#cannibalism as love <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[vroomian]

….. Hazbin Hana for sure has crazy regen powers, so if alastor needed to eat something powerful to, idk recover from an angelic wound for example, Hana could literally just offer him an arm. It’d work too. Hana is calorie dense! Very nutritious. :)

[pesky--dust]

You all may hate them, but I'm just reminding you that these two own the copywrithing rights for “Hannibal the Cannibal” and “Murder Husbands” 💅

[deaddumbblonde]

the hands of Catherine

[twilightkitkat]

how long do i have to wait for the poolverine fandom to reach the stage where it just starts making random shit up because it ran out of ideas? like the stage in fanon content where it stops being canon-centric and just completely builds on itself

don't get me wrong, i love canon poolverine, but how long until i can write a historical isekai transmigrated into an otome game dating sim poolverine fic and have people into it? how long until the serial killer x serial killer psychological horror fics? how long until i can make a zombie apocalypse survivor au where wade is the only one immune to the bites because of his cancerous healing factor? how long until i can roll them around in my hands like dice and spit them out in a random setting and people will read as long as they're in character?

i have ideas.... but now is not the era to write them. the world is not ready. but know i will be waiting patiently in the shadows clutching my insane wildly different from canon fics to my chest until the right moment comes...

[outerfeathers-creates]

redrew some frames from tender lovin cannibal as @zleepysnails Opposite AU these were fun and time consuming to draw

unrelated thing, these are the frames I based em off of I love them both

[afterartist]

⚠️⚠️CW BLOOD⚠️⚠️

He’s so me

[itsafreetrialofdeath]

*archduke voice* “Excuse me. He asked for no pickles”

[iknowwhereyousnoozeatnight]

lawlight week day 5: cannibalism

[feroluce]

Made a FANTASTIC discovery today regarding the meaning behind Boothill's fourth eidolon, I'm so happy!!! Most of it is just cowboy references, like

Eidolon 1: Dusty Trail's Lone Star- cowboy lingo, the Lone Star of Texas

Eidolon 2: Milestonemonger- more cowboy lingo, someone who roams and wanders

Eidolon 3: Marble Orchard's Guard- yet more cowboy lingo, a term for a graveyard (a fave of mine, because for me it evokes the image of a Church Grim <333)

Eidolon 4: Cold Cuts Chef- ????

Google didn't really provide much on Eidolon 4 like for the first three. Before today I had assumed it was just another movie reference of some sort, since Boothill is like entirely based on/inspired by old Western films.

"Cold cuts" are basically lunch meat/deli meat. It's precooked meat that doesn't need any kind of preparation- you can literally just eat it cold. Since it didn't seem to be a movie reference, I thought oh, maybe it's a nod to his lifestyle? Boothill is unhoused and lives on the run from the IPC with little rest, he doesn't really have the means to cook. Precooked, easy food like that would be a godsend for someone in his circumstances.

Anyway the original Chinese text gives it an entirely different, MUCH wilder meaning fjadskljfkld

love how they chose "celebrity chef" to show his expertise and/or fame in this fjkdlsja

Because no, "cold cuts" isn't cowboy lingo for anything, but cold meat specifically is.

It's how you refer to a corpse.

"Cold Cuts Chef" is not a title talking about his cooking ability, or his life's circumstances, or anything as mundane as that, IT'S ABOUT THE FACT THAT BOOTHILL SPECIALIZES IN DEALING DEATH, THIS MAN IS EXTREMELY SKILLED, AND GOOD AT WHAT HE DOES, AND WHAT HE DOES IS MURDER!!!!!

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER 10-A : PIPE DREAM

Chapter Summary: You confront Bartolomeo about everything he's done. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only, NSFW Chapter; PiV sex, biting, a more submissive Barto, slight breeding kink) TW: References to past violence, stalking Ao3 Link: Chapter 10-A (3,903 words)

Bartolomeo was silent for a long time, staring between you and the shirt in your hand. Of course. Of all the things to forget about in the heat of the moment. Now you had it, and everything he ever wanted was going to come crashing down around him.

Fuck.

“Barto,” you pressed, “how long have you had my shirt?”

He leaned against the doorframe, avoiding eye contact. After a long moment he swallowed the lump in his throat and answered, “Few months.”

You abruptly stood from the bed, getting directly in front of him and forcing yourself into his line of sight. “It was you. This whole time. And you had me thinking it wasn’t.” Your eyes began to water. “What the fuck, Barto?! What else have you stolen?!”

