#canabalism as a metaphor for love | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

melit0n · 4 months

Text

Half-Starved

- Oneshot

- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader

- Word Count: 3.2K

- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, stalking

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry.

Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it.

Anything to be acknowledged.

Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. However, he didn’t like to be touched, because of him, but he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.

He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in, wants to sit down with him and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. But even so, he can’t blame the kid. He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a kid. He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.

He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close.

Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. Being a 6’4 SAS agent with a heavy Manchester accent and an apparently unapproachable demeanour, most people tending to avoid him in the streets, makes it a bit hard to gain attention, let alone affection.

But then there’s you.

The first word that would come to his mind is kind.

Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you begin to appear everywhere. He doesn’t know if you’ve moved here recently, or if his brain has randomly decided to notice your presence, but you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really.

He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the baggy sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along for your midnight excursion, brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friends on the crowded train you both take every day into the city. You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic, he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s incredibly obvious, but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well.

In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand looking quizically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what the something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, tired bodies.

He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. Just like him.

Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. You have a habit of doing a little jump when you get off the train which Simon finds quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.

Of the fall.

Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving him incomplete in an odd way, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, in between curiosity at where you live and to make sure you’re safe, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back.

At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you.

Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back?

Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks.

Eventually, he falls off the fine line of annoyance and anger into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. To him. He wants to taste it. Badly.

Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the void for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach.

He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the men you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving.

Simon wants it. Ghost needs it.

Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, but he feels them. He feels the sharp ache like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him.

And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.

As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life.

To allow him to know what it feels like to be full, instead of half-starved.

Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like your his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. He wouldn’t dare show you the bloodthirsty rage his opponents see on the field.

Oh, and he can just imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. He hates hearing people cry. After all, he’s haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land. But you? He doesn’t mind one bit. It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him, gift to him, to bring you two together.

He knows how much it takes to be vulnerable, so he wouldn’t even be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.

The more time that passes, the further he falls.

On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the quiet of his room for longer than a human should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.

He can see it as clear as a freshly painted watercolour; a candle-lit dinner. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould, with roses. The smell of whatever he’s cooked for you permeating the air.

Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, love?

It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old.

He’s utterly enamoured with the thought. The idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s atoms through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.

He remembers being taught in his History class, the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs, that in ancient times people used to eat each other as well. They did this so that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond, as well as each other's attributes.

He only really remembers that because his mates laughed at the idea of aristocratic Victorians eating mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson.

Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field knowing that a part of you rested within him. That even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.

And you, him. Mutual consumption. He doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly.

In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from you.

His body is yours, as yours is his. Let him be yours. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you.

The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face that Soap nudges him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own.

So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one instead of turning the other off for the greater good.

The decision? To feed. To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved.

The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger.

He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission.

Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his calloused hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. Anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier.

He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.

At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift your fingers intertwining with his as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again.

‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind.

It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole again, for just a moment.

At least until the morning comes, anyways.

He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue.

It's almost poetic.

In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall for hours, whether it be to awkward silence or a piece of music. He doesn’t question it, verbally, at least. From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it's something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually.

Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen.

“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look.

Please give me more.

He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off.

“Pomegranates?”

He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval.

Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit.

I’ll take anything you give. Just please give me more.

They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin.

“Chopping board,” He pauses, “please?”

Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands.

You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinizes you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more.

I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. Just look at me. Touch me. Let me be full.

You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes you’re not sure you can give. He cuts it into quarters, continuously surprising you how utterly gentle he is with it, but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a fileted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl.

Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he sets the empty corpse aside and just…stares at the bowl of red.

The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.

Simon takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his right hand, letting the pinkish juice dribble down his hand, his forearm, and drip onto the immaculately clean counter.

The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch.

He offers his hand out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast.

“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw.

Be full. Let me fill you, and in turn, you fill me. Feed on me until there is nothing left. Let us decompose, intertwined. Please. Just say you love me, too.

You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taught you well not to speak with your mouth full.

-------------------

Note- If anybody believes this needs the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag, please let me know. I've seen much more horrific works without the tag, but I'm mildly worried this is inching into the category.

