjoy the sunshine and cool breeze as a human. 

Muir sighed and rolled her eyes before agreeing “Yes, I guess it is somewhat enrapturing,” Na-Mara couldn’t help but chortle. Both of them floated idly, resting their heads on one another, taking in the scenery before it would become nothing but the endless expanse of deep inky blackness of the ocean.

Creaking of a ship pulled both of them from their daze, it was a sound she had heard many times before, and yet this time was all the more harrowing. The shouting and pointing of the crew alerted them to the fact that they had been seen; a pit settled in her stomach. Na-Mara turned her head towards her friend, “They can’t catch us both, get out of here!” she shouted.

Muir shook her head furiously, her wet tresses skimming the water, “Not without you!”the panic rising in her voice as a net was tossed over the side, ensnaring Na-Mara.  

“Go Muir! Get out of here! Save yourself!” she begged, hoping her friend would find the bravery to flee. One of them had to make it out alive, one of them needed to live; it had to be Muir, she was sweet - new to the world and all of its cruelties. Muir looked up at her in horror as Na-Mara was lifted from the water and onto the ship, before diving back beneath the waves to the darkness below. 

She landed on the deck of the ship with a wet slap, a dry gasp tore through her as the air was knocked out of her lungs, her back colliding with the hard wood of the deck. The worn rope net was thicker than what she had seen normal fishermen use, which indicated that they weren’t out here fishing - they were hunting something, and with the way several people descended on her, Na-Mara figured that it was her kind they were after.

She lashed out with a swipe of her talons, though it only caused her to become more tangled in the net. Voices overlapped all around her as her body became heavier and heavier, her willingness to fight dwindling. This was it, she was going to die. She was going to be slaughtered on the floor and thrown back into the ocean, all for the sake of a pelt.  

In her final conscious moments she casted her mind to warm memories of the life she had lived - however short it was. Her mother would weep for her, they all would - she would no doubt be the source of insurmountable grief to her family for centuries to come. She regretted not embracing her mother before she left, she wished she could tell her not to worry, and that she loved her. Blackness danced at the edges of her vision, a sign her end was nearing, she used the final breath she had in her lungs to let out a bitter laugh.

Fucking humans. 

The rocking of the sea pulled her from her forced slumber, waves lapping against the worn hull of the ship. A yawn escaped her as she tried to stretch her arms and legs, only to be met with the resistance as she did so, the rope groaning as she tried to slip from the bonds. 

Her heart began to thrum in her chest: Why could she not move? Why could she not see? Why was she bound? Why was she still alive? The memories of how she got there were foggy at best, whoever had captured her did not want her to escape. 

Capture?

She felt cold. Colder than she had ever been, the type of cold that reached the very marrow of her bones. Her skin pulled taught over her trembling fingers, flesh groaning each time she flexed them. She tried to focus on any prominent sounds she could hear, she could see naught but darkness, unable to see her fingers if she held them directly in front of her face - the bastards had taken her eyesight from her. 

Her head swam with thoughts, all of them screaming over one another to be heard, You fool, why did you stray so close to the harbour? The only thing you have gained from this is your obituary, the voices spat. How could she be so stupid? Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, Gods, the last thing I want to be before I die is a crying maiden. 

“Where’s my pelt?” she asked out into the expanse of nothingness that surrounded her, feeling the air in the room shift as someone new entered. 

“I am sorry, truly, but I cannot tell you,” he replied, almost sounding remorseful, though something in his voice told her that it wasn’t the first time he had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

“Please, I’m begging you. My pelt is important to me, I need it to get home!” she cried, desperation becoming clear in her voice. Her pelt was the key to get home, she was nothing without it.

—

Time passed in a haze of blackness, without the use of her eyes she could hardly tell up from down, never mind how long she had been…well, wherever the hells she was. But she could feel that she had been placed on a bed of straw and if she focused hard enough, she could hear footsteps overhead. Every now and again she could hear soft voices and clinking glasses, though even with her hearing she couldn’t make out what they were saying. 

There were chains around her wrists that pinched and nipped at her skin when she moved, anchoring her to an unseen point in the room. Her knees pressed to her chest as she tucked herself tightly into a ball. Rocking herself back and forth softly, emulating the ever changing push and pull of the ocean; her only source of comfort. 

Gods, if you can hear my prayer, please offer me a kind hand. The prayer rolled around in her head, spilling from her lips away from the safe confines in her mind, like a snapped string of pearls tumbling away never to be seen again. Something shifted beside her, causing her to press herself against the cold stone wall backing as far as she could from the noise. 

“I-Is someone there?” a male voice asked softly, she could taste the fear in the question. She nodded, though she was unsure if he had his sight taken like she had.

 “Yes, I am here. What is this place?” she responded, back still pressed firmly against the wall. 

Silence hung between them for a moment, both of them too terrified to acknowledge the fact that they didn’t know, the fact that they were on borrowed time. “Do you know where we are?” she pressed again, panic beginning to thrum in her veins. More silence followed. 

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, surprising even herself, it seemed like such a personal question - given the circumstances.  

“It’s uh…” he trailed off as if lost in thought, “I don’t remember,” he replied after a moment; he sounded sad. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up anything painful,” she said, scooting closer towards him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “My name is Na-Mara,” she added softly.

“Na-Mara,” he repeated softly, “I like it - it suits you.”  There was a solemness that hung in the air, as if the entire place was steeped in pain and terror. She opened her mouth to speak again, to ask him if he knew anything about where they were, or who was keeping them here, the words had hardly formed on her lips before he was shushing her. 

“Sh! They are coming,” he hissed, she went to bite out a reply when shuffling came from her left, thudding boots upon creaking stairs sending her heart thrumming from her chest. The footsteps landed heavily on the stones, multiple by the sounds of it, all of them branching off in different directions. Clinking of bottles and creaking of opening crates, perhaps they were not here for her or her friend just simply gathering supplies before moving back upstairs.

There was silence for a few moments after that, then movement along her chains. She had opened her mouth to begin pleading with her captors when the air was taken from her lungs, being forcefully thrown over a strong shoulder. She wriggled and writhed in their muscular grip, though there was nothing she could do - he felt as though he was made from stone. 

They ascended the stairs again, the hinges of the cellar door groaning as it opened. The room they entered was well lit, though she couldn’t see the light, she could feel the warmth of the candles.

The world shifted around her once again as she felt solid ground beneath her feet, “Ah, there she is lads, isn’t she a beauty?” a hand gripped her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger to get a proper look at her. 

“Give me my sight back!” she hissed, though with the days without water, it came out hoarse and barely more than a whisper. 

There was a chorus of gruff laughter, it sounded as though it was coming from everywhere, “What was that? You’re going to have to speak up darlin’ -” 

A smooth voice cut him off, the air in the room changing as he spoke, “Come now gentlemen, surely you have something better to do than to terrorise my merchandise?” he asked, even though he wasn’t looking for an answer. Candlelight seared her eyes, her hand coming to shield them as the blackness ebbed away. She scanned the room, there were three men to her right, she assumed they were the ones who had brought her upstairs.   

The man in front of her - by all means - was attractive. Half of his wily chestnut hair was tied back in a bun, the rest hanging loosely over his shoulders, stopping at his mid chest. His eyes were a stunning shade of green, almost glowing in the light of the room. Long healed scars puckered the skin along his chin, cheek and eyebrow, though it did not distract from his beauty.

He stood a foot above her, enough to stare down at her as he began to speak “I apologise on their behalf, they are not used to handling such…pretty merchandise.”

She tried to keep her tone as even as she could, ignoring the hummingbird that had taken up home in her heart. Anger began to simmer in her veins, her temper getting the better of her before she had the chance to control herself, “You abduct me from my home, take my sight - which I don’t much appreciate by the way - and then you have the gall to call me merchandise?” She laughed incredulously.    

