Tw Cannibalism - Tumblr Posts
Idk I just don't rlly like it as much but whatever
Ok I know they rn't CotL but I love the list and my lamb and Narinder designs are constantly changing wtaf
here's day one!
October art prompt challenge!
I decided to make one of these but all the prompts are lyrics from some of my favorite songs! I'm so excited to draw these x3 Sorry almost ALL of em are from the Shapeshifter album wtf it's so good though! Anyways ignore if the lyrics have genders mentioned. I might be doing this more frequently.
WEEK 1
"Cut my tongue, better watch your back."
2. "Won't you hold my hand as I go under?"
3. "Lift me off the ledge, lick the sticky liquor."
4. "This thing, all things, devours."
5. "Worms and spiders, spin inside her."
6. "Until you're nothing but an animal."
WEEK 2
7. "Bleeding a blundering mess,"
8. "Beetles and worms in his chest."
9. "Sewn from water, heavens daughter"
10. "You yell out loud, in the middle of my mouth."
11. "Shed your past selves, be someone else."
12. "The good kind of parasite, a bad bloodsucker."
13. "My whole life, who am I?"
WEEK 3
14. "Heart in bloom, all over you."
15. "Three hearts, nine brains, and blue blood."
16. "I'm a shapeshifter, I can be anyone."
17. "What are you afraid of, if you really have nothing to hide?"
18. "A venom kiss to keep them sick."
19. "What grows too large must devour itself."
20. "Much madness is divinest sense."
WEEK 4
21. "We can sail through your arteries."
22. "It's so depressing how the tear ducts in my eyes, they're so much wetter than the space between my thighs."
23. "And letting go could be orgasmic, but I guess I wouldn't know."
24. "She can't keep them all safe, they will die and be afraid."
25. "It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned."
26. "Forget yourself, surrender your mind."
27. " Save me, god, don't let me die waiting."
WEEK 5
28. "Lost a leg at the iron foundry, where they found me dead."
29. "Yeah, I got a good side, it just likes to go run and hide."
30. " The whites of your eyes, turn black in the low light"
31. "My, my, those eyes like fire, I'm a winged insect you're a funeral pyre."
Day two, I'll likely redo it sometime because I didn't have any ideas
October art prompt challenge!
I decided to make one of these but all the prompts are lyrics from some of my favorite songs! I'm so excited to draw these x3 Sorry almost ALL of em are from the Shapeshifter album wtf it's so good though! Anyways ignore if the lyrics have genders mentioned. I might be doing this more frequently.
WEEK 1
"Cut my tongue, better watch your back."
2. "Won't you hold my hand as I go under?"
3. "Lift me off the ledge, lick the sticky liquor."
4. "This thing, all things, devours."
5. "Worms and spiders, spin inside her."
6. "Until you're nothing but an animal."
WEEK 2
7. "Bleeding a blundering mess,"
8. "Beetles and worms in his chest."
9. "Sewn from water, heavens daughter"
10. "You yell out loud, in the middle of my mouth."
11. "Shed your past selves, be someone else."
12. "The good kind of parasite, a bad bloodsucker."
13. "My whole life, who am I?"
WEEK 3
14. "Heart in bloom, all over you."
15. "Three hearts, nine brains, and blue blood."
16. "I'm a shapeshifter, I can be anyone."
17. "What are you afraid of, if you really have nothing to hide?"
18. "A venom kiss to keep them sick."
19. "What grows too large must devour itself."
20. "Much madness is divinest sense."
WEEK 4
21. "We can sail through your arteries."
22. "It's so depressing how the tear ducts in my eyes, they're so much wetter than the space between my thighs."
23. "And letting go could be orgasmic, but I guess I wouldn't know."
24. "She can't keep them all safe, they will die and be afraid."
25. "It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned."
26. "Forget yourself, surrender your mind."
27. " Save me, god, don't let me die waiting."
WEEK 5
28. "Lost a leg at the iron foundry, where they found me dead."
29. "Yeah, I got a good side, it just likes to go run and hide."
30. " The whites of your eyes, turn black in the low light"
31. "My, my, those eyes like fire, I'm a winged insect you're a funeral pyre."
Autismboard
Autismboard is a term for individuals who feel as though their “board or cover up” / personality, emotions, identity, and style is or should be related to autism.
Loveboard
Loveboard is a term for individuals who feel as though their “board or cover up” / personality, emotions, identity, and style is or should be related to love.
Cannibalboard
Cannibalboard is a term for individuals who feel as though their “board or cover up” / personality, emotions, identity, and style is or should be related to cannibalism.
————
Anyone can use this (no DNI post), as long as it isn’t misused. Only repost with a link to this post as credit (only exclusions being archives).
Also, please tell us if someone has coined this before. We often don’t notice/know.
if someone has coined this before, take it as either a recoin or redesign.