I've spend the past week hearing Abbey by Mitski at every turn, so I wrote this out in an hour or two. I think if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I think I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. Canabalism as a metaphor for love is a incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this canabalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.

I apologise for this being description and inner monologue heavy. I wanted to focus on the horror aspects in this rather than the romance aspects, so I'm sorry if you didn't get what you came here for.

Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. It was originally written for König, but I changed it last minute. Thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3

I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end.

173 notes · View notes

fireforember · 4 months

Text

I just peeled a pomegranate and watched it bleed as I tore its flesh away and consumed what's inside.

I wonder if this is love.

I wonder if this is how God feels when he tears into me.

#chaotic academia #dark academia #romanticism #romantic academia #poetry #pomegranate #pomegranate symbolism #canabalism as a metaphor for love and devotion #religious imagery #i feel divine

133 notes · View notes

bhinnninny · 1 month

Note

this might just be weird af but you're fascinating.

you have been hailed the chosen one, and when we give in to the cannibalistic impulses of our forefathers, you shall be spared and revered as a god.

dissect our mind and pick which parts to keep in jars, for our heart and soul have been yours before the earth was even dust.

pls like and subscribe 😝

#canabalism #intense metaphors for love and respect #you are our god #hit that notif button girl #we love you

1 note · View note

paranoiid-corpse · 3 months

Text

guys if i wrote a dead dove do not eat fanfiction, would you read? also what bandom ship do you think it the most consumative type love ,,,

#asking for a friend #bandom #fanfiction #dead dove do not eat #canabalism #as a metaphor for love #consumerism #rpf

1 note · View note

consumdstqr · 4 months

Text

TW - mentions of Horror, body horror, canabalism etc + kinda vent maybe???

metaphors and symbolism in writings and poems is gonna make me go feral!!!

Canine poetry is my life and reminds me of the book/movie Cujo. I'm not at all a dog person despite having two family dogs but canine poetry makes me so sad. It's relatable and it makes me wonder how dogs think of us.

Canabalism + Pomegranates is insane to me. Especially as an Arospec person what I feel as 'romantic love' is so complicated I can barely explain it but being so interested in someone that you want to consume them and be one with them even if it's messy and gooey is literally what I feel in place of actual romantic feelings

Body horror as a symbolism/metaphor for body/gender dysphoria IS LITERALLY ME!!! Sometimes I feel like my body and my gender is so alien and uncanny in a way that body horror especially in movies and art captures so well even without being inherently queer.

Horror in general as a symbolism and metaphor for queerness is so insane and relatable to me, especially as a horror lover!!!!

me when people use metaphors/symbolisms for queerness

#metaphors #metaphor #symbolism #tw cannibalism #tw body horror #tw horror #tw vent kinda #pomegranate #canine poetry #aromantic #aromantic go brr #queer #queer horror #lgbtqia #lgbtq #writing #movies #books

10 notes · View notes

ethynthedragonfly · 2 months

Text

Canabalism as a metaphor for want and love>>>

#canabalism #love

5 notes · View notes

bitch-of-the-wilds · 4 years

Text

Dragon Age 2: Abridged

You start the game and as you're running 🏃‍♂️💨 away from the Zombi- I mean Darkspawn, the very first thing that happens is one of your 2 younger siblings fucking dies. ⚰️💀🥀(RIP Carver)

Then there's a dragon 🐉 which is awesome! But also: fuck, there's a dragon and you're level 1. But wait, now the dragon's an old lady who you swear sounds familiar. 🧙‍♀️ But she won't teach you how to become a dragon, so who cares.

Anyway, your mother cradles your sibling's cooling corpse to her chest and blames you for their death because you're the oldest and (somehow⁉️) you were supposed to protect them from the massive 5-ton ogre and stop it from crushing their rib cage like a gerbil in the hands of a vindictive toddler. 🐹

It's mentioned in passing that "At least they're with father now," and oh, yeah, guess your dad is dead too.