In that moment, as the tall form stalked around her, tracing the curve of her cheek with a softness unbefitting of what was to come. She pulled away from him, a grimace clear on her face. “Do not touch me,” she spat, venom dripping from each syllable. He merely stared down at her in response, a lightness in his eyes - he was amused. She swallowed thickly as it dawned on her, she was no longer the predator - she was the prey. 

She was moving before she could process it, running through hallways, blindly pushing her way through disgruntled patrons of whatever establishment this place was. She turned a sharp corner, colliding with a silver tray full of crystal glasses, the sound ear piercing as they shattered on the floor. Jagged shards sliced open the bottoms of her feet, causing her to cry out as she continued to run, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. 

“Run child, you cannot hide from me forever,” he called after her, the lilt in his voice sending fear coursing through her as he trailed her through the halls; like one would walk through a park with a lover. She pushed down the urge to cry out in fear, as she continued to rush down the long hallway. The hum of chatter broke the ever flowing stream of fearful thoughts, relief flooded her body, its soft warmth leading to a sigh of escaping her.  

“Please, someone help me! I am not meant to be here, please!” she cried, the patrons did nothing but stare at her for a moment before continuing on as if she didn’t exist. Her teeth ground together as she searched the room for an exit, she didn’t have much time before her captor would descend upon her. A door! Her thoughts cried out, she twisted and weaved through the patrons to cross the room, she could taste her liberation - it smelled of salt and petrichor. 

She pushed the door, the chill of the rain flooding around her. She had her freedom, only for it to be snatched away from her at the last moment. An arm wrapped around her middle, heaving her away from the door, away from her freedom. She struggled in his grip, kicking and twisting to escape the vice that only seemed to tighten. 

“Let go of me you beast!” she hissed, trying to jab her elbows into any soft flesh she could find. Her nails bit into his forearms hard enough for small droplets of blood to well on his skin, like rubies on a string. 

“Well aren’t you just adorable,” her captor chuckled, like she was a petulant child asking for a sweet before dinner - an inconvenience and nothing more. The room followed suit with laughter, she screamed in frustration, still kicking and twisting in his arms as he carried her back through the halls. 

“Please! I beg of you, let me go!” she begged, a broken gasp escaping her lips as he dropped her unceremoniously on the floor, the hardwood sending a jolt of pain up her spine. 

“You sound so pretty when you beg, pet.” he crouched in front of her, reaching out a finger to lift her chin to look at him, she bit down on the ring clad finger without hesitation, hard enough for his blood to flood her mouth. 

She wasn’t sure what came first, the crack of his knuckles connecting with her cheek, or the sting of her lip being crushed between her teeth. The crack reverberated through her body, both his and her own blood intermingled with saliva, dripping from her maw in long strings. She must have looked like a vicious animal. 

Good.  

She hissed at him, a guttural sound she didn’t even know she was capable of making, blood splattered across his face he recoiled from her. A silence hung in the air as they stared at each other, she glowered up at him as he stared down at her, hungrily. Her assailant lunged at her as she tried to shift away from him, trapping herself between him and the bed. His hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her forcefully to her feet, soft skin dimpled under the harshness of his grip. 

“Come now, love, surely we can enjoy each other’s company for a while?” he whispered, she could feel the hotness of his breath fanning out across her face, she shook her head.

“I want to go home,” she begged - if he could just see reason, perhaps he would let her go and she would be free to reunite with her family. Maybe he would find it in his heart to take pity on her, or see the error in his way, to see that what he was doing was wrong. 

His eyes darkened as he backed her against the bed. “You are not going anywhere. I am going to devour you, again and again, until there is nothing left of you,” he hummed into her ear, a nip punctuating the sentiment.

“Then I hope I rot in your stomach,” she gritted. If she was going to die, she might as well go out with a fight. 

He chuckled again, the sound off putting, sending her stomach heaving and twisting painfully. “Oh my dear, sweet girl, I’m going to have you wishing for death.” 

Fear enveloped her.

There was nothing more bitter than betrayal, but to be betrayed by one's own body was something else entirely. She couldn’t fight the feelings that washed over her, waves of pleasure lashing against her like waves upon a shoreline. How could she enjoy this? Why was her body doing this to her? She didn’t want this. Disgust had begun to take root in the pit of her stomach, making home within the darkest depths of her being. She just wanted it to stop.

Please Umberlee, if you can hear my plight, I beg of you. Please do something - anything, I will give you my flesh and bone as recompense, anything you ask of me and I will do it. Please, just make him stop.

There were no gods that answered her plea, nor did any passerby acknowledge her cries for help. All she could do was let fear consume her, to let it ravage her from the inside out. Like a wild animal clawing at the soft confines of her body, she was too soft, too young, but maybe this is what she deserved. Maybe this was her penance for her stupidity. She cuocooned herself within the confines of her own mind, residing herself to the fact that she would have to bury part of herself tonight, but on the morrow she would emerge changed.

A metamorphosis. 

—

She awoke to the cold darkness of the cellar again, though now she had been afforded the ability of her sight back. It was the very least that monster could do after what he did to her. Her skin rippled and hissed as though she had been set alight, pain encompassed her whole body in its shroud. She sat up with a groan, rubbing her eyes and trying to piece together what happened the previous night. 

She saw flashes, fingers tracing her skin, kisses that were all teeth and tongue, and pain, pain, pain. A sob wracked her body as she pulled the tattered linen of a dress she wasn’t sure how she got towards her mouth, desperately wishing to breathe life into it; desperately wishing for comfort. For her mother. 

Her mouth was dry and her lips were cracked, her tongue darted out to relive it only for her to realise that it was dried blood. He had struck her when she bit him, she recalled, touching he had to her cheek hissing from the tenderness. There was tightness around her throat that wasn’t present before, her hand instinctively came to rest on her neck to find a thin silver band around it. 

“Are you alright?” she jumped as that same gentle voice from the night before broke the silence in the cellar. She could see him now, a large red tiefling, his horns curling around his head in a regal crown, his hair was as white as fresh snow and his eyes as blue as the summer sky. 

Fresh tears bit the corners of her eyes, “A-ah, yes I am fine, do you know how long I’ve been sleeping for?” she asked, trying to change the subject. She just wanted to forget that the night prior ever happened. 

She could see him shrug slightly, eyes beginning to get used to the light once more. “You have only been returned to the cellar a few hours ago. But you were above for a day.” 

She scoffed in disbelief. A whole day? It only felt like hours. “Thank you for telling me, I do not remember being away for so long,” she apologised. It was a lie she wished that she could believe, she remembered more from that night than she wished. 

More silence hung between them, only their breaths, the near constant dripping coming from somewhere in the cellar and the low chatter coming from upstairs. 

—

Time seemed to pass differently in the cellar, perhaps it was the lack of natural light or the fact that she had been so thoroughly distraught from being plucked from her home. She had just begun to settle in again, eyes growing heavy, the little patch of hay feeling more comfortable by the second. 

Light spilled into the cellar from the opening door, sending her heart pounding once more, feeling the throbbing in her ears and fingertips. Fear prickled the base of her spine as heavy footfall came down the flimsy steps, making her way towards herself and her tiefling friend. For a brief moment she had hoped they were there for him, to take him up to do gods knows what - just anyone but her, she couldn’t bear it.

Once again her prayers fell on deaf ears as the man in front of her unlocked her chains and hoisted her to her feet. “Come on, get up,” he replied gruffly. She looked pleadingly towards her friend, or perhaps the better term was cellmate, his eyes suddenly finding the mason work far more interesting.  

The moment her feet touched the soft carpet, she was ushered onto a raised wooden stage, the thin tattered linen of the dress doing nothing to shield her from prying eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, making a show of turning around and addressing the people in the room. “I would like to formally introduce you to our newest attraction. Our gorgeous little Selkie,” he hummed, lifting her chin with his thumb and forefinger to look him in the eyes.��

The delicate fabric of her dress was torn away from her, she gasped in shock, unsure of why she was now naked in front of all these people. She could do nothing but stare out into the crowd, looking at them with pleading eyes, her cheeks aflame with both fury and embarrassment. She had been abducted from her home, placed in shackles, sold into slavery and now stripped bare in front of a room full of people who now ogled her like some oddity - like she wasn’t real. 