He would have flinched, were he not distracted by the fact that you looked hotter when you were angry. The thought was enough to make him flush as he confessed, “A few things.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, once more catching a whiff of strawberries and vanilla on your stolen shirt. “My fucking perfume. What the hell did you do — steal that and put it back every time?”

“No! Just. Just once...” His eyes flicked to his dresser, where the new bottle was hidden in the top drawer. “Then... I bought my own.”

“Oh, well that makes it so much better.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” you huffed. “Just don’t. I need...”

You paused, biting your lip. What did you need? Time? To do what exactly — think about how the guy you’d been crushing on was stalking you like you feared? You should be calling someone about this, not hesitating!

Bartolomeo’s chest felt like it was about to burst. He’d been ignoring it, but on some level he’d known it was inevitable that if you got together, you would discover what he had done. He convinced himself he could make it okay, give you his perspective on it, but he never thought that the need to do that would come before you even had a chance to go through the honeymoon phase. Slowly, he reached out and put his hands on your shoulders, the slightest bit of relief easing the chest pain when you didn’t try to pull away.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, “I already told you... All that stuff about you bein’ good, and soft, how I’m none of that—”

“Barto,” you interrupted, running a frustrated hand through your hair, “you realize that nothing you could say about this is going to make it okay. You broke into my room. You stole my stuff. You followed me home!” You paused, then gasped, taking a step back. “Did you have something to do with Cavendish not showing?!”

He shrank back, letting go of you and once again avoiding eye contact. “I might’ve... busted his car a little. And his ribs.”

You took another step back, shaking your head before starting to pick your clothes up from the floor.

He began to panic. “Wait — what are you doing?”

“Putting on clothes,” you sighed. “I can’t keep having this conversation naked.”

You paced the floor of Bartolomeo’s living room, running a hand through your hair while he watched trepidatiously from the couch. He’d confessed extensively, further adding to his earlier list of admissions. Laying in your bed, watching you sleep, hunting down Cavendish — he even admitted that after the man from the bar roofied himself, he followed him out and stabbed his hand.

(You would never admit out loud that you were thrilled by the idea of Bartolomeo beating creeps to a bloody pulp like some unhinged vigilante.)

With a heavy sigh you stopped in front of him, your arms folded. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what you did.”

Bartolomeo straightened up slightly. “Really?”

“But,” you continued, “you’re gonna give me my stuff back.”

He nodded, just relieved that you weren’t immediately ditching him. “You got it.”

“I don’t have the funds to move right now, so I’m still living across the hall for the foreseeable future.” You took a step closer. “If you ever break into my apartment again, I will call the cops.”

He nodded again, and you took it as a small victory. If you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you could make good on that threat. A tiny part of you felt guilty at the thought of having him arrested, but you couldn’t afford to let him see through you.

You let out another heavy sigh, your posture relaxing slightly. “What were you thinking, Barto? Why didn’t you say something from the start?”

Bartolomeo ran a hand through his hair, his face flushed. “I-I dunno... it’s like I said. You’re so good, and normally people who go around lookin’ and actin’ like you don’t talk to people like me. I ain’t ever really... fell for anyone before, and I couldn’t help myself from doin’ stuff that was wrong. Then when you said we were friends, I got scared that maybe you’d never see me the way I saw you.” He kept his gaze downward, the flush spreading down his neck and shoulders. “I started clingin’ to what I could just to feel close to ya.”

Your heart lurched at the confession, and you smothered the urge to let out a soft “aww”. That should not have been cute — how the hell did he manage to twist what he did into something that sounded so innocent?

You cleared your throat, holding your ground. “I don’t know that I can just forgive you for this. You know that, right?”

Bartolomeo seemed to shrink into himself. Yes, he’d known that was a possibility. Did he ever want to admit that? Absolutely not.

“We’re back to just neighbors,” you finally said. “I don’t care if we say ‘hi’ or whatever, but I’m not talking to you until I’m ready to be friends again. If I’m ready.” You hated that you were giving him hope, but you were kidding yourself if you thought you’d be able to keep yourself from peeking over the walls you were building.

He nodded in a way that betrayed his restrained eagerness. “You got it. Just neighbors.”

With another long look and one final sigh, you texted Robin for your keys.

The days passed by painfully slow. Routine made them bleed into weeks, and before you knew it, two months had gone by.

You occasionally caught Bartolomeo peeking out of his door whenever you got off the elevator. You could tolerate that.

He would hold the building door open for you whenever he happened (“happened”) to be there. You decided you could tolerate that, too.