Surprise! Welcome to Dragon Age: 2 -The game where the plot is made up and your feelings don't matter. 🎆🎇

After you finally escape the fuckin 🍭🔥Candy Land from Hell🔥🍭: you're sold into servitude (see also: slavery) to pay your way into the city because your drunkard of an uncle has gambled away every penny of wealth your family ever had, including the house (and the dog too, but don't worry, there's DLC for that 🐕)

Then, after a year of smuggling and/or shady mercenary work for the dickheads that hold your leash, you're still broker than a ramen-filled Millenial with an undergrad degree in psychology, so you have to go into the Deep Roads to find your fortune.

Do you take your only remaining sibling with you into one of the most dangerous places in Thedas? Or do you leave them in Kirkwall, an almost equally as dangerous place, without even little ole' you there to protect them or your aged, decrepit, spiteful mother (who still kinda hates you for letting your sibling die)?

📱VOTE NOW ON YOUR PHONES! 📱

The kicker is that NO MATTER WHICH CHOICE YOU MAKE, you still lose your sibling! They're taken by the Chantry, (the ⭕Circle/⛑️Templars) if you leave them at home, and if you take them with you, they fucking DIE.

Oh, UNLESS you brought that one edgy, possessed, fugitive Gray Warden you met in the ass end of Darktown with you. Then they don't die. Instead, they themselves are given to the Gray Wardens to try and save them from 🤎😩The Taint 😩🤎 who then disappear back into the Deep Roads for 3 fucking years. IN FACT you don't even know if your fucking sibling LIVES or DIES until Shit City winds up on fucking 🔥FIRE🔥 and they just happen to run into you while you're up to your tits in body organs.

And also that one edgy Gray Warden rebel, Anders -who you actually kinda like, even if he is a whiney bitch, happens to stay on with you because you helped him kill his ex boyfriend (*Micky Mouse voice* it's a special tool that will help us later!🎁)

Oh, and let's not forget that Grand Adventure where your ancient ass mom 🤶 is kidnapped by a Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs serial murderer and then canabalized into a semi-living sex doll 🧟‍♀️(that smells a bit like formaldehyde under the stench of rotting old lady flesh) just because she happens to look a little bit like the dude's dead FWB/wife. 👩‍❤️‍👨

So, when you finally fucking find her -buried under a cesspool of blood, shit and demons (where else?)- you obviously have to kill the dork-ass, serial-killing, LITERAL MOTHERFUCKER who took her.

But OOPS! His blood magic🩸 was the only thing keeping her build-a-bitch body alive, so naturally it disperses as he death-rattles on the floor.🤮

She only lives long enough to say her last regret is leaving you alone in 🗡️ Murder City™️ 🗡️ by yourself before she fucking DIES IN YOUR ARMS in front of your sad ass friends and probably your love interest.

Speaking of which, I hope you didn't dick-down the pirate 🏴‍☠️ then fuck around and find out you caught feelings and shit, cause she straight up leaves your ass to skip town on bail with a Super Special Book. 📖

And god forbid you romanced Fenris because his broody ass just ups and leaves you after a mediocre as fuck one night stand, leaving you with Lyium-blue balls. 🧪 Oh, did I mention that it took 3 fuckin YEARS of courting to get him to into bed? 🛌 But at least he stays with you, helping kill bitches and whatnot, casually twisting that little knife in your heart an inch at a time because he has enough emotional baggage 🎒👜🧳🛍️ to sink a fucking naval armada to the bottom of the Boeric ocean. 🆘⛵🛥️🛳️⛵🚢🛥️🆘

But the fun doesn't stop there! No, no! Because while you may have lost your entire family -i.e. your mother, father and both baby siblings- and potentially your love interest 💔 (You can keep your shitty drunken uncle tho lmfao), that doesn't matter cause we're not done with our field trip through hell just yet kiddies. 🚎 Beep beep, bitch.

So, what's next on 💥Apocalypse Bingo?💥 Oh, that's right, you gotta stop the invading force of massive roid-raging dragon-people with kick ass horns, and their leader just decapitated the king👑 in front of you.

