#Queue are dead meat

[statiicstag]

choke, sender saves receiver from choking by giving them the heimlich. ((Omg? This is the shippy meme I'm sending in, choke on meat Alastor!!

x

If he dies ( again ! ) from a piece of food blocking his airway, he will only have Lucifer to thank. It is scarcely his fault the King lets his mouth run before his brain can follow behind, and the words he'd spoken without a second thought had came out wrong enough to make him inhale sharply.

He hardly recognizes the sensation of arms winding around his middle, tears clouding his vision as his lungs try to desperately take in air that cannot pass through.

And then suddenly, it can.

He chokes up the piece of meat, attractively spitting it across the table, following it with hoarse coughs as he sags forward in Lucifer's arms.

So disoriented, he does not realize he is practically leaning against the King, swallowing thickly and wincing at the burn. ❝ ..And here I'd thought I was going to see what happens when we experience a second death. How disappointing. ❞

[multiheadcanons]

I KNOW A GUY

scout: need a car pushed? need a free house sitter who won’t steal your shit? need a good playlist in thirty minutes for a very specific situation? need a group of guys in front of your place in an hour? need something delivered quickly under the radar? need someone jumped in a back alley? need a body buried? he’s your guy.

soldier: do you need a body buried? need someone’s nose broken? need some extra limbs of unknown origin? need a free bodyguard at the club so you can have a good time alone? need a free accidental hitman? need someone who will make you feel good about yourself by making you feel bad about yourself? need your gutters cleaned on your house? need someone who will come literally fight the monsters under your kids bed? he’s your guy.

pyro: need a body buried— well, cremated? got a financial emergency in which you can’t afford? need a sugar parent you don’t have to sleep with? at your nephews party and spider-man didn’t show up and now you need someone in a costume at this house pronto? need a gift for your nephew because you forgot to buy one? pyro’s your person for the low low price of kindling.

demo: need a drink that will make you experience ego death? need a ride for your bitch of an aunt so she never asks you to do anything ever again? need connections to a guy who sells peculiar cuts of meat from peculiar animals? need someone to get cussed out, for no reason? need a structure demolished in ten minutes? need someone who’s got vintage vinyls for sale? he’s your guy.

heavy: need your car pushed? need a meal made for fifteen? need someone handled? need an emergency ride to the hospital in the dead of winter? hell, need anything done in the dead of winter? need something out of a tree? need a tree cut down? need a plant sitter while you’re out of town? he’s your guy.

engineer: need your car’s computer replaced at a fraction of the cost? want someone’s tesla booted permanently? need a custom built prosthetic? need security cameras installed? need your wifi restarted? need someone who can cut a key in two minutes? need someone who can pick a lock in less than five? he’s your guy.

medic: you need some boobs? need some boobs removed? need to add or delete a penis? did you run out of testosterone or estrogen? need a binder? need a packer? hell, need a supplier for your side job of drug dealing? need a new kidney? need an abortion? need a hysterectomy under the table? need some unethically sourced body parts of unknown origin? all for the low price of free and don’t tell anyone? medic is your guy for all things medical. he does not care, he will just keep whatever he takes.

sniper: you need a body double to go with you to the store? need a guy who can do intermediate addition and subtraction without a calculator? need someone stalked? need a guy who has nothing but free time to get in an online queue and wait all day to buy your concert tickets? need a ride to and from said concert? he’s your guy.

spy: do you happen to need an armchair therapist? need access to a book in one library across the country? need a rumor spread like the plague? need someone handled? need a body buried? need a thirty minute etiquette class before you go on a date? need a new cook after you killed the last one at the restaurant? he’s your guy.

[janearts]

I couldn't help myself from referencing Highlander. There can be only one [wielder of the Netherstones]!

Proper answer (and some character analysis for Roisia) under the read-more.