————
Pt 4 of reposting my coins because I forgot to-
I just went through pretty much every post of @on-leatheredwings regarding batfam and wow. I love your every single post but Tim? I never knew masochist Tim is just what i needed.
I love Tim as yandere. Imagine the devotion, the false sense of upper hand his submission gives you. He can surrender his body and mind to you in bed but he is always the one in charge. Before you know it he will have you completely trapped in his spiderweb. And the worst part is you can’t even blame him because he has the power of making you think you are the one crossing boundaries and you are the one that is taking advantage of him.
It could be so scary if you are stuck in this relationship but to the outside? Absolutely fascinating to watch him run in circles making sure the webs hold tight and are secure while darling remains unaware they just signed a deal with the devil. They won’t understand until the last moment how unhealthy and how obsessed Tim truly is. Or maybe they won’t see it at all, comfortable in the bed of lies their lover made them.
I see Tim as being dependent on his darling, not as much as Jason would be and definitely not as clingy as Dick. But if they are his obsession then he would see them as part of him or he will desire to become a part of them. I could see him committing small acts of love that are dangerously close to counting as acts of cannibalism. The darling may even start wondering if he is not a vampire feeding on their flesh for the numerous occasions he would sink his teeth into their skin, breaking it and sucking on the blood flowing from the wound. The idea of permanently becoming one through consumption of the other may arouse him but he will never resolve to it. He loves pain his darling gives him but he won’t hurt them, he loves them too much to be able to hear their screams and not do everything in his power to help them.
In a case darling died Tim would be tempted to consume them. To always carry a part of them with him. To be as close to them as no one was ever allowed to be before. If he goes along with it, depends on how darling died and how far in his obsession he already is. Or if he has his family to pick him up after their death.
*person has consented to being eaten; they’ve donated their body. they died without suffering. you can cook the meat. you will not get sick from the meat.
bonus: explain why!
When angels die its like a whale fall. Most of them are quite large and their flesh is very nourishing. They'll fall from the sky and wherever they fall the local peasants will start cutting bits off. Humans, goblins, halflings, orcs, they'll all do it. Anything you'll find an angel wearing is going to either be extremely valuable trading goods, or the highest quality material possible, even their bones and other inedible parts can be used to build things or make tools. And the meat, you can feed someone for weeks on just a bit of that meat and it cures so many ailments too. It's useally peasants who've been known to do it, but it happens with more urban populations, nomadic tribes or millitary camps if they fall closer to there. Doesn't matter the culture, they'll do it, they'll say it's a sign from the gods or just repent after doing it. It's so valuable for survival to scavenge them the implications come afterwards. And the places where there haven't been any religions that worship angels, literally all they know about angels is how they fall and die, they don't even know them as living beings.
Its just like that.
i love you. therefore I must murder you in cold blood with a rusty machete and then tear your flesh off of your bones as if I were unwrapping a Christmas present vaguely shaped like a PlayStation 5.
A 'post-trod' scenario where Narinder gets cursed after a slip up on a crusade (death erasure is no longer a permanent threat because of plot secrets I won't spoil :P )
The Lamb can't go get the necessary crystals to cure him so Kallamar is sent instead so Lambert can focus on keeping Nari from eating/attacking people
Dw he's not gonna eat the Lamb. unless😏
Goretober doodles for days 1 & 2 because I haven't been keeping up thanks to my adhd
Prompt shared with me via friend, idk the origin:
Tw blood and gore(ish), obviously
(Found out how to cut lmao)
Day 1: Too many teeth
Don't mind if the teeth are a little funky and please ignore his hand lol
Day 2: Starvation
(I am not immune to the fish)
I was gonna make the background fully gray but I'm lazy and my marker is too thin
Tw: slight gore, cannibalism (??kinda?? It's candy lol)
Just randomly had a dream where this mf was my housewife. He doesn't trust Sun with cooking anymore 😔😔
Candyland au Eclipse belongs to @garbagechocolate sorry for tagging you in delusional shit</3
Funky meet fact number two, the reason that so many people starve even after resorting to cannibalism, it’s because the human body has spent up it’s fat reserves making the meat extremely lean, and because of fat use in moving nutrients throughout the body, many of the cannibals undergo protein poisoning by ingesting so many raw calories into their body without any way to actually to properly distribute those calories.
Okay this one’s actually really interesting but if you send me another meat fact I will fucking immolate you with my baleful gaze
Yeah so i jumped on the "Butcher Vanity" wagon, but i haven't seen a single one with our (likely) cannibalistic famine deity.
I did get off track at some point and went more horror with it, and i will admit that the song did instill several headcanons into me regarding Heket here, but im actually quite pleased with this for the most part.
Hi Hello this is my stress coping mechanism!
Maybe I've been drawing him as a Good Boy for too long; heres Halling in his Feral Glory.