Also they burned 🗑️Trash Town🗑️ to the ground and you have to pick of the pieces of your shitty city. Again.

And after you've done that, after you've done what all the king's horses 🐎🐎🐎 and all the king's men🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️ couldn't fucking do, you're awarded the title of Champion because no good deed goes unpunished!

Yay! You're the savior of Shit City! Hooray. 💩

✨🌟⭐ But wait! There's more! ⭐🌟✨

That one Glowy Red bitch you've seen around the Gallows when you're not ogling Cullen's noodle hair is pissy at Skeletor the Secret Blood Mage. Time to play peace keeper.

It doesn't go well. They're both still assholes. 🤷🤷‍♂️🤷‍♀️

Oh but, remember Anders? The edgy Gray Warden dude? The one who hears voices in his head, but swears it's just his 👻☄️Spirit Friend☄️👻 The one who you kinda like?

He needs to go grocery shopping. For... cookie ingredients. 🍪

Here's the list: 📜

-Mushrooms 🍄

-Literal, actual shit 💩

-Sulfur 💨

-Amonium Nitrate 🔥

-Other shit, this time metaphorical🚫💩

Okay, weird request, right? But he did help you kill some hoes and give you the map to the Deep Roads which may or may not have gotten your sibling killed, so you owe him one, right? And, well, maybe you kinda like this edgy weirdo who occasionally turns blue when he's mad 👺, so you're willing to do him a solid.

Well, turns out that trip to Kirkwalmart wasn't for ingredients to Anders' fav cookies.

It was actually

⚡💥💣☢️A FUCKIN NUKE☢️💣💥⚡

which he uses to blown up the church ⛪ which happens to be in the city 🌇 your pathetic ass spent 6 years Humpty Dumpty-ing🍳 killing a few hundred innocent people and probably at least one or two dogs🐶💀🐶 so either way he's a fuckin dildo.

Oh, and that kicks off World War Thedas, and the FBI 🚔 thinks you're responsible, so you have to leave your Shit City and lay low.

But you got to meet Varric so it was worth it. 👍

Probably.

#shit post #dragon age #da #da2 #dragon age 2 #fenris #isabela #varric #anders #hawke #carver #bethany #mine #my post #funny #kirkwall crew #flemmeth

43 notes · View notes

schrodingersauthorii · 4 years

Text

Since I'm stuck at home doin' nothing until classes start, here is the 'best of' from my reading list.

'A Natural History of Dragons: A Memoir by Lady Trent'- Marie Brennan

Recommendation level: my mom liked it (she HATES sci-fi/ fantasy.)

Absolutely fantastic read. The title gives you the content and the vibe: it's DRAGONS from the perspective of a 1800s(?) lady scientist writing her memoir.

Deeeefffinately not for little eyes. No on-screen sex (but definitely allusions to it), but TW for: discussion of miscarriage, hunting/butchering of large animals, period typical fantasy racism/sexism/classism, major character death.

(disclaimer: not meant to be a complete list of all potentially triggering content)

'Howl's Moving Castle'- Diana Wynne Jones

Recommendation level: I have both a physical copy and a digital copy

Traditional(ish) high fantasy, but wonderfully whimsical without being saccharine. Sophie is my role model.

CLASSIC. Should be taught in middle/high school literature classes. Do not be scared of the release date: it's not at all dated.

The movie's fantastic and holds a special place in my heart, but. um. It's not really like the book.

Young lady gets cursed into an old lady, chases down a 'wicked' wizard's walking house only to discover he is, in fact, worse than wicked: a slovenly layabout. Oh, and it turns out she might have been sort of magical all along.

Nothing to warn about HMC that I can recall, but I'm in the middle of 'House of Many Ways'. And. The lubbock. I don't know exactly how to tag for that, but it DEFO NEEDS A WARNING. Stay tuned for updates. DO NOT read if you've got a thing about parasitic insects.

Updates: I’m 98% sure Diana Wynne Jones could have written an essay on carpet weaves and it would have toped the charts, her writting is just Good Like That, but I take MAJOR OFFENSE at the lobbocks. House of Many Ways actually feels far more dated than Howl’s Moving Castle because of them.