Roisia was surprised by Gortash, but pleasantly so. In the first place, as far as Roisia is concerned, Ketheric and Orin recall their respective gods in their appearance: Ketheric is withered, a husk of a person, but indomitable, and Orin... well, Orin looks like a flayed corpse with meat-suit clothes, but close enough. Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to be more... physically domineering. Terrifying. Intractable. ...Loud? Instead, here's this charming handsome fellow who is really rather ordinary. If Roisia met him on the street, he'd just be another debonair noble lusting for power. (Join the feckin' queue!)

And neither does Gortash behave as Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to behave. She would have expected a Banite to be a tyrant, a Faerûnian-version of the Machiavellian prince, who instils a terror of himself and who rules through fear. Instead, Gortash gently curates among the populace not a fear of him, but a xenophobic fear of The Outsider (whether that outsider is a cult like the Absolute or a group of people like the Coast's refugees).

Roisia—by all accounts an oppositional force to his own—encounters a man who is genuinely, fully, confidently willing to partner with her to achieve a common goal and is willing to swear a divine oath to secure that partnership...

Poor man. What a fool.

You see, Roisia is something of a Machiavellian prince. She would despise to think of herself in that way were she to read Il Principe, but she has within herself some (but not all!) of the traits and qualities that are described within. She is frequently a mirror: where she meets evil, she wields evil with aplomb. ("You desire me to kiss your foot? I think not. You shall kiss mine.") She would very much prefer to offer mercy, but if her mercy is rejected—like when Ketheric imprisons Dame Aylin once again before yeeting himself into the primordial soup—then she will dole out cruelty in equal measure. Most importantly of all, Roisia is a liar and a deceiver, all while appearing compassionate, guileless, and true to her word. Roisia only really keeps her word when it suits her purposes. Were she otherwise, she would have found that Gortash would have been faithful to his word to the last. But as the Machiavellian prince, she betrays and slays him.

Actually, having written all that, Roisia is more of an embodiment of the Machiavellian prince than I originally thought: she is virtuous and good, sure, but she is also intimately familiar with baser behaviours (lying, cruelty, conspiracy, etc.) and wields those base behaviours like a tool when and where she feels it is needed and necessary.

Which is why I was absolutely thrilled when I had her do what was only natural to her and had her speak to Gortash post-mortem. Roisia is a character who believes herself to be godless: damned and/or abandoned by Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead and Judge of the Damned, for being a Necromancer. She had a sliver of hope that she would find favour with Myrkul, but Myrkul thought only of the Chosen stolen from him. She thought, perhaps, that she might find favour with Bhaal because, let's face it, she had slaughtered and bloodied so many in her long journey to Baldur's Gate, but the skull only wept blood and that was that. Bane, however, actually speaks to her, acknowledges her, validates her. She won his favour the moment she betrayed and slayed Gortash. She is in her very nature a stellar Banite. Incredible! And absolutely absurd. Thank you to Larian for programming that opportunity in. 😂

[katakaluptastrophy]

So we all know how Ianthe became a Lyctor for “ultimate power—and posters of [her] face.”

And I'm sure someone made a nice icon.

But you know who would have definitely gotten a poster of their face? Coronabeth.

Think about it: every House but the Ninth has lost a scion. In a culture that thrives on melodrama and the conspicuous consumption of death, there is a wave of hysterical funerary fervour to mourn their lost leaders. And the Third - the House of glitz, trendsetting, and political intrigue - has lost its beloved Crown Princess.

We don't know a huge amount about funerals in the Nine Houses, but we do know a bit about Third House funerals:

The front coffin is distinguished from its fellows by its gorgeous arrangement of flowers and wreaths. The flowers are all in hues of gold or violet, and are fake. The coffin is hinged open at the front, with its contents hidden from view by the flowers. A tray of meat is rested on the closed bottom half of the coffin. A queue of gaudily masked mourners process past the coffin, slowly, each one taking a strip of meat, then stopping by the head to lean within—kissing or feeding; we can’t be sure. - TUG

Apparently, a Third House funeral - unsurprisingly for flesh magicians - focuses on the physical. The reverence of/fear of/(lust for?) the body. A wake on steroids. But they received no body for Coronabeth. So I can only imagine larger than life posters of Corona decked with flowers, the weeping crowds surging through the streets of Ida, etc etc... Poor Ianthe, second place once again to a 'corpse'.