When the landlord came around with suspicions about Luffy’s existence again, he was there, looming across the hall. And when you could no longer deny that yes, you had a cat, Bartolomeo’s presence kept the landlord from charging backpay. The moment the coast was clear, he quickly retreated, blushing all the way up to his ears.

Try as you might to resist the urge, you ended up leaving a bag of cookies in front of his door as thanks.

Shortly after, packages you ordered ended up at your door instead of the front desk. Sometimes there were flowers that were clearly picked from some poor soul’s window box. You’d wake up or come home to find a few dollars had been slipped under your door, with notes reading “subway”, “cat food”, and “drinks”.

You probably shouldn’t have tolerated that.

Bartolomeo eventually gained enough courage to greet you one morning as you were leaving for work. You gave him a small nod, and he blushed, quickly stepping back into his apartment. He took it as a sign that he could at least do that much, letting out a sheepish “hey” or “morning” whenever he saw you. Soon it grew into asking how you were, to which you didn’t answer with more than a shrug or a “fine”, despite wanting to answer with more. You found you had missed talking to him, but you were doing your best to stand firm.

Your resolve was tested further when he started having one-sided conversations with you. He’d tell you about his day, about how he heard Luffy running around, how Gambia was doing, almost like whatever came to mind he had to get out of his head just so he could spend more time talking to you. You kept your responses short, if you responded at all, though you struggled to hide your smile and stifle laughter.

You’d given him the inch. It was all he needed to pry his way back in.

The signs Bartolomeo was breaking in again slowly but surely returned. Rumpled bedsheets, haphazardly closed drawers, debris by the window. It made your stomach turn, but your chest fluttered. You shouldn’t have been so tolerant. It was only a matter of time, after all, and you should have kept to your word and put your foot down.

But you missed him. You found yourself lying awake longer at night, watching your window as you fell asleep. You would sit on your bed and look over the slightly untidied sheets and wonder why Bartolomeo didn’t just pull the pillows off and sit with them on the floor. Luffy’s treat bag wouldn’t be closed all the way and you were tempted to scold him for leaving it open, or for giving Luffy treats in the first place, instead of getting furious that he was in the apartment to start with.

It took some time, but you finally caught him.

You’d been curled up under your bedsheets, watching the window, when you saw a familiar silhouette take up his post on the fire escape. He had his back to the room, leaning his head back against the pane. Quietly, you crawled out of bed and across the floor, and tapped on the window.

Bartolomeo jumped up, ready to flee down the stairs, before you pushed the window open and grabbed the edge of his fur-lined vest, staring up into his fiery eyes.

“Stay.”

It had been two months since you’d said something first.

Bartolomeo blinked, then let you pull him into the bedroom. You took him by the wrists, gently guiding him to the bed before pushing him down onto it, crawling on top of him and pinning his hands down to either side of his head. He gave in with surprising ease, a mixture of shock and anticipation on his face as you started running your hands up and down his forearms.

“What were you going to do out there?” you asked, your voice low.

He swallowed, his eyes flicking back and forth as he struggled to focus on yours. “I was... going to watch you sleep.”

You couldn’t help the soft “tch” that left your lips. “Course you were. Just watching, right?”

He nodded frantically, his face turning redder by the second. “Yeah, just watching. I swear.”

Your hands drifted lower, ghosting his vest’s fur lining. “You weren’t planning on breaking in like you have been? After I’ve already told you to stop?”

All the color that had crept into his face immediately drained. He shook his head, “I wasn’t — I just — ...I really tried —”

“Barto?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

You put your hands on either side of his face, lifting it to meet yours. “Shut up.”

His eyes went wide before he nodded.

You released his head, letting it drop back down on the pillow with a satisfying whumpf. You returned to letting your hands wander downward, eventually reaching the hem of his shirt. “I should be calling the cops on you and kicking your ass right now. You know that, right?”

You felt his chest heave. “Why aren’t you?”

You shrugged, rolling his shirt up. “I’m still debating.”

A dusting of green hair was exposed at his waist line. As you traced a finger over it, Bartolomeo said, “What do I gotta do to convince you not to?”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Color returned to his face with a vengeance. Your hands slid lower, ghosting your fingers along the waistband of his ratty jeans before undoing them. When you tugged at them, he lifted his hips, but you didn’t pull them off all the way, stopping when they were just below the curve of his ass. You then brushed your hand over the obvious bulge in his boxers.

It was at that moment, with how easily he was complying, that you realized how much power you really had over Bartolomeo. He might’ve been the one stalking you and violently hurting people to keep them away, but you could probably step on him and he’d thank you. You could pull his hair, punch him in the gut, probably even kick him where it’d really, really hurt, and he’d still come crawling after you. It might even encourage him.