Her captors arms snaked around her waist, inching towards the apex between her thighs. “Let go of me!” she hissed, trying to free herself from his iron grip. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly at her outburst, hand encircling around her throat hard enough to elicit a gasp from her. A choked cry fell from her lips as he placed more pressure, blackness beginning to dance at the edges of her eyes. “Please…” she wheezed. 

Air rushed back into her lungs with a gasp that tore through her, sending her stumbling forward a few steps as he released her, while the crowd murmured with various tones of approval. What kind of awful place is this? I just want to go home. She scanned the crowd again, looking for any sign of sympathy, any form of guiding light to lead her home. She turned to her captor again, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “Please,” she begged, “I just want to go home, please let me go home.”  

“You have no choice in the matter. I have your pelt - I own you,” he hummed, that ever present predatory glint in his eye catching the candlelight. Anger boiled in her stomach as she took a step towards him, her teeth bared in a hiss, he only raised his eyebrows at her before holding his hand up, stopping her in her tracks. A humming surrounded her, so overwhelming in its volume that it forced her to her knees with a surprised cry. Hushed voices circulated around the room, their eyes bulging and gawking at her, vaguely reminiscent of fish.  

“And look at that, a perfectly subservient Selkie,” he turned to face her again. “Now, was that so hard, pet?” he asked her, his tone indicating that he found her childlike - less than. 

“I hope you fucking rot!” she hissed, spitting in his face. A quickly hidden grimace crossed his features, his dark eyes clouding with something sinister. 

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your betters?” his voice like poisoned honey, “I think I deserve an apology. What do you think ladies and gentlemen?” he was making a show of it, making a show of her. And whatever was to come, she had no choice but to take it.  

Another hum surged through the crowd, scrutinising eyes looking down their noses at her. He tapped his chin in mock thought, “I want you to beg, I want to hear those pretty lips beg for forgiveness.”

The air crackled around her, every bone in her body bent to his whim as she leant forward onto her forearms, head resting at his feet. The words came clawing up her throat and spilling from her mouth before she had the chance to force it down; they tasted sour on her tongue. “I am sorry,” she gritted her teeth, a desperate attempt to stop the words from pouring out. “Forgive me.” 

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, “Hmm…I think that performance was a little lacklustre, shall we give it another go?” Every muscle in her body felt poised to strike, to launch at him and rip out his throat; and yet, she could not move, he would not let her move. She was still in that meek and mild position - the very picture of subservience. “Though this time, I would quite like for you to address me as master,” he added, she could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke. 

This time she could not stop the words that flowed from her, though they were words of subjugation, they were laced with vitriol. “I apologise, master - truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. Please forgive me.”    

—

They had hauled her back to her captors office after her stunt on stage, she had no doubt that her disobedience would be swiftly punished. The side door of the room opened, and her captor sauntered in with all the satisfaction of a cat who had dined on cream for dinner, a wide smirk across his face. Instinctively her shoulders moved upwards to her ears, if she could make herself small enough perhaps she would disappear into the fibres of the carpet beneath her.

He rounded his desk, leaning against the intricately carved wood, looking her up and down again, surveying the peaks and valleys of her body - it made her skin crawl. Without warning he began to speak, jolting out of her disgust, “I want you to work for me,” he stated simply, examining his cuticles as he spoke. 

She cut him off, taking a step forward as she shook her head. “No,” she started, steeling herself. “I will not do it, do with me what you will. I am as good as dead anyway,”

“You will work for me, you lure in patrons with that exquisite voice I know that you have. You will tend to every need that I may have and you will do whatever I ask of you,” she felt him tug on the invisible bond that connected her to him, a reminder that this was an order, not a suggestion. He sighed longingly, as if evaluating the situation. “In exchange I will give you everything you could ever want; gold, jewels -”

Desperation laced her voice, she was scared. “I want water, I need water.” She felt disgusted, she had to beg him for something as basic as water, her life’s blood - the thing that keeps her alive, she couldn’t help the shiver that ran up her spine.   

“You will find that given your rather precarious predicament,” he started, placing emphasis on the last two words. “That you won’t have a need for it, but as I am benevolent, you may have what you ask for. I will allow you to think it over, I shall await your answer on the morrow,” he replied, leaving her with her thoughts. 

That felt entirely too easy, she thought as she was ushered down the hall by one of the many servants he had bustling around his establishment. She couldn’t fight the sinking feeling in her stomach that screamed at her: You have made a deal with something worse than a devil, much, much worse. 

—

She had been pacing for hours at this point, eyes tracing the grain of the wood in the simple room she had been afforded. She needed to come up with a plan as she would not survive long if she kept going the way she was. They would keep her alive as long as she was useful, so she needed to find ways to continue doing so. She hadn’t had water in weeks and she was growing weaker by the hour, she wouldn’t last long like this.  

If she agreed to her captors terms then she would be forced into servitude, luring poor souls just like her into this monster's grip. But what choice did she have? The bastard had her pelt, she was already his slave.

She knocked on her door and stepped back, waiting for it to be opened from the other side. It cracked just enough for another elf to poke his head into the room with a sneer. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Tell your bastard master I accept his terms,” she replied, returning his tone in kind, before the door was closed and locked once again. 

And so it begins. 

[adaptable-indept]

“Cannibalism as love” this, “Injury as a metaphor for intimacy” that, what about drowning? Where’s the burning? What about the trees man??

Where’s all the poets that are burned and scorned because that’s what their love went through, rising from the ashes with a new understanding of their partner? Where’s the poets that desire to drown somebody in their love so they can’t escape the truth of said lovers feelings? Where’s the poets that want to be buried in the ground with who they love most, kept in stillness and solace of mother earths inevitability, love outlasting it all?

Wheres the love that nature gives to make us squirm and laugh and love and understand together?

[desirepathzine]

It is 2023. Ethel Cain releases a surprise one-off single, unrelated to the narrative cycle she is currently pursuing, called Famous Last Words (An Ode to Eaters). Many are confused as to where the song comes from, if it relates to her Preacher's Daughter storylines, a long-term storytelling venture that Cain intends to continue for possibly the next decade. Fans that keep up with Cain on Tumblr might know that she released the song shortly after seeing the movie that inspired its lyrics, Luca Gudagnino's Bones and All, and posted its link here.

Bones and All has seen a small re-evaluation since the release of Famous Last Words, mostly by Ethel Cain's small but ravenous fanbase. The film was largely neglected upon its 2022 release.

It was initially hard hard to tell what the movie even was, from a marketing standpoint. Was it a film adaptation of a book directed by Luca Gudagnino? There was precedent for that in the public consciousness, Gudagnino directed the acclaimed Call Me By Your Name. Was it a horror film about cannibalism? Also that, horror has been thriving in our pandemic era, some of the biggest box office draws of the past three years have been horror films with massive budgets and surprisingly large audiences. A romance with two young actors with star power on the rise? Also yes, the stan culture surrounding particularly Timothee Chalamet were anticipating the film, but were perhaps not prepared for its stomach churning sequences of vioence. Chalamet in particular was a star in two films that were hugely popular adaptations, Little Women and Dune, and Bones and All is not really anything like either of those films, although they're all excellent.

Reaction to the film on release was bewildered, at least outside of its first screenings outside of film festivals. Horror romance road trip movies are not something oft produced, especially not as sincerely as Bones and All. It didn't make its budget back at the box office and slipped out of theaters before it had a chance at making any award season waves that might have revived its reputation.

I have found very few films so suited to our current era. Against the backdrop of eighties Reagen-era decline, sprawling across the mid-west of the United States, cannibal outsiders struggle and survive, both together and apart.