Moving past Ianthe to House funerary customs in general, and to the awful aftermath of the Lyctor trials in particular, it seems especially unfair that neither of the flesh magic Houses got a body back to mourn. Obviously Corona wasn't actually dead, but for those who believed her to be, the lack of a body for such visceral funerary rights must have been traumatic.

We don't have as many details of Seventh funerals, but the House famous for it's "beguiling corpses" likely also focuses much of its post-mortem ritual around the body. Dulcie suggests that the deceased might even leave specific instructions in their will about the appearance of their corpse:

That drawing looked nothing like me. I loved it. You don’t know this so it doesn’t help, but I included it in my will and put down that I wanted to look like that after I died. I thought maybe it would give you a laugh at the funeral, you know? - TUG

Meanwhile, the Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth receive their perfect pairs of "statuesque and incorruptible" bodies, preserved beyond the wildest dreams of the Seventh. These Houses are all spirit magicians. The Fourth, for whom thanergetically detonating oneself on a battlefield far from the rays of Dominicus isn't unheard of, almost certainly have funerary rites that don't presuppose a body. And the Fifth, whose necromantic practice is far more concerned with the spirit than the body, likely centre their most significant funerary rites around the ghost.

Y'know, the bit they don't have? Just as the flesh magicians of the Third and Seventh would have been unable to mourn their lost scions with rites around the body, the Fifth would have been unable to call their ghosts, trapped in Harrow's River bubble.

So amidst all the grief and awfulness, and the Emperor refusing to answer any questions about what happened (why are they all dead? Why are so many bodies missing? Where are the ghosts? Why are the bodies so creepily perfect?), half the Houses can't even mourn their dead in the way they normally would.

[sassenach77yle]

“HAMBURGER,” I SAID under my breath, but not far enough under. He raised an eyebrow at me.“Chopped meat,” I elaborated, and the eyebrow fell.“Oh, aye, it is. Stopped a sword stroke wi’ my hand. Too bad I didna have a targe; I could have turned the stroke, easy.”“Right.” I swallowed. It wasn’t the worst injury I’d seen, by a long shot, but it still made me slightly sick. The tip of his fourth finger had been sheared off cleanly, at an angle just below the nail. The stroke had sliced a strip of flesh from the inside of the finger and ripped down between the third and fourth fingers.“You must have caught it near the hilt,” I said, trying for calm. “Or it would have taken off the outside half of your hand.”“Mmphm.” The hand didn’t move as I prodded and poked, but there was sweat on his upper lip, and he couldn’t keep back a brief grunt of pain.“Sorry,” I murmured automatically.“It’s all right,” he said, just as automatically. He closed his eyes, then opened them.“Take it off,” he said suddenly.“What?” I drew back and looked at him, startled.He nodded at his hand.“The finger. Take it off, Sassenach.”“I can’t do that!” Even as I spoke, though, I knew that he was right. Aside from the injuries to the finger itself, the tendon was badly damaged; the chances of his ever being able to move the finger, let alone move it without pain, were infinitesimal.“It’s done me little good in the last twenty years,” he said, looking at the mangled stump dispassionately, “and likely to do no better now. I’ve broken the damned thing half a dozen times, from its sticking out like it does. If ye take it off, it willna trouble me anymore, at least.”I wanted to argue, but there was no time; wounded men were beginning to drift up the slope toward the wagon. The men were militia, not regular army; if there was a regiment near, there might be a surgeon with them, but I was closer.“Once a frigging hero, always a frigging hero,” I muttered under my breath. I thrust a wad of lint into Jamie’s bloody palm and wrapped a linen bandage swiftly around the hand. “Yes, I’ll have to take it off, but later. Hold still.”“Ouch,” he said mildly. “I did say I wasna a hero.”“If you aren’t, it isn’t for lack of trying,” I said, yanking the linen knot tight with my teeth. “There, that will have to do for now; I’ll see to it when I have time.” I grabbed the wrapped hand and plunged it into the small basin of alcohol and water.He went white as the alcohol seeped through the cloth and struck raw flesh. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, but didn’t say anything more. I pointed peremptorily at the blanket I had spread on the ground, and he lay back obediently, curling up under the shelter of the wagon, bandaged fist cradled against his breast.I rose from my knees, but hesitated for a moment. Then I knelt again and hastily kissed the back of his neck, brushing aside the queue of his hair, matted with half-dried mud and dead leaves. I could just see the curve of his cheek; it tightened briefly as he smiled and then relaxed.

