#pls pls plspls cannibalism

[sinclairstarz]

my S5 predictions!!!! ☆

source: divine intuition <3

steve discovers gay sex

robin ends up having to resort to eating human flesh at some point

dustin befriends all the democritters and in the big final scene vecna tries to use the animals to attack but then hes like “what?! why isnt it working?!?” and then it pans to dustin and he does a devilish little smile and all the demodogs turn to vecna and growl and vecnas like “n-nice.. doggy….”

nancy discovers gay sex

a whole episode dedicated to the party’s collective acid trip

will eats human flesh for some reason

ted wheeler and will team up and this is somehow a breaking bad homage/reference

lucas wears a lesbian t shirt for the whole season and its never mentioned (whatever a lesbian tshirt may mean)

mike calls will hot nonchalantly + max attempted before

karen wheeler discovers gay sex

holly is important

cannibalism

robin was secretly one of the lab kids

nancy goes bald

vampire eddie but he wears a cape and cant go in the sunlight and has a transylvanian accent and keeps trying to suck everyones blood and its a major obstacle

eleven sees mikes haircut and realizes shes a lesbian

something happens in texas

will dies and is reincarnated as mike and elevens baby

three waterfalls

max is fine and good but she comes out of her coma and talks like batman now

chris pratt voices a demodog

mike gets his ass WHOOPED 😂😂😂

usage of the word “twink”

mike doesnt NOT discover gay sex

hopper is cannibalized

maybe the stranger things were the friends dont lie we made along the way

[fraemlingg]

hunger pain

Sun came through the yellowed lace curtains and drew a pattern over his face until the irregular beating of his heart woke him in a state of alarm. The heat had his veins bubbling and skin prickling with nervous goosebumps, horrid images of dying of heatstroke in his sleep ripping him back into that hazy reality. Each morning he awoke just like this and each morning he wished his organs finally gave in to the thin air of Florida dawn.

But he wouldn’t have such luck. There was little to do in that cabin but to go to sleep hiding from the harsh winds whistling eerily through the rotten panels of the walls at night, paranoid they would tear down any moment, and waking up in moody weathers so narrow and humid he thought it possible to drown in the boiling water that was the air surrounding him. The many tempers of the swamp caused him throbbing headaches. The wood decaying all around him and the hollering of the aging trees outside were reason enough for his joints to ache. And every morning he awoke to the foul smells, the foul smells of stiff animals returning to earth beneath his window, the foul smells evaporading from his own body in a feverish cold sweat, they left a neverending trail of snot on his thin upper lip. The water supply had long run down, the shower head covered in thick layers of rust not allowing a single leak, not a placebo drop of muddy water to run over his pale hot forehead. 

He had been in this house so terribly long some days he could not remember how he ended up in it in the first place. Was it his? Did he inherit it from a distant aunt of some sort? Or did he break and enter one night in a fugue state of mania, fleeing from a spectral swamp demon with bloodshot cat eyes chasing him through the sogginess of the terrain? Whatever it was he had never felt the urge to find out nor to leave for it had become his home and his home only and if he ever were to lose sight of it he knew he would also lose that last fraction of genuine soul he had left in him. The last evidence that he was human and alive. The last evidence that he had a past and a present, although unclear of the past and unsure of whatever happened next. 

It took him all of the little strength he had to move one bony leg after the other out of his damp sweat-yellowed sheets and the floor boards creaked even at the little weight he had. While most people found their whisper to be of sombre nature, he thought he had studied their language well and truly understood them: and as he sat by the edge of his bed with his spine curved and aching, waiting for the numbness of his legs to fade, a tired smile laid on his lips and under his rusty iron breath he mumbled, “Good morning to you, too.”

There was no way of telling time in this place; he measured the days by the growth of his oily blond locks, by taking one from the back and pulling at it and seeing if they touched the next vertebrae already and if they did he knew he was done wasting another few weeks in isolation. Weeks, yes. Months, even. But he had long lost the overview of a day or an hour or whatever a minute was to him, the time between sunrise and sunset much longer without filling the space with numbers that hinted at human understanding. He tried counting the months by the scarred knuckles of his hands, like he had seen it in a distant memory from elementary school, but alas, he had remembered too late. Funny, he thought, how he recalled things from over a decade ago, but the memory of settling in that rotten cabin was entirely wiped from his opaque sentience.