The cannibalism in Bones and All is some sort of inherent trait, one that can physically be smelled by other 'eaters'. You have to eat. It is non-negotiable. It's a metaphor that can be interpreted several different ways: is it about sexuality? Familial cycles of violence? Is it about addiction? Moral decay behind the American facade of prosperity and strength? It can be all of these. It is all of these.

Similarly to Bones and All, Ethel Cain, the musical project of Hayden Anhedonia, deals in American decay, issues of identity and religion, and indeed, cannibalism. Her debut album, 2022's Preacher's Daughter tells the story of the titular Ethel Cain, a girl from a small Alabama town, who runs away from home after the flight of her lover and the death of her father, falling in with a stranger on a road tip to the west who eventually feeds her drugs, pimps her out, murders here, and cannibalizes her. It's stunningly self-assured for a debut, and the story already felt sprawling. Cain intends to release albums detailing the story of Ethel's mother and grandmother, and the dark secrets of the Cain family.

The small fanbase of Bones and All has major crossover with Cain's fans, even before the release of Famous Last Words. There are quite a few differences between these two stories. Bones and All doesn't explicitly deal with the religion as a central theme in the way that Cain's story covers, but they ask many of the same spiritual questions, and of course both have much to say using cannibalism.

It feels like these two pieces are bubbling just under the zeitgeist. Ethel Cain certainly became very popular on TikTok, following dates opening for Florence + The Machine, as well as being attached to the wildly growing exvangelical/religious deconstruction community that TikTok has uniquely fostered. Within a few months of Preacher's Daughter finally taking off (which was a few months after its quiet May release date), Bones and All was shown at the Venice Film Festival in September, and released widely in November. Shortly thereafter, fanedits began appearing on TikTok, taking nine-minute album standout Thoroughfare and syncing the clips to Bones and All.

Although there are certain themes and lyrics that fit so well with the film, for a single song in particular, Preacher's Daughter could very well become the Bones and All concept album. Thoroughfare is the track in which Ethel, far away from home but never far away from her past, is seen by Isaiah at the side of the road, and he offers her a ride in his truck. Isaiah is on a great American roadtrip to find the love of his life. The song details not only their journey to the coast, but also Ethel and Isaiah's strangers-to-lovers slowburn. This hits shockingly close to that of Bones and All, where Maren discovers Lee at a grocery store in Indiana, both recognizing each other as eaters. Lee asks where she's going, Maren says Minnesota, and she hops into his pickup truck to strike out together, and on the way, fall in love, head out west, spend time apart, and find each other again. The lyrics of Thoroughfare align so closely with this story that it's hard to believe one was made independently of the other.

The Isaiah in Thoroughfare may resemble Lee, but the Isaiah of the rest of the album is more reminiscent of the central antagonist of Bones and All, a sinister drifter named Sully, who meets Maren in her initial journey out into the world, and teaches her a few things about what it means to be an eater, but seems to have malicious intentions with her. After Maren flees from him, he begins stalking her across the country on her journey. Just when Maren and Lee might have found their place in the world, living peacefully in Ann Arbor, Sully breaks into their house, and attacks Maren as she returns home from work. Lee and Maren fight Sully off, killing and eating him, but Lee is critically injured in the fight, and asks Maren to eat him as he dies, and she does.

Isaiah and Sully both exploit the weakness of a young girl away from home for the first time, going to great lengths to dominate the chosen victim of their intentions, to the point of death. In Sully and Maren's final confrontation, he pins her to a bed, and we are unsure whether his next move is to eat her or to sexually assault her. It is deeply disturbing, and many viewers probably assume it will be both of these things. Likewise, in Preacher's Daughter, Isaiah dominates Ethel by feeding her drugs and pimping her out of the back of a strip club, eventually locking her in an attic, and after she makes an escape attempt, he shoots her in the woods, freezes her body, and later cannibalizes her. In fact, the entire rest of Preacher's Daughter following Thoroughfare details Isaiah's hold over Ethel, and her ascent to the afterlife where she looks back on what has happened to her.

Both Maren and Lee could be typified as an Ethel-like protagonist, two sides of the same coin. There's also similarity to be found in Lee's upbringing and Ethel's, both dealing with an abusive father that was complicit in cycles of violence, we later find out that Lee's father was also an eater, in addition to physically abusing Lee and his other family members. Lee ate his father to end the cycle of abuse.

There are also parallells between Maren and Ethel's matriarchal experiences with violence. While must has yet to be revealed about the Cain family women, Maren's cross country trip to find her mother ends in shocking fashion. Her mother, who voluntarily entered a mental institution, has eaten her own hands off to attempt to end her violence towards others. But because eaters must cannibalize to retain emotional and physical well-being, she is non-verbal and unwell when Maren finds her. She had written a letter while in better health, to be given to Maren if they ever found each other again, in which she expresses that Marne would be better off dead than existing in the world as an eater. There is an unending string of violence connecting childbirth and the raising of girls in a world that will never try to accomodate them between both Bones and All and Preacher's Daughter, a thread that specifically looks diffeernt than thee thread between a father and a son who are eaters. Indeed, Maren's final night in a normal world as a child is at a sleepover, a rite of passage of girlhood, that this violence given to her by her mother, ensures is her last.

It is remarkable that these two pieces, that recall aesthetic and emotional resonance so specific, could exist independently of one another, and come int the popular conscience at nearly the same time. Both sets of characters seem like they could exist in each other's stories.

Outside of the contents of their respective stories, public and critical reception to both of these pieces has seen some similarities unique to our position in post-pandemic 21st century. Critical reception to both Preacher's Daughter and Bones and All was very positive, glowing reviews for both, but the public audience was initially very small. Preacher's Daughter released in May but didn't gain TikTok traction on a wider scale until November/December of 2022, and Bones and All's wide release date in November was met with poor turnout, the movie quickly dropping to VOD services and out of theaters before award season campaigning might have been able to turn its public reception around.

But Bones and All gained a public reappraisal faster than many other films that have attained that status. Another recent movie that regained public exposure due to revaluation, Jennifer's Body, which weirdly is also about a man-eating woman, took a decade to have its moment in the sun. Bones and All was re-appraised within a year of its release, and is finding its cult fanbase much faster. Many who missed the film during its initial release have found it on streaming services and were surprised that they could have missed it.

This resurgence is not without a few drawbacks, ones that Preacher's Daughter is constantly plagued by in public discussion. When the public is confronted by a piece of art that has much to say, and is deeply sincere with those intentions, it is easy to divert those intense emotions by creating a culture of memes and jokes surrounding it. This has been oft-debated in relation to Ethel Cain's rise in popularity, this deeply felt album that deals with grave subject matter, not limited to parental sexual abuse, religious trauma, assault, and cycles of pain, is often reduced to Meemaw jokes and putting the album's signature ballad, A House in Nebraska, over any pictures of celebrities wearing vaguely old-fashioned looking clothes. A semi-joking campaign to get Preacher's Daughter released on vinyl turned into a silly meme-phrase often left in the comments of any Ethel Cain instagram post. Hayden herself has discussed this public reception in recent interviews, expressing some frustration with it, noting that people will occasionally heckle her with the jokes mid-performance at her shows or otherwise devalue something that she performs and produces very sincerely. In an attempt to discourage this behavior, she has since cut back on being a "relatable social media personality" and limited her interaction on her long active Tumblr account in particular.

Bones and All has received similar treatment on social media as part of its public resurgence. Many TikTok user's first exposure to the film was Lee's confession of eating his father being turned into a meme audio that users sync'd to jokey videos about something much more tame than patricide. And as with Ethel, the tinges of stan culture started to seep in, edits of Lee by Timothee Chalamet stan accounts filling any search for the film on media outlets.

None of these silly videos or thirst tweets are morally reprehensible, or even that bad, but it is interesting that when confronted with works that tell stories dealing with intense violence, both emotional and physical, a large portion of people responded with lighthearted jokes that de-escalate the emotions both creators might have hoped to achieve with their works.