62 ONE JUST MAN ~An Echo in the Bone

[that-angry-noldo]

destiel || m || 2.5k || ao3

Being a demon comes with music.

Oh, it's music alright. His drums are blood pumping unrestrained, its rhythm unchanged in fight and fuck and sleep alike: boom, boom, boom, a rush to his head, full of oxygen and adrenaline and endorphins. Boom, a blow coming down, boom, his teeth sinking into some hooker's shoulder, boom, cold beer washing down his throat. His body is a symphony in itself, and he has never been more aware of it; it sings and it bends and it is tuned to his command to an extent that is dizzying, terrifying. His laughter: he laughs a lot, when it's appropriate and not, and it is deep, it is melodic. His smile bears a thousand shades, sharp and cruel and pristine. The ground recoils from him, an abomination walking. The earth reaches for him, with its lies about eternal rest. The Mark chants and weaves it all together, into harmony that Dean is, into fire all condensed beneath his skin. The Blade sings in his hand.

To think anyone would want to contain this. Would think this could be contained.

The thing is, Dean gets it, the years behind him all in perspective now. He gets it. The human blood and human organs and human fat and human meat and all the monsters scrambling for it. If this is what being inhuman feels like? Fuck him, Dean should have signed up long ago.

He laughs, licking the blood off his Blade. Some poor schmuck's lying at his feet, and Dean does not resist; crouches, smears his fingers through the dead guy's blood, brings it to his lips. Grins. Dammit, he gets Sammy now, too. He doesn't get the rush, not like Sammy did, but oh, if this is what it felt like, to have demon blood sing inside you? He should've fed Ruby to Sam himself.

The skies crack with thunder. Dean can't help it; if Sam's tracking the omens, let him come, if he so wishes, let him try. The truth is, being human? Not Dean's thing anymore. He looks back in time and he snares at the Dean staring from behind the mirror, sadness and guilt and pain behind his eyes, and he laughs, and says oh no, fuck you, well and truly, and he lets the skies burst with power contained beneath his skin.

Not just him. A dozen or so of them, black-eyed bastards and bitches cackling and burning in clouds of smoke, spinning in Hell's terrible dance. Crowley can attempt a bureaucracy if he wants so, can look at fire and bloodlust and thirst and anger and put it to numbers, make it into forms and offices and queues—but Hell is wild. It is uncontained. It is free.

So Dean lets himself loose. Gets drunk on beer and whiskey and music, always music, and spins in dance, and his heart drums—boom, boom, boom, and his blood sings and his body is wild, wild, wild. Untamed and uncontained.

He died, and opened his eyes, and was free ever since. And free he will remain.

~

The things that call him brother and sink their claws into him and spin him know this music better, know this music to its very core. They tug him and chase him and laugh in his ear and he gets drunk on their blood and they get a load of his, and they dance and cackle through the fields of this land, through its churches and highways and crossroads, and if some poor bastard finds himself in their way, they spin him, too. They sink their claws deep into his shoulders and yank and tug and laugh, and Dean did not hear it before but he does now—can you feel the pull of Hell? Can you hear its drums and bells and citadels?—and the bastard before them looks and says instead, can't you hear the lay of the land? Can't you feel the pull of the ground, swallowing you, promising you peace?—and they screech and scream, for no mortal hears the pull of the songs, no human gets to drink of their magic.

Dean lurks behind the things that call him brother, quiet in their chaos, only rain remaining. Rain, and boom, boom, boom of his heart, blood, blood, blood of his Mark, bleed, bleed, bleed of his Blade. The poor bastard does not move, unphased by the demons around him. His hair sticks to his forehead beneath the streaks of rain, and the things that call themself his brothers screech about murder in his eyes, steel in his sleeve, blood on his hands, strength in his gaze. It is quiet now, and Dean knows he knows these eyes, and knows they know him. His hand itches for his Blade.