He had become quite circadian, trusting merely the messages his body sent him in urges and instincts, if he got lucky a wave of clairvoyance overcame him in the lucid state between consciousness and dream and he had visions like specks of dust glaring and glittering ghostly in a camera lense. What had him on his feet eventually, however, were not pictures of future evidences telling him to run out into the deepness of wetland nature in order to make a pact with God, but his stomach turning him sick and making him arch in a wave of hunger pain. And although he felt awful, malnourished to the point of passing out many times a day, that hungry illness is what thawed his heart, because it’s not only what made him human, it’s what reminded him of intimacy; a shared meal by the family dinner table, motherly love passed on down in a recipe for generations and generations to come with little to no tweaking done to it, cooking for a loved one and eating from the same plate. With his heart in such melt he smiled despite of the agony tugging at his abdomen. 

The tender howling of the wind became dull as he closed the door behind him and in a swish of dirty white cotton he took a wary glance at a broken mirror he passed in the hallway. The hallway was, compared to the bedroom, dark and greenish, such was the mirror with its murky blanket of muck, but despite lack of electricity he somehow managed to get a good view of his silhouette. He was freckled and skinny, thin like the branches of the strangler figs that grew in those swamps winding about, and the malnourishment marked its path from the circling sockets showing beneath the raw skin of his tear bags down to the sickly blue veins popping and painting the dirty heels of his ice-cold feet. That shirt he wore, that dirty white cotton, if he was asked how he stained it so bad, in a rusty old colour, he wouldn’t know what to tell. It was his only shirt. Those were his only jeans. Socks, he had given up on fixing them a while ago, and they still hung over the edge of the broken bathtub heavy in grief. Not like he ever paid them a visit. The bathroom reminded him too much of the frantic desperation followed by terrible, terrible failure.

The hallway wasn’t very long and yet the light at the end of its moldy tunnel was a surprise to him every time he was forced to pass through. His stomach rumbled loudly one another time, an intimidating growl like an untrained dog threatening to bite, but the noise from his gut was quickly drowned out by the groaning of the stairs beneath him– oh, those stairs were even louder than the floor boards in the bedroom, one by one they chanted their prayers to not break with his trembling stride, and soon the source of the holy light revealed itself: a recently broken window dulled with smudge at the bottom of the stairs, singing similarly to the wind upstairs in almost perfect harmony with his stomach and the floor, and between the shards of glass rested dead flies that appeared ivory yellow, bleached from the ever-glaring white of the Florida sun. It was a shame they had been dead for a long while– for if they weren’t he would’ve set them free. Either way, he wouldn’t notice their presence. There might as well’ve been human bone splinters lying on that window sill and he would not give it a notice, he would not give it a second thought or feel puzzled about their heritage. 

The ground floor of the house was a flood of white light and stained daffodil walls. The windows were bigger, with lace curtains that were once white, and one window hung from its frame and it was a matter of time and weather until it would blow out in its entirety, its shards to go unnoticed with the other shards on the floor he would step over, again, mindlessly, like he had been trained to do nothing but walk on glass for the whole of his meek existence. His prowl was quiet but even if he tried to hide himself his stomach would betray him in a matter of few breaths, and the pain became more eminent, traveled from his deepest organ into his shallow ribs and up to his throat, he felt the need to eat was of utmost urgency. 