It's also worth noting that Bones and All and Preacher's Daughter present an aesthetic that is hard to sell as aspirational. They both present a world in decline, rusty pickup trucks, the beauty and the desolation of wide open spaces (per Hayden, several Ethel Cain visual inspirations are inspired by Andrew Wyeth's gorgeous and lonely paintings), wood paneled walls like the kind in your grandma's basement, hunting camo, and a sort of working class sensibility that can easily be replicated, but is not so easily authentic by anyone who has never experienced living in a food desert. Much has been made of the resurgence of Southern Gothic, a storytelling mode that is inextricably tied to poverty and unpalatable characters. Preacher's Daughter is perhaps the most popular in the current crop of pieces that are focusing on the southern gothic, which perenially comes back into fashion during times of hardship and insecurity. Bones and All ties itself to many of southern gothic's tropes, and there is certianly an emphasis on poverty and those living on the fringes, even if regionally it's all over the place. In our current social media era, it is hard to separate aesthetic enjoyment from consumption. It's easy to find users giving Preacher's Daughter perfume recommendations, or thrift store hauls inspired by Maren and Lee's cobbled together wardrobes. And again, this isn't a necessarily a moral wrongdoing, just a reaction that is somewhat at odds with the stories and themes present in these particular works.

But ultimately, the cultural landscape is richer for having these pieces in them, and those that resonated with them cherish these stories deeply. It is serendipitous that Preacher's Daughter and Bones and All exist in a time where they can be enjoyed and studied in tandem. They are both stories so suited for our current era: violent, unsure, frightening, but yearning for beauty and those that can travel this landscape alongside one another.

[zombriekid]

The Devil Takes Care of His Own 1/?? [Alastor/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hazbin Hotel

Chapter Name: Run Rabbit, Run

Chapter Summary: you snatch a young girl from certain danger, and even though a trail of broken dishes and angry business owners are left in your wake, at least the kiddo is safe. for now.  *please don't run zig zag from gators, that'll only slow you down

  When you first awoke within the muck of the drudges of the damned, it was without any recollection as to who you were or what you were about or even why you were here; somehow, in spite of the personal amnesia, gray meat in the ol' chrome dome was able to quickly surmise where "here" was. Drew a blank on your friggin' name but not on your location? Didn't really inspire much confidence, still doesn't actually.

  You've grown some since, about a month's time if you're keeping track accurately- that's up for debate however, passage of time operates differently here- and though you're honestly no closer to figuring out just who in the hell you were, you've managed to forge some footpaths in the mountain that is ciphering the inner machinations of Pentagram City... and who you are in this concrete jungle of copper smells and marquee lights.

  And, of friggin course, who you are just so happens to be the biggest bleeding heart in all of damnation.

  The scene before you is playing out in such a way that it's resonating within the cavity of your ribcage so differently than ever before- well, at least within your short term memory anyway. See you're no stranger to violence, though your familiarity sings distinct from most everyone else's, but in the thirty or so days of consciousness you've witnessed first hand turf wars over a single city block, a lover's quarrel that resulted in a heart literally being cleaved out of someone's chest, muggings for baggies of white powder that you swiftly deduced was <i>not<i> confectioners sugar, and oh so much more over oh so much less. Hell, even you've slipped past the avaricious claws of would be thieves eyeing your satchel. Joke's on them, the contents are merely yellow parcels and white envelopes. And not to toot your horn but you're-

  "-fast. I'm very fast. I'm like Forrest Gump, except I'm not an idiot." The voice, masculine and strained through puffs of heavy breathing, echoes in your ears yet it doesn't ring a bell.

  ... now's not the time for an episode, self.

  And it's a burst of noise- like a mixture between water and air spraying- that brings you back into focus.

  Right.

  The carnage that's about to take place cause you're standing around like an idiot with a thumb up your ass.

  A young girl poises herself before a cavern of teeth, staring her aggressor in the maw with a grin curling on her rosy cheeks. As if certain not-death ain't about to swallow her noggin whole, bones and all. The aggressor in question peels their jaw further apart and a low, rolling sound rumbles from within the depths. Still the kiddo doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink at her impending doom.

  She can't be more than fifteen so her fight or flight instincts should be well in the process of switching over to autopilot, but to your utter dismay they don't seem to be engaging.

  Cause she's still just... standing there.

  The demon looms over her tiny body with a hunched back, sickly green scales flutter under the pentagram's fluorescence, and their torso gradually expands outward- not unlike that of a balloon- as if they're gulping down a throat full of breath- as if they're bracing for the pounce-

  Liquid ice gushes through your veins, through your muscles, and pools around the bones of your ankle joints; inner thighs clench, knees slack; left foot ferociously stomps at the asphalt with the right quickly following suit, left right, left right, rapid hastening cycle; the thinning rubber of your sneaker's soles does little to absorb the impact- every footfall strike sends ripples of tingly pain up your shins, making all extremities tremble; you pump one arm in tandem with your racing heart and the other prepares with hooked finger bones. The harsh pace kicks up cement dust in your wake.

  The aggressor leans further- the kid ain't moving- you're not gonna make it in time-

  -heat: stifling. black cloud: smoke inhalation. neighbor: passed out. not much time. not enough of it. get him out now.

  Grab her.

  -grab him.

  NOW

____________________________________

  Some feet ahead and to the left is the mouth of an alleyway, and if memory serves correctly this side street should eventually spill out into Fifth, and if that's the case then the alley should house the back entrance to the (alleged) cannibal cafe- an establishment that maintains the coveted fourth place on your personal list of "Must Avoid Unless Absolutely Necessary".

  The owner, an absolute unit of saccharine smiles and four barbed tusks to match her literal boorish appearance, is a demon gal that you get along with well enough; a relationship constricted to the limits of professionalism, you often find yourself engaged in weather talk after the ritual of mail delivery is completed. Of course the hairs on the back of your neck rise whenever you look her in the eye for too long, but that's to be expected when she's pricing out whatever cuts your hide might produce. At least, you're like eighty percent certain that that's what she does while exchanging pleasantries.

  Still, your options are between cutting through Mrs. Sowbelly's Cafe or stay on the straight and narrow... and both choices carry considerable risk behind them. Both choices could land the two of you in the trap of a beast's glistening, spittle sheen teeth.

  And full transparence? You like the sniff of your chances with the widowed pig more.

  Besides, provided that you shield the young cyclops from view, Mrs. Sowbelly shouldn't be able to commit your damsel in distress's identity to memory and start getting any funny ideas. The kiddo should be safe.

  So it's with a pivot on your heel, a rapid change that leaves you hopping on one leg momentarily, that you tear your body to the left and haul ass down the alleyway like the devil's nipping at your heels.

  Which, ironically though no literally, he/she/they are- well, not the devil but rather a devil. It's a clever metaphor dammit, and you're gonna applaud yourself later if you survive this clusterfuck of a shitty ass situation.

  Then again... folks down here don't really die, do they? Not like how they do topside. Probably hurts just as much, however.

  A drag of oxygen claws from deep within your stomach, swells the airway in your throat until they ache, and the muscles around your knees ignite with an icy burn- all fueled by a dwindling supply of addictive adrenaline. The tiny girl shifts in your arms, causing her red tresses to ghost the underside of your chin, before her single, rather large ocular finds you; there's a question gleaming in the yellowed pit of her iris, and while your soft heart would love nothing more than to humor her there are other matters you must attend to first- that being saving your skins- so you tuck her head back into one shoulder and twist its partner to lead the two person charge.

  Brace.

  Grit your teeth.

  And- BAM!

  Pain- biting deep into the blade. Nothing serious. Bruise at worst.

  But you're in.