The thing that is not a man looks at the odds before him with a resigned sort of calm; the thing that is not an angel looks at nothing but Dean, and oh, Dean thinks, how wild you once were, how untamed, your gaze a lightning condensed, your voice enough to make me weak in my knees. Oh, look at you now.

Aloud, he laughs, and the sky laughs with him, and the things that are not his brothers cackle. The thing that is neither man nor an angel does not resist their grip; does not resist their pull. The things that pretend to be his brother grin and drag him before Dean; the things that bare their teeth and flash him a smile want to make the bastard kneel.

The things that fear him screech at the flash of the blade. The things that hate him gather into shadows, linger out of reach.

The Blade sings in his hand, and Castiel hums with it.

"You're changed," the thing that is Castiel says, and Dean laughs. Do you hear the power, the fire, the song?

"Didn't think it would be you to find me first," he yells through the rain. "Figured it would be Sammy, you know? Not that I'm complaining, Cas. Damn, it's good to see you."

It's good to see you, he says, and thinks of blood on his tongue, and thinks of heat coiling under his Mark, and thinks to sink his Blade into Cas's gut and eat his heart out; thinks of licking his fingers clean while the light goes out of Cas's eyes.

Cas looks tired. There are bags under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, and he sways with his entire body. Dean knows the emotion behind his eyes, decides envy looks good on him. He's still drinking Dean in. Does he see how much he's changed? Does he see the smoke coming out of his mouth, the fire licking at his skin?

"Gee, man," he says. "Eat me up, why won't you." He arches his eyebrows. "Like what you see?"

He sees the hesitation, a flash second of it, before something of the old light returns to Castiel's eyes; before he squares his shoulders, tilts his head, squints, just a bit. "Very," he says. "Hello, Dean."

Despite the bravado, Cas is afraid. Must be afraid, when Dean flexes the blade, when the shadows howl at the flick of his wrist.

Despite the fear, Castiel's grip on his own blade does not falter. But there is resignation in his eyes, some sort of fucked up peace. Dean's seen Cas face all manner of demon before—fuck it, the guy's lay siege to Hell—and of course, in Purgatory he all but ripped things apart with his bare hands; Dean knows his style, is the point, and whatever this is? This looks like Cas resigned. Cas given up.

Dean tilts his head, not moving. Cas does not run, does not plead. Dean cannot deny his disappointment; he expected a bit more of stop, baby, that's not you or please, Dean, I know you're still in there and so far there is none of it.

"Mm," Dean says, and tilts his head back. "Can't say the same about you, sweetheart."

Cas shrugs. Dean expects his expression to harden, but it does not. The Blade murmurs in his hand. Where's your grace, man? Dean wants to ask, and doesn't. Where's your power, where's your song?

He looks to the sky, to the rain pouring down. "Come on, call Sammy. That's why you're here, isn't it? To bring poor, lost, wayward Dean home." He's goading, trying to pull Cas out of his goddamn equilibrium. He itches for a fight. "Isn't that right, Cas?"

Cas sighs. "I follow none of Sam's delusions regarding you," he says. "He will know you were here sooner or later. Calling him now will be proven useless and redundant." Dean nods. Castiel holds his gaze. "I assume it is pointless to ask if you want to return."

"Damn right," Dean grins. "I like the deal I've going on. Being like this, Cas? It's liberating." He laughs again, euphoria of someone knowing, someone understanding what it feels like getting the best of him again. "Is this what you hear all the time, man? Heaven split open and ground beneath your feet?"

"I used to hear it sometimes," Castiel says. "Though my song is ringing of heaven and murmur of billion souls and chatter of million angels and radiance of myriad stars." He taps his head. "It's quiet now, most of the time. Not enough... ah. Not enough juice left."