Maybe he was just as masochistic as you were, for letting him get away with his antics.

You broke the silence with a harsh, “You’re a real freak, you know that?”

Bartolomeo only whimpered in response.

Power thrummed under your fingers as you started fondling him through his boxers. “You start pining after a girl, and your first instinct is to start stalking her.” You gave him a light squeeze, barely even a twitch of your muscles, and his breath hitched. “How much did it hurt not knowing if I returned your feelings?”

He only whimpered again, his body starting to shiver under your touch.

You squeezed a little harder. “Answer me, Barto.”

“Badly,” he choked out, as if he’d been holding his breath from the moment you started touching him.

You hummed, rubbing him a little harder. “How long do you think you could have kept it up?”

He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but your eyes. “I-I dunno.”

Your grip on him tightened and he grunted, his hips bucking. You continued, “You ever jerk off into my shirt? The one you stole?”

Bartolomeo frantically shook his head. “No, not — not really — I mean —”

It was then that he finally met your gaze, and he froze. Was this a trap? He didn’t want to answer, but something about the look in your eyes dissuaded him from keeping the truth to himself. 

“I smelled it while jackin’ off.”

You nodded, loosening your hold. “You ever think of me?”

He moaned, rolling his eyes back. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“You ever think about stealing my panties?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Would you have jerked off with those?”

“...yeah.”

You abruptly let go of his cock. The high-pitched groan that came from Bartolomeo made you shudder as you said, “What if I tried to go on another date? What would you have done to them?”

His eyes widened. “Wha—”

“You heard me,” you cut him off. “Would you have tracked them down and hurt them, too?”

After a moment of struggling to find his words, he finally said, “Yes.”

You put your hand back over his groin, lightly tracing a finger along the concealed length. “That guy from the train. What would you have done if he’d managed to hurt me?”

He clenched his fists around the bedsheets. “Y-you don’t really wanna know that.”

“I do,” you said, now tugging his cock free from his boxers and ghosting your fingers over the head, leaking with precum. “I want you to confess to all the depraved shit you’ve been thinking since you met me. I want to know how far you would’ve gone before you couldn’t take it anymore.”

Bartolomeo stared up at you for a long moment, his heart pounding. This had to be a dream. There was no way you were indulging him like this for real. On top of him, making demands, tormenting him like this. He’d hit his head on one of the ladder rungs and this was an unconscious fantasy. That was the only explanation for the twisted web of paradise and damnation he was currently caught in.

Still, this fantasy version of you was glowering down at him, one hand teasing his cock and starting to pull away. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing your wrist to keep you there, and you flinched, but otherwise kept your steely gaze on him.

The message was clear. He had to answer, or you’d stop.

And Bartolomeo really didn’t want this dream to end.

“That shitstain would’ve been dead,” he growled. “Nobody hurts what’s mine.”

You smirked and swatted his hand away, returning yours to the head of his cock. “Good answer.”

You resumed with languidly stroking him, watching as his eyes rolled back and he struggled to keep them open. For the most part you kept your pace even, occasionally spitting on him to keep him sufficiently lubricated. He let out a long, obscene groan, throwing an arm over his eyes, whimpering your name. “Please...”

A shiver shot through you. After everything he put you through, knowing the violence he was capable of — hearing him start to crumble beneath you was immensely satisfying. “Please what?”

“Stop teasin’,” he groaned, his cock twitching in your hand. “I need you... so bad...”

“You need me, huh?” You slowed down, making him whine. “Beg for me, then.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes snapped back to meet your gaze, his pupils dilating until his irises were thin amber rings. His mouth went dry as he found himself unable to do anything except stare at you looming over him. After an eternity had passed, and he was positive he heard you correctly, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

With flushed cheeks and a look that made you think he might cry, he said, “Please, sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

You stopped, tilting your head. “Anything?”

He nodded, gaze flicking back and forth as he tried to focus on yours, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

You gently pushed him back into laying down, finally shimmying out of your shorts and underwear. You held yourself over his cock, keeping one hand on him to guide him inside, but not yet. 

“Beg.”

His voice strained, “Please, please, please— I need you. I need to be inside you—”

“Just inside me?”

“Around you, with you, part of you —” his hands started gripping your waist to try and pull you down onto him. “I’ll be your slave if you ask me, just please—”

You gave in, spearing yourself on his cock and relishing in the sudden guttural moan it elicited from him. You slowly sank down onto his length, unable to stop the whine once you felt like it wouldn’t go any further. You felt his nails dig into your skin — you wouldn’t be surprised if his grip left bruises to find in the morning.