  In the split second it takes all of the neurons to collectively process your surroundings, you quickly discover that the cafe's back door immediately leads into a quaint kitchen. There might be a lace and heart motif on the walls, and there might be a slab of oozing, fleshy meat on the counter? Or your brain is misidentifying things, wouldn't be the first time downside; shuffle around the island and through the white swinging door before you throw a brief apology to Mrs. Sowbelly about the rude intrusion. And maybe there is some sort of higher power still looking out for your unbelievably dumb ass because the swinging door opens up to the dining portion of the cafe.

  Thank Whomever or Whatever for small miracles.

  "Oops, sorry!" and "pardon me, sir!" and "oh fuck! I'm really sorry!" become your mantra as you dodge wooly servers and rodent customers alike. The shrill cry of porcelain shattering rings in the periphery of your attention span and your stomach churns itself with guilt.

  The display you must be putting on, ruining these poor people's lovely, likely cannibalistic brunch. God, you're such a jerk.

  Still, there's a certain appreciation for escape and safety that's far outweighing the acidic aftertaste of shame right now- not to mention you haven't heard the aggressor in a bit and that's worrisome- so you swallow your pride, hunch your back a little (effectively obscuring the kid from the public's eye), and much like a bull in a glass shop you sprint all the way to the entrance. Broken dishes, disgruntled employees, pissed customers, and all.

  Out of the cafe and on to the cobblestone of Fifth Street do you stop; now should you continue on through the crowds, or cut through more establishments in an unpredictable route? Your assailant seems to be gator-based so maybe you should-

  "- in order to escape from an alligator, you should run zig zag because they can only charge straight."

  That... sounds like misinformation, but time's a-wasting and you gotta make a choice now.

  Crowd? Or the coffee shop across the street?

  ... well coffee does have a tendency to make you more productive, placebo or otherwise, and you certainly trust it over Hell's denizens by leagues. So coffee shop it is!

  Rinse, repeat: dodge the condemned, serpentine through the building, apologize to everyone who has the misfortune of in your path, and make your grand exit through another door. This rampaging circuit sees you bulldozing through some sorta clothing boutique, a toy store that's definitely not for children, your favorite chocolatier distributor, and a pretzel shop that serves everything but pretzels. Naturally there are some other businesses in that line, however you don't deem them important enough to fully acknowledge them. No offense to the owners, of course.

  And not once do you dare to glance behind your shoulder to see if the reptilian fellow/dame/gender neutral folk is trailing your footsteps.

____________________________________

  "Why'd ya grab me?"

  "To save you."

  She blinks twice, an odd bundle of curiosity this one, then asks you the age old question known as "why?"

  And honestly you're not entirely sure of the reasoning yourself. Admittedly- admittedly it was more of a reaction than a conscious decision, with a memory that might or might have not been your own reverberating from the back of your mind until your feet were already moving. Cause in that moment all you were seeing was a monster ready to hurt a teenage girl- and demon or no the novelty of leaving a kid to fend for herself sounded heinous. Vile. So you snatched her up and ran.

  No reason to bore her with that explanation however, kids have short attention spans and all that, and you're more than willing to chalk this up to something akin to Occam's Razor- "the simplest solution is more likely the right one."

  ... boy howdy, you can remember that but not your own goddamn name? Just how in the hell have you survived this long?

  "Seemed like the right thing to do."

  This seems to confuse her further for both top and bottom eyelid draw closer around the globe of her eye, rosy cheeks puffing out as she looks you up and down then back up again for... insert reason here?

  Oh. Oh!

  Two things about the doomed denizens of Pentagram City, location one of the numerous layers of Hell: they tend to garb themselves in whatever fashion is familiar to them from the time/date of their death, probably as a last ditch effort to grasp at whatever shreds of humanity they have left? And the longer they've been here the less human they appear- you hear that there are exceptions to this observation but the general consensus states that one's residency in the realm of suffering determines how much metamorphosis one undergoes.

  And this little lady? Based off of the giant eyeball and way she's dressed? You're kind of half expecting her to break out into Sandra Dee's routine of "Summer Nights" what with her billowing pink poodle skirt and matching scarf. Actually, scratch that, the pink is trademark Frenchy. "Beauty School Drop Out" it is.

  Anyways, point being that this teen more than likely bit the dust like seventy-ish years ago, thus making her chronologically older than you, meaning she's been here a hell of a lot longer than you, exposed to some of the worst humanity has to offer, so your whole "good samaritan" spiel is probably translating to something along the lines of "stranger danger".

  "That's weird." She says.

  "Sorry?"

  "You know we're in Hell, right?"

  Why yes you are aware of your current and permanent residency, and if anybody asks you you personally think that it's fucked the fuck up that a friggin teenager is in Hell! What could a kid possibly do to warrant their soul's final resting place be the kingdom of sin and evil?! Grant it you don't know what you've done to receive the same treatment either, but a. you're an adult and b. it was probably real messed up compared to... whatever she "did".

  Ponder the fallacies of morality later, it's time you get her back home.

  Your knees bend until one cap burrows into the dirty below, and you bring yourself to be at a more leveled height with her- don't reach to her, not yet at least, likely doesn't feel safe around you yet (if ever.)

  "Hey, is it cool if I ask you what your name is?" You smile, mindful of your canines so that they don't pierce your bottom lip. Again.

  The reaction you receive is instantaneous.

  "I'm Niffty! Who are you?" She chirps with a huge grin.

  You choke on your words; "I uhh... don't remember? But you can call me 'Newbie', lots of people- erm, demons? Uhh, lots of folks call me that." Clear the throat, bring back the smile on your face. "So listen Niffty, do you have, like, parents or uhh.. family I can bring you to?"

  "Pfft, I don't think anybody here has parents. Except for the princess of course! Well, there might be others... but anywaysie daisy, nope! No parents here!"

  Jesus Christ she's an orphan on top of everything else?! Next thing you know she's gonna mention how someone drowned her pet lizard and chopped all the heads off her favorite stuffed animals when she was the tender age of three... you're way too much of a sentimental idiot for this bullshit.

  "Okay, that's okay. How 'bout a home or, like, some kind of safe space I can drop you off at?"

  "Oh! The Hazbin Hotel!"

  ... pardon? The what hotel? Wait.. there's a hotel in hell (heh, rhymes)? Why?

  "Originally it was called the Happy Hotel but the bossman changed it, and if you ask me I like the new name better," she whispers the last part as if her opinion over the name is a secret between you two. Precious kid.

  But also a hotel here just simply named the "Happy Hotel"? Yeah that sounds shady as fuck. Ain't a lot of happiness going around these here parts, not genuine happiness at least.

  "Best job I've ever had too! I get to clean and cook all day, every day! Except during my time off... that's a real bummer."

  That... kind of makes sense actually; child labor laws are likely ignored in favor of cheap drudge, and if folks are willing to exploit youngens in life then why would they forgo the practice after death? Trick question: they wouldn't cause people are terrible... unfortunately so are you.

  It's not as if you can just uproot Niffty and bring her in under your non existent wing- mail delivery only pays for so much after all and there aren't enough routes in the city to haul your head above the water's hemline. So housing, feeding, and clothing a-whole-nother being when most of your nights are spent in the company of ravenous hunger and the legitimate consideration of selling off your parts to Mrs. Sowbelly? Ain't happenin, cap'n.

  "Well I've never heard of this hotel, but I can at least see that you get there safely," you offer, one hand rubbing at the back of your neck. "Dunno if that gator is still-”

  "Wo-ow, you must be new if you don't know about the Hazbin Hotel!" She gives you a once-over again. "Guess that explains why you don't look... 'demon-y'."

  You're losing track here; gotta get her back to her home as soon as possible, direct her attention towards that goal. Butter her up. Kids like that, right? Your gut says so at least.

  "Heh, well it's gotta be pretty fuc- I-I mean, pretty awesome if they got someone like you workin' there, Niffty."

  "OH, you're SO right! I make the place sparkle!"