Jesus, complete with the air quotes. Dean wants to laugh, so he does. Dean wants to sink into him, tear into his meat, eat it raw and gorge on it, so he snaps forward, curls around his angel, hold his Blade so close to his throat he can feel it screaming in his hands.

Cas tenses.

Dean waits, plays with the Blade. His Mark drums steadily as he flicks it up and down, up and down, teasing, deadly. Cas' head is on Dean's shoulder, and it would be so easy to turn this into something else.

Dean's not an idiot. Dean knows what he wants, with clarity he lacked before. Unlike the Dean-behind-the-mirrors, he's not a coward; he's got no need to hide his desire behind the madness of Purgatory or the shoulder-clasping or the pathetic I need you.

"What do you want then, Cas?" he murmurs, and hears Castiel exhale. Feels Castiel's hand slacken on his blade. Feels Castiel relax in his hold.

"Make a deal with me," Castiel says.

It's said easily, like enough thought was put into it, like Dean isn't holding Cas at knifepoint, breathing down his neck.

Dean arches his brow.

"A deal?" he asks. "You're an angel, sweetheart. There's no soul to sell."

"Not that kind of a deal, then," Castiel says.

"What's in it for me?"

"I die."

Dean's hand freezes, for just a second, before resuming the up and down, up and down. "What's in it for you?"

"You're the one to kill me."

Dean barks a laugh. "Really, Cas? Out of everything you can ask of me? It's a demon deal. I can give you the world, man."

"I'm dying, Dean," Cas sighs, irritable. "My grace is rotting within me, and when it burns out, I will, too. I'll die in some ditch of a motel, slowly, or your brethren in the shadows will tear into me as soon as you let go. I'm not asking for it to be clean, Dean. Draw it out, if that's what you do now, carve into me if you so want, but let it be you."

Dean thinks. He is thinking as he breathes in the smell of Cas's skin, sweat and rain and motel soap. Thinking as his hand digs into Cas's hip, as his lips ghost just over Cas's ear. Why couldn't he ask for a fuck? What's stopping Dean from taking it anyway?

"That sounds a lot like mercy to me, Cas," Dean finally murmurs into his ear. "And I'm not a merciful guy anymore."

Cas growls, but does not fight to free himself. Instead his hand clasps Dean's wrist, and the Mark explodes, screams, burns as he holds Dean'd hand steady, the Blade surprisingly cold and quiet as if it can scent the promise of a kill.

"Dean," Cas says. "Please."

And it's fucked up, isn't it? And Dean is angry, so fucking angry. The song is not a Song anymore, it's a cacophony of screams and cries. He gets lost for a month, he wants not to be found, and Cas finds him either way, and puts the blade in his hand. Who is he to demand that of Dean? Dean-in-the-mirror be damned, but Dean still remembers the fucking trenchcoat, stenching of river mud and rotten water, still remembers the shellshock of Purgatory. What is it, some fucked-up penance shit again? The easy way out, while all Dean gets is to be this, until the end of his days?

He fists his hand into Cas's hair and yanks it back. "See, Cas, you made your first mistake," he says, voice even, even with his lips so close to Cas's chin. He remembers he needs no permission, and drags his lips down the side of Cas's face before biting his eartip, before pressing the Blade to Cas's skin. "Next time, lie about what you want." His voice drops. "You do not get to leave. You do not get to have your R.I.P. while I'm left walking the earth. And you know what?" He grins again, meets Cas' eyes. "Walk the earth we will."

He sinks his Blade into Cas's throat.

Not deep. Enough to make Cas gasp, his lungs spasm. Enough to seek that string of gleaming something, to grin when he sees it pouring out.

He looks Cas in his wide, blue, startled eyes as the grace unwinds itself, tears from Cas's body and mind and soul, blinds the night around them. Opens his mouth, and watches Cas watch it flow right between his lips, Cas's choked, terrified gasp the only sound. It burns inside him, recoils at his essence, brands into his bones and he's still grinning, still watching Cas watch him burn. The Mark does not care whether it's demon blood or angel grace: Dean is far beyond both. Dean can swallow stars and walk away unscathed.