He was originally made to serve as an exotic guard dog; he doesn't KNOW that anymore, but his body sure remembers how good human blood tastes!
Fiona & Moriarty- Lesson Two
Part Two. Content includes kidnapping, threats of violence, actual violence, swearing, forced to hurt, dehumanization, mutilation, noncon touch (nonsexual), autocannibalism, branding, and torture. Moriarty is co-owned with @space-is-out-there! Let me know if I missed any tags.
Lesson two. Respect.
"Welcome to my humble lair!" Moriarty announces, as if Fiona is supposed to burst into applause at the sight of dingy dungeon walls. Instead, she nearly breaks a wrist trying to pull the chain she's cuffed to out of the wall. "Where is everyone?! Where did you take me?!"
"A- wouldn't you like to know and B- to my home!"
"A- Yes I would and B- fuck you and your dungeon house," the girl snaps. Moriarty cackles at that, flashing perfectly white teeth as Fiona looks around in a sudden panic. "What did you do with my wand?!"
"I assure you it's unharmed. I'm just saving it for when you earn it."
What-
"I was wrong about Mark," Moriarty says, waving a hand dismissively at the thought of his son. "I thought he might have what it takes, but... I'm still in the market for a protégé."
Fiona's expression is incredulous. "No way I'm doing that! You're even more insane than I thought if you think I'll EVER work for you!" She pulls even harder at the chains, but they don't budge.
Moriarty rolls his eyes. "They use those chains to wrangle dragons, you know."
Fiona stops pulling and glares at him. "So what, then? Are you planning on just keeping me in here forever?!"
He scoffs, like she's an idiot. "No, of course not. If I can't convince you, I'll merely erase your memory and mind control you!" He pauses, tapping his chin as if deep in thought. "...Or I'll kill you and feed you to the rats. Depends on my mood."
Fiona wipes the horrified look off her face before that statement can sink in. "Great. So there's no option where I, say... stab you in the back?"
"Not unless you want to be tracked to the ends of the earth by my men and fed the skin of everyone you care about," Moriarty responds matter-of-factually.
Fiona feels ill. "Thanks for that image."
"You're welcome, love!" Moriarty chirps, and claps his hands together. "Now, if we're going to get along, there are some ground rules you should know about. Follow them, and your apprenticeship will be relatively pain-free. Disobey, and there will be consequences. Number one-"
Abruptly, he is standing less than a foot away from her, and she startles on instinct. He clicks his tongue. "Don't hesitate. Hesitation makes you weak- and you can't run a criminal empire like that, can you?"
She opens her mouth to speak and he holds up a finger to silence her. She's so surprised that she says nothing, her mouth agape- and Moriarty claps. "Rule number two- respect. You may be next in line to run this place, but I am your boss. You follow my orders, when I give them. You may call me Moriarty when we're alone; boss or sir when in public."
She can't help herself. "What are you calling me?"
"Whatever the hell I want," he says.
She wasn't sure what else she expected.
"Rule two-and-a-half- look me in the eyes when I speak to you." Moriarty snaps his fingers, catching her attention from an extremely interesting mold spot on the floor. "Manners are important- we can't have anyone thinking we're uncivilized, can't we? We're not barbarians."
"Yeah, just criminals," Fiona mumbles.
"That's no excuse to be rude," Moriarty retorts, snaps his fingers, and her cuffs vanish. As Fiona rubs her wrists, he taps his watch. "Hmm... that's all I have for now, so... Time for training!"
"I don't want to," Fiona says. Just how far can she push him...?
"Too bad."
That answered that question.
"Now are we going? Or am I dragging you out one chunk at a time?" Moriarty asks, looking at his nails as if her answer didn't really matter. (It didn't.)
"Keep your shirt on, I'm coming," Fiona grumbles, rising from her spot on the concrete floor. "Although I am interested in how exactly you'd train a dismembered protégé."
"With great effort!" comes the cheerful reply.
----
"First, I’m going to teach you a very important part of running this operation," Moriarty tells her as they stroll into a warehouse. She has no idea where they are- planewalking definitely broadens one's options for evil hideouts, she supposes.
Most of the goons that catch sight of them avert their eyes and scurry in the other direction. She wishes she could too, but Moriarty has a grip on her shoulder- she swallows her discomfort and pipes up. "So it's not just fancy suits and maniacal laughter?"
"No, those are just perks," Moriarty responds without skipping a beat. "Respect. Respect is important. There’s someone here who has disrespected me. We’re going to make sure he doesn’t do that anymore."
"What'd he do?" Fiona quips. "Stole your ice cream money? Broke your Action Man?"
"Someone’s been skimming off top of their transactions," Moriarty says, and gestures to a scrawny man being held by two guards. The man flinches when Moriarty makes eye contact with him, and cowers when the mastermind strides forward to speak. "Thought you could fuck me over, did you?!" He leans in to yell in the man's face. "DID YOU?!"