  She continues on with her excited babbling as she twirls her petite body around towards the east, billowing poodle skirt and all. Not gonna lie, you're kind of jealous of her and her garment; maybe something ankle length you can get away with. Meanwhile the young cyclops flutters on her feet with mentions of "doing my absolute best" and "that's why the bossman hired me", and though you'll admit that the details of her employment are enshrouded in mystery, and what little information you can glean sounds very sketchy, still you don't attempt to dissuade her from her goal destination.

  Who knows, maybe this Happy/Has-been Hotel won't be so awful?

  Heh. Yeah right.

  The moment Niffty is safe and secure, at least as far as the gator demon is concerned, you're gonna be well on your way back to the dingy apartment you call home.

____________________________________

a/u: are you really that surprised? one of my main husbandos is friggin eldritch dracula, so this is just par for the course honestly. the ol radio demon is gon be a tough customer but goddammit we’re gonna try regardless. don’t expect a healthy “relationship” with the ace spectrum cannibal deer demon. also the lore is gonna be like half improv cause we don’t know much about hh yet. and yes i’m aware that niffty is biologically in her twenties, but newbie doesn’t know. yet. with that said: please leave a like, gimme a comment, reblog this bitch, and just continue bein awesome y’all <3

[meltingalphabet]

Have you ever met a cannibal?

Have you ever met a cannibal? I assume not. Or at least, not that you know.

What do you picture when you think of a cannibal? Someone from a country far from yours, with sharpened teeth, straw skirt, and black mud painted on their face, skin browned by sun and dirt?

Or do you picture a moving corpse, shuffling over the pavement towards you, one arm dangling uselessly while the other points at you, not accusingly, but with a lazy determination that pulls them forward closer to your still-living brain?

Do you imagine a man in a grey and yellowing wife beater, large sweat stains permanently etched under his arms, his forehead slick with perspiration from the humid southern heat, sawed off shotgun in one hand and his wife/sister smiling gleefully behind him, revealing two incomplete rows of teeth, as you struggle against the restraints of your bounds?

Does a white wintery mountain top fill your mind instead? Blistering wind swiping at her face as the stranded hiker grits her teeth, stabbing desperately at the frozen elbow of her guide, ignoring the frostbite sinking deeper into her lips and nose, tugging at the forearm in an attempt to free it from the corpse for her weary trek downward.

Mrs. Jones was an old woman, plumb with age and prosperity. Her face traced by the lines of age, wisdom, and, what some would consider to be valuable experience. Her long fine grey hair, cleaned and brushed every morning, hung behind her back in a neat simple braid. She did not live in a shoe, nor did she live in a house made of gingerbread and candy. She lived with her husband, Henry Jones, and her Grandson, Billy Jones. Billy’s mother died of a staph infection when he was very young, so the older Jones, having money and room to spare, adopted him and raised him as their own.

Mrs. Jones, or Beatty, as she preferred to be called, was very happy living with her little family in their modest but comfortable two bedroom home on their sunny friendly suburban street.

All of Beatty’s neighbors, as well as the teacher’s at Billy’s school, and the girls who played Bridge at the community center every week, loved her. She was kind, and gentle, and everyone agreed that she made the best snickerdoodles in town.

But Beatty was also the one responsible for the string of missing people that occurred over the span of thirty years, only a few miles away from her home.

See, every six months or so, Beatty would drive twenty minutes to the bus hub. Chrome buses that took passengers from one city to another would stop briefly in the town next to Beatty’s sunny suburbia, before continuing on. When the night was still and calm, and the neighborhood slept around her, Beatty would climb out of her warm bed, careful not to disturb Henry, snoring peacefully beside her. Her slippered feet would pad across the carpet, quiet and light as a cat’s paws. She’d shuffle to the front door, put on her gardening shoes, and get in her low grey Buick, the door closing with a small audible thud behind her.

Once at the station, she’d laboriously pull herself out of the driver’s seat. She’d have parked at the back of the parking lot, just out of reach of the few yellow lights standing close to the busses, as if huddled around comfort and warmth. She’d grab her cane from the back seat, and depart to the hub. The rubber tip of the cane coming down onto the ground with a dull smack, followed by one slow footstep, and then another, making the trek to the lone bus or two, waiting to reboard.

There, she’d stop and scan the desolate crowd of tired travelers, the wind lazily blowing around her, pulling and pushing at the long heavy braid. None of them paid attention to her. They never did. It was late, and dark, and they were weary, All they wanted to do was get on their bus, fall asleep, and wake up home, or on vacation, or with a long distance lover, or an old friend.

Beatty would find the most pathetic, loneliest of the bunch. The man, woman, girl, boy, or none-of-the-above who was distancing themselves from the rest of the waiting group. Maybe the skin of their cheeks was stained with tears. Or maybe they were rubbing their arms, not for warmth, but for comfort. They were the ones who didn’t have a cell phone in their hands. The ones who didn’t seem impatient to  leave the isolation and emptiness of the bus station.

Once found, Mrs. Jones would walk slowly to this person, her cane hitting the pavement in front of her with each step. Maybe the person would look up at her. Maybe they’d be so involved in their own issues that they wouldn’t notice. Maybe they just wouldn’t care.

She’d clear her throat, and say, “excuse me, sir” or “pardon me, madam” or “hello?” They’d lift their head slowly, locking eyes with this sweet, kindly old woman, and smile slightly.

Beatty would open her mouth into a wide, gummy smile. “I hate to be a bother,” her weak voice would creak and groan over the words, “but would you mind helping me with my bag?” She’d lift her cane slowly and point to the buick, waiting in the inky darkness.

The trunk would rise slowly into the air, revealing a small black bag sitting inside. The stranger would turn to her and smile, often saying, “is this all?” Mrs. Jones would chuckle, the sound escaping her throat dryly, and the person would feel lighter, freer. Maybe more than they had in a really long time.

They’d grab the handle of the bag and pull, but the bag would not come easily. It was heavy. Very heavy. They’d be surprised. Sometimes they’d make a joke, “are you bringing the mixer?” and Beatty would repeat the same dry chuckle. They’d reach into the trunk, grabbing onto the bottom of the suitcase with one hand while keeping the handle in the other, and prepare themselves.

A quick deep thunk at the base of their neck would leave them limp. Billy, holding an old worn bat, would look into his grandmother’s eyes. She’d nod her head, slowly, and he’d return the nod. His dark gaze would survey the area, double checking the parking lot to make sure no one saw. No one ever would.

Beatty had noticed Billy’s particular appetite after he had turned eight. It started with Billy refusing his vegetables, which Beatty laughed off as normal childhood behavior. Then he started refusing potatoes and bread, and even cakes and candy.

She was a smart woman, and she soon realized that Billy would only eat meat. Over time, his preference became specific to meat that was practically still raw. The tiny boy refusing anything that wasn’t red and juicy when she cut into it, the flesh cold to the touch. Just like his mother. She knew the tastes would change, morph. She knew what she had to do.

Beatty was a good grandmother. She took care of Billy, and due to her efforts, Billy grew up to be big and strong and successful.

We all have to make our way in this world. We all have to learn to satisfy our own cravings.

The felt tip of the black marker glides over her skin. Stacy, or Tracy, or maybe Laura, sits back onto the plastic medical chair, the blue and white gown draped over her slight body, to protect a modesty wholly unnecessary in front of me. I mark her cheekbones, her ears, her neck, her arms. The marker metaphorically cutting into her, showing me where I’m going to dissect her skin, lacerate her tissue, tear her muscles, break her bones. It is the outline of where I will rip her apart, where I will saw and pick and slice. I push aside her gown and mark her waist and thighs, the soft fleshy feminine parts of her body that I will cook, chew, swallow.

When I am done, her face and body are a mask of black war paint, signally death and rebirth, a battle upon her body that together, we will overcome. She to return, not as the wounded warrior, but as the hardened princess. I have reclaimed her body as the cubist mirage all matter can be broken into. I, the Picasso who will rearrange her until her form is mutilated beyond beauty and perfection. Until she is no longer whole, but pieces of a human transcendent of biological need and years of evolutionary progress. She is a canvas of all our posthumanistic desires. Why be mere mortal when one can become art?