Lobbocks are an Always Evil species of purple, magical, parasitic insects. They reproduce by laying their eggs in people. Male victims just get eaten from the inside out, but females give birth to half-human lobbockins and THEN die. (MAJOR YIKES.) Lobbockins are also Always Evil. All the problems in House of Many Ways are cause by lobbocks and lobbockins and are instantly resolved by killing them all.

Cells At Work

Recomendation level: LOVE MY NICHE INTEREST WITH ME!!!

Anthroporphic cells working in the body to keep you alive. That is all.

I...really don’t think anyone can keep up without a solid anatomy/ physiology background. I couldn’t keep up with the anime and I have a goddamn Master’s in Biomedical Science. If you wanna learn, this is probably a decent memory tool. (Warning: does not go into sufficient depth to replace actual studying.)

Currently read: Vol. 1-2

Cells At Work: Code Black

Reccomendation level: I am so horrified, yet so intrigued

Cells At Work, but rated R. For everything.

If you have any anatomy/ physiology background, you no doubt went: “Cool concept, but won’t it be super disturbing if you extend the metaphor too far?” Yes. Yes it is. If the cancer episode in CAW freaked you out, just set the book down now. It gets much, much worse.

The 18+ rating is for everything. There’s typical “female character breasts boobily,” but also full on, uncensored, and unnecissary tiddy. For the cells. Why? Just why? Then drugs and alcohol- but mostly on physiology side, so? Not for kiddos? But it doesn’t hit like normal drug and alcohol content? Same with sex. The sperm cell design is just freakish, though.

Then violence and gore (worse than normal CAW.) Special shout out for canabalism on that front. Character (cell) death. Most of your cells don’t make it long even when your body works correctly, and CAW:CB pulls no punches there. Disturbing imagrey, and not in a cute Tim Burtony way. I am wholly and viscerally repelled by this series, but can’t stop reading.

Currently read: Vol. 1-3

#book recs #howl's moving castle #a natural history of dragons #cells at work #cells at work: code black

13 notes · View notes

squid--inc--writes · 5 years

Text

Inktober 2019 day 25 prompt: tasty

Update: masterlist

Art + story

This one's a good one, Bois.

Also, warning for: death, animal abuse (rats), canabalism, etc.

Deep in the woods, you will find that trees grow bark of chocolate, and, depending on the tree, some of varying other tasty treats. Candy apples hang from trees, the leaves are much like taffy. Any smoke produced smells sweetly of cotton candy.

If you travel far enough in the woods, you will find a cobbler path, lined with chocolate stones. When you get to the candy cane arches, or licorice edgings along the path, turn back. If you continue, the enticing trail will become harder and harder to leave.

The house in the center of the forest is a giant cake. In its surroundings are a gumball patch, with bitter, but tasty vines twirling around it; giant lollipops bursting from the ground, at all colours, and cascading light over various marshmallows, and gumdrops when the sun hits it just right; one can even find a small river of soda flowing through.

The house itself is simple vanilla, with an assortment of toppings and decorations all around. Through magic would be the only way this place is still intact.

Inside the home lives an overgrown rat. She has large, sharp teeth, a long tail, and dresses in the clothes of those unfortunate enough to meet her.

See, once one is lured in by her surroundings, she invites them inside, with promises of sweeter treats, and goodness inside. However, once they are inside, she cast a spell, and renders them unconscious, and takes then to her kitchen. As the story goes, she does indeed cook and eat them. However, she eats the heart and liver raw first, for she was not always a rat.

Before all of this, she had been a beautiful, but mean woman. She would lure in those around her, either through lust, love, or sometimes pity. She would get what she wanted and, rather metaphorically speaking, tear their heart out.

She had found a partner who was incredibly wealthy. He had earned his fortune with medical miracles. He would work at home, and had many a rat in his home. They were all well fed, and well kept, as he sought to reward hard work.