The obscure ghost of a frail grin drew over his pale chapped lips as distantly he heard the familiar white noise of flies buzzing all over the kitchen getting louder with each of his steps, and turning the corner there they were: shiny black bodies scurrying about from one stained object to the next as if in a panicked state, like they knew something terrible would happen he had no clue about yet, like something awful was lurking from behind the curve of his shoulder, unable to feel its nasal breathing hitting his neck behind the mop of frizzy hair that hung heavy over his skin with grease. Out of lonely delusion he decided one day to stop swatting after them and started treating them with respect as if they were noble guests of some sort or beloved pets he kept by choice. His grin grew as he passed through the empty door frame, from sickly and vulnerable to a warm homely beam, as if his gray lips didn’t expose grimy stained teeth that had the same colour as the faded auburn stains on his thin worn out t-shirt. 

With his elbow over his dirty blond head he propped himself against the paint-chipped frame of the door and took a view of the kitchen, inhaling deeply as if enjoying the foul reek in the air, the gut-turning stench that would have any other person passing by this place belching up bile, yes, it reeked as if an entire colony of rats had lied down to find their peace right above his head in the ceiling months ago and yet he smiled, and yet he sighed through his nose and his mouth and he scratched at the rash under his biceps with casualty as his eyes scanned his surroundings.

There were little walls in this kitchen, most of them covered in ceiling-high windows and a sliding door that stood open in a tilt blocked by a pile of dirt no matter the season, offering not much more but a fridge that never worked as far as he remembered and an oven with a greasy casserole dish on top of it, age old this dish must’ve been for he had never seen something like it in stores or on TV or in photographs. And he loved the way it stood there so frozen in time, by an open window, as if his mother had cooked something and let the wind cool down the dish before they gathered round the table in the middle of the room, grubby mits of an only child trying to reach for the first plate but being shushed away by a relative of any kind. And his stomach protested the longer he looked at the dish on the stove, it demanded for attention, and the buzzing of the flies protested with it, landing on the scratchmarks his dirty fingernails had left on his skin, brown half-moons in his cuticles, he hadn’t washed his hands in a lengthy while.

As long as he didn’t move the flies crawled all over the place, and as he unfroze to enter the stale room they shot in all directions, only to land on the fridge again; they seemed to love that fridge, that dirty and stained fridge, that fridge he had to really slam with all his strength to close it, (he walked towards it, the flies went scattering in dreadful suspense, and the closer he got the less flies returned to it as if he caused them a terror of some sort), that fridge that had the same stains as his shirt and his teeth and his nails and some parts of his skin, that fridge that hadn’t worked, really, it hadn’t worked at all as long as he lived there, did it?, that fridge that evidently and undeniably was the cause of that gut-turning, nauseating, horrifying, (his fingers were on the handle with a tight grip, how was he so confident in facing what lied behind that impure door which could only be touched so shamelessly by his filthy insect companions?), sickeningly foul, repulsive, ungodly, all-consuming smell–

And he opened it as if grabbing himself a Coca Cola to have with his dinner and he looked at my remnants without a bat of an eyelash, he looked inside my ribcage as if skimming a magazine for an interesting read, no, that was a lie but I wish it was like that, he looked at what was left of my torso as if regarding a photograph of a precious childhood memory with a moving sweetness in the glare of his eyes. And by the one arm I had left, by my right upper arm, he dragged my body or what remained of it out of the fridge and maybe the coldness, the stiffness of me fed into the illusion that the fridge was still of function, that I had a gentle layer of frost on my skin because of its artificial winter, that I was more of a friendly visitor than the debris of a youth going to waste, the cause of the vicious stench, the only reason the flies stuck around as his loyal pets and kept him from losing himself in that crippling solitary. 

He kept my head in the fridge separately as if he was not going to eat it (how would you go about eating a human head, anyway?) and I would’ve suggested that he possibly kept it as a trophy but I wasn’t sure if he was aware of his doings, if he realized the state of sickness he comfortably stagnated in, that in society he would’ve made the news and had mothers lock their daughters away for the rest of their miserable suburban lifetimes, so I would not go as far as calling him out on a pride he wasn’t conscious of. And he slammed my pale blue body on the table, (wherever he took the strength from but his arms were shaking and he had to catch a breath before sitting down), and his smile was of such affection and softness that if you entered the room and didn’t catch my sight at first you’d think he had lived a happy, fulfilling life and just rewarded himself with his favourite meal. 