"Seems to me like he already regrets his situation," Fiona says quietly.
Moriarty steps back to stand next to her and draws a knife out of his jacket pocket. "He skimmed off the top of my money so I say... we skim off the top of his head."
Fiona looks at him blankly. Moriarty rolls his eyes and clarifies. "Cut off his ears... and make him eat them."
The man blubbers and starts to cry. Moriarty flips the handle towards Fiona expectantly, who flinches as if it might jump and bite her. She stammers. "Are you sure this is… necessary?" She grasps for something, any excuse to get out of this. "It just- uh- seems like a lot of effort to deal with all of this personally..."
"This is what we call a teachable moment! You see- if you don’t make people respect you, they'll just take it as permission to walk all over you."
"Can't you get respect by, you know… treating people like people?"
"No," Moriarty shakes his head. "That only works in la-la land... and in Philadelphia. AND I DON'T SEE ANY CHEESESTEAKS, NOW DO WHAT I ASKED!"
She reels backwards at his screaming, and unconciously takes a few steps towards the captive instead, who is whimpering and sobbing. Like a switch was flipped, Moriarty grins widely and gives her a thumbs-up. "Go on!"
Her throat is bone-dry. Her voice comes out hoarse. "My hand is shaking."
"Rule number one," Moriarty reminds her. "It hurts more when you hesitate."
It's like her arm is detatched from her body. It moves on its own, drawing the blade closer. It cuts cleanly, and the distant thought occurs to her that the knife must be very sharp. Blood drips off the blade and onto the floor, stark red against the gray.
Blood pools on the ground and stains her fingers. There's an incessant loud noise droning on in the background, and Fiona resists the urge to cover her ears.
Moriarty is clapping. "Is this how proud parents feel? I never got this feeling from my kids." He gestures for the guards to drag the man closer. He hasn't stopped screaming. He stops, briefly, to swallow, when she places the severed ears into his mouth, and then Fiona doesn't see what happens, because she's vomiting onto the floor.
She retches and gags and sobs and by the time she comes back to herself enough to think, the man is gone, and Moriarty is clapping her on the back, talking at her as if she's in any state to pay attention.
"Honestly, it looks like you were dressed by a pedophile with a doll fetish- oh wait! You were."
The world swims before her eyes, and she takes in a deep, shuddering breath. Shoves the images in her mind away. Stands up straight. Don't think about it.
"I think you would look good in a suit," Moriarty muses.
Fiona can't stop a laugh from escaping. It wasn't particularly funny. Her voice comes out sounding like it belongs to someone else. "Matching outfits? Really?"
"Please. Female crime bosses have to work twice as hard to get half the respect. I’m helping you." Moriarty takes her hand and swings it between them like a loving father. "Now let’s go shatter that glass ceiling!"
----
Several hours later, Moriarty sits at his desk. Fiona, for her part, is standing in the corner doing her best to avoid attracting his attention. Doing her best to keep her mind blank. She shifts uncomfortably in her new suit- not because it doesn't fit, but because it's a mirror of Moriarty's outfit.
The mastermind spins around in the chair like an excited toddler, beaming at her. "You did excellently today- I'll give you a reward. Come here."
It's a simple demand, and an enticing prospect. Moriarty waits for her, entirely unreadable, betraying no hints for what the "reward" will be.
Her legs aren't moving.
Moriarty smiles and repeats himself. "Come here."
She doesn't want to. "Can I- can I stay here?"
"Ah, that's very polite, asking for permission," the man nods, approvingly, before continuing, "You may not."
Haltingly, she shuffles over to him, defiantly stopping a bit away. Oddly, he doesn't seem to notice her hesitation- or, more likely, just chooses to ignore it. He draws her into his arms, running a hand through her hair, forcing her to look into his eyes. His voice is quiet. Hushed. "You're so tiny."
She blinks. Why-
Abruptly, he runs his fingers through her hair, down the back of her neck, and every muscle in her body braces for pain- but instead, he guides her to sit on the floor, resting a hand on her shoulder. Before she can fully process what's happening, he's tied a blindfold around her head, plunging her world into blackness, binding her hands in front of her-
She closes her eyes as she feels the telltale pinpricks of tears forming at the corners of her eyes. "Please," she whimpers, but he only shushes her. All she can hear are his shoes tapping against the floor, and touch is the only sense she still has- but it's okay. It's going to be okay. She did what he asked. He said this was a reward. It's okay-
And then she feels something caress her shoulder.
Fiona flinches, her back arching against the sudden touch. Moriarty hushes her. She can feel his breath against the back of her neck. The tears spill over, soaking into the blindfold and running down her face, dripping off her chin. Moriarty stops tracing her arm and gently wipes her cheek with a finger.