She, however, despised the rats, and didn't care for the work. One night, while he was out, she went around, and poisoned all the rats. When she woke up, it was to her lover's sobs of anguish. She comforted him, expecting this to last only a few days. She told him "perhaps you should not keep them at home. They must have gotten into something they shouldn't have."

He accepted the excuse, but, after several weeks of mourning, she became aggravated. While she still got everything she wanted, she was missing his attention. She tried her hardest to get it, but he would simply brush her off. He loved her, but his beloved were gone. So, she made a plan.

If he wanted to act like the dead rats were the best part of his life, he would join them. She looked through his medical texts, and found what she wanted. A poison, specially designed to destroy the heart, without being detected. If she couldn't have it, no one would.

So, she set forth a dinner, just the two of them. As they prepared to settle in, there was a knock at the door. And old woman stood before them, raggedy, and wrinkly,looking for a place to stay the night. The woman originally wanted to kick her out, but thought, oh, with a witness there was less chance of being caught.

So, they all sat down to eat. When the man began to look distraught, he gripped at his chest. The woman kept up, asking if her lover was alright. He, however, waved her off, and they kept eating.

By the end of the meal, he finally succumbed to the poison, and was lying dead on his plate. The woman put on a good show of being distressed, shouting that they needed help, expecting the old woman to run. Get somebody.

Instead, she gets up, and walks to the man. After placing a calm hand on his neck, feeling his pulse, or lack thereof, she turned to the woman.

"Well. Don't we have something awful here. Death by heartbreak. Lost his poor rats, afterall."

The woman stared, confused.

She trudged on, move around the man's corpse.

"Shame, really. That he'd have his heart torn out twice in a year."

The woman began to question, but the old woman stopped her, "Well, for every year you go, my dear, without eating two hearts and two livers, you will become more like a rat, until you are small enough to crush under a boot."

The woman became angry, "excuse me? My beloved just died, and you make awful claims, and curses."

The old woman chuckled, "Well, you did see it coming. However you best get to work, before this goes further." She slipped the tip of her thumb up against the back of her front teeth and tapped.

The woman snarled, before realizing that her teeth had changed. She put a hand up to her mouth, and ran to the table, flipping everything off of a silver platter. In front of her she saw herself. The problem was that she now had two incredibly large teeth at the front of her mouth. She looked back at the old woman, whom had now sprouted her own teeth. And ears, fur, clawed fingers, and tail.

She spoke, "Now, I did say you had to eat the heart and liver. You must understand the heart, but the liver, now that's the question. You seem to enjoy the act of completely destroying a heart, so I figured I might as well add in something you weren't fond of as well."

The woman stared at her still, and the old woman kept going, "you must eat them raw, or else you will continue to become what you hate. However, if you were to cut out your own heart, the curse will release…"

She stopped talking to see that the woman had already descended upon her late lover, already tearing flesh and bone away with a knife, Nd her hands. The old woman was surprised at the lack of hesitation. She was appalled. This was supposed to be hard.

The woman wolfed down his heart, not even stopping to gag, terrified of her impending transformation. She then tore away her stomach, and intestines, root around his carcass for his liver. She may have lived with him, but she knew little of human anatomy.

When she completed the meal, she looked up at the old woman, a feral look in her eyes.

The old woman took a step back, "Well then, you made a fine mess."

The woman stepped forward, and said, "I know how to clean."

The witch took another step back, realizing her mistake towards the ruthless creature before her, "And he'll be missing."

"Not if an old homeless woman killed him. I had to do it. Bashed her over the skull, and killed her."

The witch, much more skilled, said, "Well, good luck with that." And quickly vanished.

The problem was, however, she dropped her book of spells. So, the woman had grabbed it. She read it over, and tried to find what she could do to help herself.

She successfully fooled the people for weeks, into believing her lover was alive and well. The jig was up when someone went to speak with him, without the woman knowing. They entered upon the scene of the rotting, torn up corpse, screaming loudly.

Before she could get home, a large crowd filled the space in her home. She knew she couldn't answer any questions. Not without people seeing through it. So, she fled.