With the very first bite a red thread of blood ran from his chin, parting its middle in perfect halves and pooling by the tip of his jaw, drops of red trickling and staining the white of my flesh. The noises he made whilst devouring were of horror not even the frailest mind could have nightmares about. The smacking of lips between bites, the popping of veins amidst his teeth and that awful, awful gargling as he gobbled up whole lumps of flesh without chewing, blisters of blood bubbles gurgling in the space between his teeth and his ever-infected gums. He opened his jaw so wide that it locked every half a minute or so but he fixed it without a thought by pushing his right palm into it with all his might, causing a loud crack one might’ve gotten startled from even a mile away. The blood trickled and trickled and he grunted through his crooked nose, his eating causing him such ecstasy that he took no break to breathe, no break to listen to the tumult in his stomach and the signals of his body telling him he was full. 

The decaying wooden table screamed underneath almost as if begging him to stop slamming his elbows into it with every greedy bite he took and the corners of his mouth grew sore with friction like the calcium deficiency induced burn in his wrists as he held a part of my corpse like it had never belonged to anyone he ever cared very much about. And whilst yes, he lived his life by trusting his gut these days, he ignored that sudden zap of dire intuition that told him to set down what was left of me, that told him that it was enough already and if he continued forcing flesh down his gaping maw he would meet an ugly fate, a shiver trailed down his bony spine and although he wanted to stop he could not bring himself to do so, he could not stop gulping down lump after dreadful lump, (stop, what are you doing), he could not stop himself of bleeding foam by his mouth at the taste, he was flushed red with crying at this point because he wanted to put a halt to it so bad but he couldn’t, he could not rid his clawing of fingers that were as frosty as my long dead skin from shoving my ribcage back and back and back into his fangs, until something cracked deafeningly in his putrid cheek but it was too late, he was eating too fast and chewing so little that he was already coughing and retching as he realized that quite the chunk of my rib was boring itself into the softness of his esophagus. 

He shot up in panic, wheezing, his once freckled skin turning from red to purple as the taste of fresh blood that was not mine but his own chased over his tongue, his left hand’s nails digging into the splintering surface of the table seeking himself to stay upright whilst he sunk his entire right hand, smeared with blood and saliva, into his mouth and fingering his throat for the bone but it was too late. He could not breathe and his lungs threatened to boast and it was a sorrowful sight, the way he toppled over onto the floor, with his right hand still carrying out a fight he could not win, and the odd sensation of destiny overcame him as he realized this was all he wished for every morning when he woke up and now he would do anything to keep himself from acting on his last move forever. 

It was a gut-wrenching sight– the tears keeping his face glittering wet even after it was all over, the purple colouration turning back to red turning back to beige and finally turning to a delicate paleness with time and the concluding sensation he was to endure was his favourite rusted nail from a floorboard boring into the small of his back and the first and last fly tickling him between two strands of colourless hair that fell over his feverish sweaty forehead. And his final thought made him as aware as he hadn’t been his entire life, shook him to his core so profoundly he could feel his bloched soul parting from his body with the vacuum of a black hole devouring the sun–

he hadn’t even eaten the heart yet.

He was keeping it for the last bite. So the taste would linger the longest in his foul mouth. 

Even in his tiresome rush he managed to keep enough mind to it to avoid it. At night he dreamed about its taste: salty and fresh and twitching vividly with the source of life, porous and smooth like a silken velvet vanilla birthday cake someone had poured all their love into, tender and soft and sweet with a satisfying bitter aftertaste, even in nightmares where it tasted like molding pennies and he was ringed by crude screaming it had peaked his curiosity, it changed him to that worthy person he always, always, always begged to be. With a last muscle spasm he managed to roll his wasted head to the side in hopes of catching a glimpse of my heart but to no use: the table was high above the ground and the last view of world he got maliciously rewarded with was my blood dripping onto the chair with the soothing rhythm of rare summer rain. What a worrying sight his thinness would’ve been to a restless mother whose son was last seen in a missing person report.