She never gets used to it- every time she thinks she's getting used to the pattern, the awful cold feeling of his fingers all over her, he'd drag his nails across her cheek, she'd feel his tongue in her ear, kisses pressed to the back of her neck, and her whole body would spasm with shock, with terror. Moriarty holds her close, stroking her hair, her face, and for just a split second, she's back with her family- she can't bring herself to move away, she can't. Not even when the cold steel of a blade presses against her bare cheek.
"Hold still now…"
Pain. Sharp and white-hot, like fire magic. She bites her tongue to keep from screaming as the blade draws four shallow lines across her skin. She can feel the blood run down her cheek and her breath hitches, a sob tearing itself free from her chest. Moriarty hums, pressing a wet cloth against the burning sensation, and Fiona clutches at his suit coat, heaving shudering breaths. "What did you..."
The man shushes her. The washcloth is removed, and Fiona winces, but the fiery feeling has mostly faded away. In its wake is a peculiar sensation on her cheek- like exposed skin hitting air.
Ever so gently, Moriarty traces along her cheek, in a peculiar pattern that she can't quite place.
|\/|
"Congratulations, my dear protégé."
His voice follows her into unwilling sleep.
Eat your heart out (and your body with it) <3
Behold: my Valentine's day post.
Nothing more homosexual than eating another man alive <3
I'm normal about things shut up
•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•
I got the process pictures under the cut (pennings my favorite, as always)
Genuinely loved doing this piece other than figuring out that pose but hey I did it to myself.
Let's go! Gore that's not just holding a heart!!
Can i request strade doing some gross stuff to fem!reader on stream?
a/n: of course anon! i hope you enjoy :3
YOU'RE A STAR <3
{ strade x f! reader }
word count: 3.0k
warnings/tags: DEAD DOVE, NON-CON, graphic sexual violence and gore, forced exhibitionism, gagging and restraint, fingering, foreign object insertion and removal (?), genital mutilation, eye gouging, forced self-cannibalism, wound fucking, reader death.
As you awaken, the soft glow of a computer screen flickers erratically, casting eerie shadows across the room. Squinting against the harsh, unfamiliar light, you groan against the cloth gag pressed into your mouth. It feels rough against your tender cheeks and oppressively heavy on your tongue, leaving your palate dry. Pain and confusion mix as you find yourself kneeling on the floor, clothed only in your underwear with your arms secured tightly behind your back. Your head groggily lolls forward, your gaze falling upon the thick, durable fabric of a tarp laid out beneath you. Panic flickers through you as you shift your weight, the bony parts of your knees pressing into the tarp's hard, unyielding texture, its coarseness grating against your skin.
Suddenly, the echo of footsteps approaching breaks the silence. Before you can react, a gloved hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls back, forcing your head upward. The movement is abrupt, jerking your neck as your eyes are directed away from the relative safety of the floor toward a camera set up a few feet away. You blink against the light, now glaringly bright, as your masked captor adjusts his position and poses beside you. The camera's lens focuses, the red recording light a sinister glow that confirms your fears— this spectacle is not only for him but for an unseen audience.
"Did you have a nice rest?" Strade asks, his familiar accented voice interrupting your thoughts. He pauses, his breath close to your ear as he ensures the camera captures every expression of fear and confusion on your face. "Don’t worry, we’re just getting started. Smile for the camera, won’t you? We wouldn’t want to disappoint our viewers."
Your heart hammers in your chest, the sensation of fear mingling with the stale taste of the gag in your mouth. His hand travels down your front, the light glinting off his fingers as they skim along your chest. He traces the contours of your ribcage and teases the tender skin beneath your breasts before grabbing and squeezing one roughly. You shiver, attempting to recoil from his touch, but the ropes binding your arms dig into your skin.
“Oh don't be like that, kumpelin,” Strade hums, his voice resonating with chilling casualness. “I thought you wanted to come home with me.” The pressure intensifies as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, bruising the sensitive flesh. You whimper into the gag, your sounds muffled and distorted by the cloth. His fingers then creep upward, tracing over your collarbone and around your neck to finally rest at the nape. With a sudden jerk, he pushes you forward, forcing you onto your stomach. You feel his body hovering above yours as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "Are you ready to perform?" You try to shake your head 'no', to squirm away, but the weight of his knee presses into you. "Relax. My viewers paid good money to see this." Strade commands, his voice lowering as the camera captures your prone position. Your muscles loosen, causing him to hum in approval. "That's it. Now let's put on a show, shall we?"
His knee presses more firmly into your lower back, pinning you helplessly beneath him. As the camera light blinks, his other hand explores, charting a path across your trembling body. Strade's fingers probe and tease, moving lower and lower until they reach the waistband of your panties. With a practiced ease, he slips them down your hips, baring you to his touch. You shudder as he dips his fingers between your legs, feeling your wetness coat his calloused skin. He shoves two digits beyond your entrance, your warmth enveloping him. His fingers are cool against your warm insides, causing you to arch on instinct. He growls in satisfaction, his fingers moving faster as he expertly slides them in and out of you. The anticipation is almost unbearable, your body trembling as you try to focus on the sensations he's creating, the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm the fear.