She fled to a forest, and started casting spells Willy nilly. She cast them until she created her own chocolates forest. She made it so tasty, and inviting, that she could get all the hearts and livers she needed. She'd also have all the decadence she needed. However, when no one came, she began transforming more. So, she upped her game. She made it impossible to flee if one went too far. She made the place so easy to find. When she got her first victim in a year, she couldn't help it. It was the first non-sweet she had in years. So, she cooked up the body, and devoured it entirely.

As the story comes to its end, unfortunately the monster was never beat, yet. And still she lives in her tasty home.

#inktober 2019 #inktober #art #rat #rat witch #cake #candy #sweet things #canabalism #story #gore #death #tw animal dying #tw animal cruelty

6 notes · View notes

melit0n · 3 months

Note

Hello my dear

Why do you like the Stephen Crane poem so much

🫂🫂🫂

Thank you for asking Kate <33

Overall, the poem takes to exploring the themes of isolation, existential contemplation, how self love improves love to others and the harshness of the natural world. When it comes to poetry, I'm a big fan of romantic poets (Walt Whitman, William Blake and Lord Byron) who tackle the power of humanity verses the power of nature. Crane does exactly this in In The Desert, but in a really self depricating way.

First off, desert symbolism! The desert serves as a metaphor for the harsh and barren aspects of life. It's a place of isolation and challenges, reflecting the difficulties and struggles individuals face in their existence. Therefore, the desert can be a metaphor for multiple things within context; depression, general self-isolation, a toxic relationship etc. In the desert, you don't really expect to meet anybody there, so, you act how you do when no one's watching; a time when a person is at their most vunerable, which links to why the creature is "naked". It represent vulnerability and or a state of raw, unguarded honesty. Stripped of societal constructs, the creature is exposed in its truest form. It is patient zero; Cain at ground level.

And then the heart. The heart is and will always be powerful symbol in literature, typically coming with a story of love. However! Crane does something different with it; his creature chews, bites and swallows it. The act of eating the heart symbolises someone confronting and consuming their own emotions or experiences; having The Human Experience.

Since the poem is in first person, it also puts the reader directly into it, meaning we are the ones to ask the creature if "it is good", addressing it like an old friend we haven't seen in a while. And the response we get is odd. You'd think a thing, hunched over in the sand eating its own heart would either be enjoying it to no extent or suffering, but the response is simply "bitter". The repeated emphasis on bitterness suggests a recognition of life's hardships and challenges. The creature acknowledges the bitterness of his own heart, and yet, there's a sense of acceptance or even appreciation for that bitterness. It's not enjoyment or absolute hatred; it's an acceptance.

Further, human flesh is known to have a bitter taste to it (along with the ever present taste of chicken that seems to follow ever meat ever lmao), including the heart. Humans are typically hard-wired against canabalism (which, here, becomes self destruction. It takes a lot to push a human over the edge to start harming themselves deliberately) because it makes us ill to the point death is conceivable. The creature knows this, but accepts it.

Lastly, the creature takes ownership of his bitter heart, stating But I like it / Beacuse it is bitter/ Because it is my heart." Now, the creature confirms enjoyment, and it signifies the acceptance of personal struggles and the acknowledgment that one's experiences, no matter how bitter, are an integral part of who they are.

When I talked about 'cannabalism as a metaphor for love' in my repost about this, I meant it for self-love, and how it's needed for things to get better.

Looking back on it all, I think, to actually answer your question Kate, is it reflects a lot of the stuff I struggle with internally. I find it hard to accept who and what I am and find the anger I have towards myself (and at my constant lack of sleep) being pushed onto other people, which leaves me isolated; In The Desert. I have issues sometimes with seeing myself as human, so, unironically, I relate to the creature a lot. Plus, it's interesting that Crane decided that a good presentation for humanity is a naked creature, sat, completely vunerable, in the middle of an isolated desert.

(@moonchild-in-blue, thank you both for asking and letting me ramble. I'm sorry if this was boring, I don't get to do this very often <3)

#do forgive the English major in me #all my thoughts and feelings are restrained are restrained to an hour or two each week #but yeah! I love this one very much :D #mel's asks #poetry

8 notes · View notes