Pulling the medical gloves taught, I let go of the wrist with a sharp snap, picturing the blood oozing through my fingers, the feel of the firm sticky flesh, dulled by the slick rubber. I salivate as I walk into the operating theater. I think of bowing to an imaginary audience before I begin, but I refrain. I am the silent director of my own macabre masterpiece.

Afterwards, I return the pieces of flesh, fat, and meat that I’ve taken from my victim, wrapped delicately in plastic, to my personal lunch cooler in the staff fridge. My mind lazily toys with thoughts of the nurses who walk out of the room, focused on the next task at hand as they leave me to deal with the biological trash. I’ve spent years insisting on cleaning up after myself. I think they believe I’m being sweet, the only surgeon who has remained humble here in this house of butchery. No one ever notices the suspiciously light biowaste bags leftover from my operations. Or if they do, no one ever cares.

I feel bad that my grandmother had to go through so much pain to provide for me. But now, people are prepared to throw away their meat and flesh, desperate to pay me lavishly to cut it out of them and take it away.

I pat down my tie, and walk into my office. The next Stacy, or Tracy, or Laura, sits in the leather chair, waiting patiently. Her perfect frame outlined with flowing blonde hair. Long eyelashes plastered black, firm lips painted pink. I gaze upon her sunkissed skin. I can already taste it.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Roberts,” I say, extending my hand. “My name’s Dr. William Jones. It’s very nice to meet you.”

[sparda3g]

Tokyo Ghoul:re Chapter 131 Review

Making a decision is often seen as a difficult task. It all lies on one person and whatever he/she decides, the responsibility now rest on that shoulder. It can be an ultimatum and it can lead to a large amount of pressure. It's not easy to declare if it's the best or worst decision until the effect passes through, and it can take a while. This chapter clearly reflects the notion and it's only matter of time to see where the path leads to.

The chapter continues to draw out more drama as well as world building with a newer mystery to think over. The mystery aspect goes to what Ayato discovered far underneath the surface and the drama continues off with Touka and Kaneki. It continues to have me more invested with this newly discovered location that can expand the lore further, yet it has me tore up to see where Kaneki and Touka have to go through. It's hard to fault them to make their decision and much like video games, you just have to hope that it's not a bad one.

The chapter clearly starts to push the audience on thinking of what Touka will do. What will Kaneki do? Will they actually risk themselves to save one friend? Kaneki monologues more than usual in here because it challenges his mind on what is considered the right choice. Even when he was talking to the kids, his mind is boggled with the thought of Touka and possibly meeting Mutsuki in order to meet her demand.

Touka on the top of the tower or some sort has me feeling uneasy. I'm not saying she was going to suicide, but it's that mood of depression taking place. It's one of those moments where people outside can't truly tell on what they're thinking; even if you jump to conclusion to suicide, you could still end up not knowing. Kaneki couldn't read Touka exactly; only believe that she's doing fine. It doesn't help that she is great at putting a front, so it's the highest level of poker face.

One of the more unsettling notes is Kaneki is confirmed to be in a bad state and it will continue to worsen; unless in theory, he starts going cannibalism. Nishiki believes that he needs high concentration RC cells in his body. I always thought that Kaneki just needs to eat human and get the nourishment to get better, unless I forgot something. Maybe he's really in a bad state to the point now he has to eat ghouls.

Basing off of the explanation of his body, it interpreted that his body may be aging at a rapid rate. I wonder if this means Ishida is a fan of Metal Gear Solid. I don't know if this is true based on science, but it looks like the repercussion of a human becoming a Ghoul has more side effect than initially said. When Kaneki begins to cry out blood, it puts us the audience in a conflicted feeling. If he really goes out there, who knows that his body will just suddenly give up on him.

I should mention his moment with Kou. Kou is a lunatic that somehow put out a fanboy display. What perplexed me is the amount of info that he knows about Kaneki. I understand that he's from CCG, but it got me wondering if he knows more about him. He said that he doesn't know much about the letter, which could be a lie even said in honesty, but it puts Kaneki on a really tough position.

Taking break from all of that, the interesting aspect comes in with what Ayato is exploring. It's practically a ghost town until three kids come out of nowhere with stronger than first level Kagune. After Ayato essentially stopped them from fighting, the mystery kicks in when they first speak. I don't know if the translation from one site decided to translate it in a normal language or the real dialogues is full of babbles, but if the latter is true, then I like the fact that they don't know the proper language. That or their accent hinders their speech.

There are a lot of confusing yet interesting points coming from this one sit down. These kids believed that they are human. Maybe they are but if true, why they're in that area? They thought Ayato is there to eat them and they make it sound like a traditional part of life. It's even stranger that they said this area is Tokyo itself. I'm confused as Ayato by this point. Lastly, they say "Nagas" destroyed everything. The sight of what appears to a massive size of Kagune is staggering.

I don't want to go to completely on theory level since this is a review, but I want to address this part quickly. I don't know what is "Nagas" but it could be either a Ghoul from above or One-eyed Ghoul from below. Maybe the kids are ghouls and train to act like human. The reason could be that they are made to be eaten up later on, if that is their nourishment. As for Tokyo, maybe since everyone grows up there, they are trained to believe in a made-up area.

On the other hand, there were human remnants back there, so perhaps they are them. But then it only leaves me confused. Perhaps this is Tokyo or rather was. Maybe what's above is the new Tokyo that no one is aware of. How they can even live down there for long? It leaves a lot of questions that could tie in with the history of CCG and perhaps V. I heard that Nagas is an old language name for "Dragon" or something like that. I don't know exactly, but this could be a revelation that may connect to not only Furuta but the Washuu.

The last segment resumes with Kaneki and Touka and this couldn't be more unsettling. It bothers me that all these nice pairing moments are done along with terrifying event. It's not that I don't like them in a writing sense; it's more of uncomfortable feeling that it's done in a tragic way. It's similar to that one recent anime that I won't spoil where it feels like it's nice and charming but the end path is nothing but downhill slope and everything you would like to end on a good note didn't happen. This chapter didn't help.

It begins with Touka and her decision while talking to Kaneki. He believes that she will outright tell him on what to do next. It's not as apparent as you would think, but it makes the moment more effective. When she announces her possible pregnancy, Kaneki wanted to be happy or anything that a guy would react; accident not included. Instead, he is more devastated that Touka reacted like the world continues the same before the memo was read; in other words, it's ignored. This leaves Kaneki to bring it up or it can be ignored completely.

He dismissed it.

The thought of marriage sounds nice in one world, but in this series, it's done more of distraction and dare I say death flag rise. Distraction as in deludes the thought of her best friend being executed and keeps the flow going with the thought of happiness. Let's be sadly honest, marriage is a death flag sign in media, unless it's not battle. Then again, "that" anime did axe one still...

In any case, this is pretty hard to watch with its presentation and the continuous struggle from Kaneki. There are plenty of monologues from him that shares with you on his situation. The last part could be mistaken like they are so selfish for each other, but you have to recall the place they're in. Kaneki is weak, Touka is pregnant maybe, GOAT is not as strong as they were, going up there can risk everyone to be exposed in which leads to extermination, and so on.

If anything, Touka is taking the worst. Just because we didn't see her reaction about her best friend, it doesn't mean she feels nothing. She was at that tower, which is an obvious metaphor. Again, many of their love actions are based on distraction and that is tragic enough. It will be significantly worse if everything becomes a naught such as giving birth. It's the matter of how much they can endure.

This chapter brought in a hard-hitting decision, strange mystery of the newly discovered location, and the ending that continues to bring the worst is underway. It's somewhat an uncomfortable chapter. In another series, it could have been sublime and touching to see them as lovers, but make no mistake, it's going to get worse from here on. Will they survive? I hope so.