Strade's free hand grips your shoulder, holding you in place as he continues to glide his fingers along your gummy walls. You feel the pressure building within you, the need to cum becoming more intense with each second. Just as you're on the verge of climax, he pulls his fingers away, leaving you aching and desperate. The camera's red light blinks on, bathing you in its harsh glow as Strade stands, his robust silhouette outlined against the monitor. His steps echo across the room as he strides toward a shadowy corner. Each footfall resonates, deliberate and heavy, the sound growing fainter as he moves away to retrieve something unseen. After a moment, the echo of his footsteps shifts, growing louder and more distinct as he walks. In his hand, he clutches an empty beer bottle, its smooth glass catching the dim light as he moves.
Strade's presence looms as he approaches, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots signalling his return. The outline of the bottle in his grasp, though indistinct, sends a shiver down your spine as he stands over you. He taps the edge of the bottle, letting the clink of glass punctuate the tense silence, before setting it down on the tarp with a muffled thud. Your heart pounds as you strain against the tight ropes, twisting your body in a desperate attempt to slide away. He swiftly grabs your hips and forces them back and up, forcing you into a downward position. As Strade's fingers find the hard, smooth edge of the beer bottle, his lips curve into a predatory smile. "Jetzt beginnt der Spaß," he chimes, his tone low and sinister.
Tauntingly, he taps the bottle's rounded lip against your entrance, causing your body to tense in response. You plead and sob helplessly into the gag, which only seems to excite him further. With a brutal thrust, he pushes the neck of the bottle inside you, filling you up with its cold, hard length. You cry out, lurching forward as pain rips through your body. Strade grins, his large hand driving the object forward from the base. "Ah, that's it," he purrs. "Let it all out. Let them hear you." He begins to thrust it into you, slowly at first, letting its edges scrape against your tender flesh. You feel yourself stretching as if your cunt is being torn open with each savage draw. The camera captures every movement, every expression of pain, and displays your twisted, contorted form on the monitor beside it. He leans over you, his hot breath fanning across your sweat-drenched skin. "Ready?" he pants, an edge of excitement tinging his voice. Before you can respond, Strade pushes the bottle deeper until the lip hits hard against your cervix. With a grunt, he pushes again, and the bottle's neck gives way, shattering within you.
A raw, guttural scream erupts from your throat and your legs shake, threatening to collapse. Your body spasms uncontrollably as he continues to shove the base forward, fucking you with the jagged pieces of broken glass. Blood mixes with your fluids as it coats the insides of your thighs and drips onto the tarp beneath. As Strade pushes the remnants of the bottle deeper into your body, you can feel your walls ripping and tearing. Your wails diminish to muffled groans as tears blur your vision. Strade breathes heavily, his chest heaving as he works himself into a frenzy. The room seems to spin around you, the burning sensation pushing you to the brink of consciousness. Just as you think you can bear no more, he yanks the bottle free, and a hot rush of air and blood fills the empty space.
Strade leans back, his satisfaction evident as he watches you writhe in your own blood. Your breathing slows, with each inhale a desperate gasp through the stale fabric of the gag. As it absorbs your saliva, the cloth turns into a damp, heavy mass, pressing down on your tongue. For a moment, he simply observes you, allowing the unseen audience to take in the full extent of your distress. His eyes, visible above the cloth of his mask, glint with amusement as he watches the struggle reflected on the camera's monitor.
Then, he eases you up, guiding you back to a seated position with rough, steady hands. You can feel some pieces of glass crunch within you, making you cringe and tremble. He kneels and starts untying the ropes that bind your wrists. As each strand of rope loosens, you gradually restore feeling to your numb hands. He tilts your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Is that better?" he taunts, the smirk evident in his voice. You can barely nod, the pain radiating sharply with every movement.
"Now, give them a better look," he commands, nodding to the camera. "And pick the pieces out of your cunt."
You stare up at him pleadingly, his gaze merciless. "Or would you prefer that I do it?" Strade asks, his voice laden with dark amusement, knowing full well the torment he offers is no choice at all. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear almost choking as much as the gag. Gathering what little resolve you have left, you tentatively reach for the first shard poking out of your mutilated hole. The cool, slick edge of the glass bites into your fingertips as you grasp it, a sharp contrast to the warm blood that coats it. Every muscle in your body tenses as you pull, the pain a searing, white-hot flash that threatens to overwhelm your senses. You toss the piece aside as Strade watches intently, his presence looming over you like a dark cloud. You wince and pause, the room spinning slightly as agony courses through you.
"Don’t stop now," Strade urges, his voice dripping with false encouragement "Every piece, remember? Our viewers expect a thorough show."