“Ohh, fuck,” he groaned. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, “and start fucking me.”

Bartolomeo bit his lip and obeyed, lifting you by the waist to slide himself out, then pulling you back down onto his shaft. You whined again as he stopped just shy of pushing himself entirely inside you, savoring being pushed to your very limit. He repeated the motion, moving you with such ease it had you reeling for a moment. You steadied yourself by putting your hands on his chest, your fingers slipping into the fur lining of his vest. Another thrust and you weren’t able to stifle your moans, stuttering with each push inside you.

“My girl,” he growled, lifting his hips as he pulled you down. “Mine.”

A giggle escaped you in between moans. He could claim that all he wanted, but all things considered, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger. Current physical positions notwithstanding.

Heat began coiling in your core, and your hips started moving of their own accord, rolling in sync with every push and pull of his hands. Bartolomeo let go of one side to bring his hand up to your face, caressing your cheek. His eyes were blown so wide you couldn’t see the amber anymore, leaving behind a mixture of lust and adoration in their depths. He started moving you faster, the hand on your cheek moving into your hair and pulling you closer down to him. Your chest now within range, he started placing kisses on your shoulders and between the valley of your breasts. He circled his tongue around each nipple before latching onto one, rolling the sensitive bud between his sharp teeth. You let out a keening moan, your hands tightening into fists in the synthetic fur as you struggled to keep pace with him.

“Mine,” he growled again around your breast, his teeth threatening to pierce flesh as he frantically increased his pace.

You groaned, sitting up and pulling free of his bite, moving your hands to either side of his face. “That’s it, Barto. So good for me.”

Bartolomeo’s pace faltered for just a moment. “Y-yeah?”

You nodded, kissing his forehead. “Good boy.”

The responding guttural groan sent a shudder down your spine, and he pushed himself into an upright position, making you grind yourself along his length as he continued to thrust up into you.

You cussed harshly, allowing him to take over completely and fuck up into you like his own personal fleshlight. You latched onto his response, encouraging him further. “That’s it, Barto. Be a good boy and cum for me.”

He choked, eyes wide. “O-on you? Like this?”

You shook your head, running one thumb along his lip. “In me.”

“R-really—?”

“What?” you panted, sticking your thumb in his mouth and pulling at the corner, revealing more of his sharp fangs. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of breeding me, fucking stalker.”

He moaned, his tongue chasing after your thumb as you removed it from his mouth. He hadn’t thought of it, not until the moment you said it. His desperation to please you however had him all too willing to accept the thought as his own, and he flipped both of you over, throwing your legs over his shoulders and folding you in half beneath him. 

You screamed at the now impossible speed he moved, your hands tangling in his hair as the knot building in your loins started unraveling. You cried out his name over and over, barely aware of him growling out yours in your ear until he slammed into you one final time, biting down on your shoulder to keep himself from crying out.

You both came crashing down from your ecstacy, tangled up in one another, panting and sweating and reeling from the whole ordeal. Eventually, and with no small amount of hesitation, Bartolomeo pulled himself out, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could as he lay himself beside you. As you slowly caught your breath, you curled into his embrace, allowing him to almost envelope you as the afterglow began to settle.

A moment passed in silence, before Bartolomeo muttered into your hair, “I love you. I don’t ever wanna let you go."

“...I love you, too,” you finally responded. Before adding, “Stop feeding Luffy treats.”

Bartolomeo thought his heart would burst from his chest, and he proceeded to cuddle you even closer. You let out a deep breath through your nose. You really shouldn’t have encouraged him, and you really shouldn’t have indulged yourself.

That didn’t stop you from smiling as you fell asleep in his arms.

[bitchslapblastoids]

do you remember exactly where you were when basically im gay dropped? are there other d&p videos/content that you’ve had that experience with? am reminiscing and curious

[will-graham-coded]

[dorkfruit]

jodybeth sketch as the love sex n magic album cover bc the song reminds me of them LOL

[a-story-is-true]

am I making you feel sick?

[on youtube]

[thywheelof-fate]

Durge, holding the mangled remains of their childhood pet: why can't I love something without wanting to eat it?

Durge, ripping off a bit of a corpse they just had fun with: why can't I love something without wanting to eat it?

Durge, biting into Enver's shoulder as the man claws at their back: why can't I love something without wanting to eat it?

Post-lobotomy Durge, looking at their companions: ...why am I hungry?

[tadfools]

These are still one of my fav Durge dialogue options