You can feel your face wet and sticky as tears mix with snot, each breath shaky and ragged. Another shard awaits deeper inside, and with a shuddering breath, you prepare yourself to continue. As you reach again toward your entrance, your hands tremble uncontrollably. You can hardly recognize your genitals through the tears and outflow of sanguineous fluid. Gritting your teeth, you push your fingers deeper, searching for the next shard with a mixture of dread and determination. As you locate the jagged piece, it cuts into your flesh, forcing a gasp from your lips. You carefully try to coax it out, pinching it between your index and middle fingers. Slowly, you draw the shard out, pain flashing intensely. Fresh tears spill over, blurring your vision as you fling it onto the tarp alongside the other one.
Your hand reaches back in, fuelled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. The pain is intense, but it also sharpens your resolve. You find another broken piece, smaller than the others, yet just as vicious. This time, your fingers are more precise, your grip more confident. You pluck it from your soft walls, a small victory against the overwhelming hurt. The shard joins the others, clinking lightly against them. Your breath catches as you probe for more, the fear of missing even a single piece keeping you vigilant.
Strade watches, silent now, his gaze heavy upon you. You feel his eyes tracking every motion, every flinch. You wince as you discover yet another fragment, lodged deep and angled awkwardly. Taking a long, shaky breath, you set your jaw and ready yourself. This one hurts the most, yet as you finally free it and toss it aside, a sense of grim accomplishment fills you. Pain, fear, and determination meld, fuelling you to see this through; no matter the cost.
Every move you make, every shard you remove under Strade's watchful eye, is immortalized by the camera lens, feeding the twisted spectacle for him and his audience.
After what feels like an eternity, you manage to retrieve the last of the shards. Your fingers, slick with blood, finally still, and you slump back, exhausted. Strade surveys the collection of bloodstained glass on the tarp then turns his attention back to you, kneeling beside your slouched body.
"Well done, liebling!" He beams, patting your cheek. "You did a great job." Despite the situation, his praise elicits a weak smile from you; a small, involuntary response to recognition. "But don't think it's time to rest yet," he continues, his tone shifting to one of ominous delight. "There's still so much more fun to be had."
Strade rises to his feet and picks up one of the larger shards from the ground, examining it under the harsh light. He turns back, bathing you in his imposing shadow. You draw a shaky breath as cold dread pools in your stomach.
"You've bled, but not nearly enough," he says excitedly as he approaches with the shard. As you attempt to scoot away, Strade reacts swiftly, straddling your hips and pinning you down with his weight. His free hand clamps firmly on the back of your head, immobilizing you. The cold, sharp edge of the shard grazes the unblemished skin of your lower eyelid, paralyzing you with terror.
"Stay still, liebling," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your face through his mask. Without warning, he presses the shard deeper, and a sharp, excruciating ache erupts. He slices through the tender flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate curve around your eye socket. You try to pull away, but his ironclad grip holds you in place. A stifled scream escapes through the gag, a tortured sound that seems to delight him.
As he meticulously carves around your eyeball, blood wells up, warm against your cheek, trickling down and mingling with your tears. Your nails dig into his arm, but his focus never wavers; his grip firm as he continues to saw through your flesh.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs, as if his soothing tone could make the ordeal any more bearable. The pain blinds you— a mix of sharp stings and deep, throbbing aches that threaten to engulf your senses. You fight to stay conscious, driven by a primal fear of what might happen if you black out too soon.
He completes the circle and leans back, examining his work. "Almost done," he assures you, skillfully manipulating the shard and severing the last strands of connective tissue. Then, he shoves his thick fingers into the socket, extracting the fleshy organ with a grotesque squelch. Your vision wavers, relaying the final blurry image of Strade’s masked face as he severs your optic nerve.
He holds up the bloody mess to the camera, admiring it under the light before his attention returns to you. Letting your head go, you slump forward slightly, dazed. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he grips your chin, removes your gag, and forces your mouth open. With a disturbing calm, he places your own eyeball between your teeth.
"Eat it," he commands, his voice a twisted mix of encouragement and command. Your stomach churns, bile rising in your throat as blood and fluid coats your tongue. The organ feels oddly firm yet fragile in your mouth. "Go on. Chew."
With a hesitant bite, the delicate outer membrane bursts under the pressure of your teeth. A rush of salty, iron-rich fluid floods your mouth, mingling with a hint of the faintly sweet vitreous humour. You gag, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelming as he firmly closes your jaw. Tears stream down your face, cringing at the crunch and squelch of your own eye. The texture is an unsettling mix of squishy and gritty, and the residual connective tissue offering a slight resistance as you chew.
Forced to swallow, you feel the remnants slide down your throat, clinging desperately on their way down. The taste of copper lingers on your tongue as Strade releases your jaw, satisfied with the perverse ritual.
Your consciousness begins to falter, wavering on the edge as the room spins into a blur of indistinct shapes and shadows. Each heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears, a slow, dragging rhythm that seems to echo through the muffled chaos of the room. The metallic taste in your mouth is overwhelming, suffocating, as you struggle to draw a clean breath through the heavy, copper-laden air.
You desperately try to focus on something—anything—but your thoughts are scattered, disjointed fragments that refuse to cohere.
Strade’s face hovers above you, his features distorted and shifting as if seen through water. His voice sounds distant, a disembodied echo that you can barely grasp. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, or perhaps commands, but the words slip through your mind like sand through fingers.
A zipper rasps loudly in the thick silence. Through your dimming vision, you make out the vague shape of Strade standing before you, his movements deliberate and ominous as he slides his boxers down. You try to recoil, but your body barely responds; your head weakly bobs backward, only to be caught and steadied by his firm grip.
"Es ist Zeit für das Finale," he growls, positioning the head of his cock at your empty eye socket. As he forces himself into you, pain spreads throughout your entire body, shooting up your spine and filling your skull. You try to scream, but no sound comes out; only a wet gurgle rises from your throat as you struggle to form words. The pressure in your head increases, becoming almost unbearable, as his hips begin to thrust roughly.
You feel the foreign sensation pulsing within your skull, then the trickle of something warm flowing down your cheek. A distant, guttural sound—perhaps a laugh or a grunt—echoes in your ears as your eyelids become unbearably heavy. The pressure in your head builds, blurring the remaining fragments of your consciousness.
The last sensation you register is the chilling grip of Strade’s hand and the distant wet slapping of his skin against yours.
Translations
Kumpelin = Buddy
Jetzt beginnt der Spaß = Now the fun begins
Liebling = Darling
Es ist Zeit für das Finale = It's time for the finale
hi Rosie <3
for your prompts! "Don't you want to be consumed by what loves you?" with the best girl, Diva? 🩵
HIII 🩵🩵🩵 ofc ofc :3
Accepting writing prompt asks, see list here !! X
Cw: minor cannibalism (blood consumption), manipulation, violence, knife play(?), blood, minor self harm, this fic is NOT nice
Disclaimer: these writing prompts are simply to explore the twins’ characters. They may or may not be canon.
“There you go,” Diva coos, watching as you try and swallow down the sticky substance. Warm and bitter of iron, you know if you keep it any longer on your tongue you’ll end up spitting it out— but swallowing seemed just as vile.
“Don’t spill a drop, you promised me you’d do this.” Blood. You weren’t sure how you agreed to doing such a thing, yet at this point you doubt you could ever bring yourself to deny Diva of her satisfaction. She always had her ways of making you putty in her hold, melting at the sounds of her sweet sweet praise while she actresses you.
Slender fingers squeeze at your chin, tilting your head up just a bit as mismatch eyes keeps their gaze locked on your expression. Twisting from a grimace to an almost sickly pale look as you fight your body’s involuntary reactions.
“Swallow.” She reminds, hand leaving your chin to trail down to your neck, wrapping gently around it to give a slight squeeze.
A warning.
And she’s smiling, smiling as if her request wasn’t outlandish, wasn’t weird— wasn’t creepy. Yet you accepted it like it was fine, like it’d be no problem to do so.
Oh, the consequences to your actions. You suppose it’s because you’re so used to saying “yes”, maybe it was because every part of you wanted to appease her. Diva just treated you so well, it only made sense for you to return the favor, right?
And so you finally swallow. It was hard to, the bile rising from your stomach fighting against the blood— but you swallow it down.
“There you go!” Diva praised, her hand releasing your neck to rub your arm. “Wow… to think you did that just for me,” pressing her lips to yours, the pale girl then brings her butterfly knife to your skin, tracing the tip up your thigh. It’s cold, even as it’s already coated with the red from her own cut, enough to have given you the small amount of blood you had just digested.
“As a thank you, why don’t you choose where I cut?” She asks it so casually, her knife trailing up your pants and to your stomach, Diva’s eyes flickering to yours again. The blade drags just barely back down— mimicking a lover’s caress.
“W… what?” You asks, finally able to find your words— your voice faint and meek. She wasn’t serious, was she?
“Well duh, it’s my turn!” Diva chirps with a matter-of-fact tone, long platinum silver hair falling over her shoulders when she leans forward, free hand still rubbing those comforting touches along your side that does just enough to make your anxieties rest.
“It’s only fair, don’t you think? I heard people do this to really be connected to their lovers,” the girl explains, her eyes now more focused on her blade than your own eyes watching her in slight caution. Your weariness wavers with how her tone reaches your ears so soft and loving.
“And I love you, Mc babes.” When Diva looks up at you for the final time, there’s a slight hungry glint to her eyes.
“Don’t you want to be consumed by what loves you?”