Dean leaves just enough of it for the cut to heal. Cas is struggling in his hold, choking on air. Dean does not let go just yet.

"Seek death by someone else's hand, sweetheart," he murmurs over Cas's lips. "This shop's closed for the day."

"Dean," Cas chokes. Begs. Please, remains unsaid, and what does he plead for? Dean's touch, Dean's blade, Dean's mercy? Something else entirely?

Dean steps back. The Mark hums on his arm, and the Blade chants in his hand. Not today, Dean thinks. Not today.

It rains like hell, and Dean can hear his Song calling, the shadows murmuring.

He doesn't join the dance again.

[thatonelesbianfander]

Songs in my Remus Sanders Playlist

I'm running out of stuff to throw into my queue, here's a list of songs I put in my custom Remus Sanders playlist and why

Forbidden Fruit (The Duke's Theme)- Thomas Sanders: Obviously need Remus's theme on a Remus themed playlist

A Gay Disney Prince- Thomas Sanders: This is literally just a song Remus and Roman collaborated on

Paper Planes- M.I.A: Remus Sanders, my anarchist beloved <3

My Ordinary Life- The Living Tombstone: This song is literally his vibe, happy, upbeat instrumentals with fucked up lyrics

Thank God for Sluts- Caitlin Cook: Remus Sanders, my horny rat bastard beloved

The Difference- Caitlin Cook: Roman vs Remus song

Conversations with Strangers- Caitlin Cook: This song is literally just a compilation of Remus incorrect quotes

Lotta True Crime- Penelope Scott: I headcanon that he has an autistic special interest in true crime, so of course this song is a must

Mind Brand- Maretu: "Welcome to the mind fuck"

This Devil's Workday- Modest Mouse: On his official playlist

Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)- MCR: On his official playlist

Don't Stop Me Now- Queen: On his official playlist

you should see me in a crown- Billie Eilish: Gives me him vibes

Crazy=Genius- P!AtD: Read a fanfic where he had this as one of his favorite songs, accepted it as canon immediately

Twisted- MISSIO: Remus Sanders, my mentally fucked up beloved <3

2Econd 2Ight 2Eer (That Was Fun, Goodbye.)- Will Wood: Found this on a fanmade playlist (that's deleted now :() that I listened to before I made my own playlist, and I completely agree with the placement

Living Dead Girl- Rob Zombie: Again, found on a fanmade playlist and I completely agreed with it

Halls of Illusions- ICP: Remus is a juggalo

Imma Kill U- ICP: Remus is a juggalo and was also on the fanmade playlist I listened to before making mine

Boogie Woogie Wu- ICP: Remus is a juggalo

Monkey Wrench- Foo Fighters: Fanmade playlist

Tranz- Gorlliaz: Official playlist

Welcome to the Internet- Bo Burnham: Is on most fanmade playlists and was also on the one I listened to before it was deleted

Drown Me!- Junie & TheHutFriends: So many Junie & TheHutFriends songs are Remus vibes

Songbird- Junie & TheHutFriends: This is literally the most Remus song that this band has put out

When It Rains- Junie & TheHutFriends: Dark sides song

The Consequence of Imagination Is Fear- Junie & TheHutFriends: I take back what I said about Songbird, this song is literally him

I Hope You Miss Me in Heaven- Jack Stauber: Wouldn't be a good Remus Sanders playlist without a good bit of angst

Death as a Fetish (feat. Mattress)- STRFKR: Official playlist

Sprawling Idiot Effigy- Nero's Day at Disneyland: Remus vibes

I Can't Decide- Scissor Sisters: Literally Remus

You're Mine- Dagames: He would listen to this unironically

Kitsuneno Yomeiri- NASA WORKS DESIGN: Fanmade playlist

Rabbit Hole- Rachie cover: Remus Sanders, my horny rat bastard beloved <3

The Meat Grinder- japanesecoffee: Remus vibes

Confessions of a Rotten Girl- SAWTOWNE: Teen!Remus when Thomas was in his gay repression phase

Entropy- Awkward Marina: Remus vibes

I'm So Crazy For Youuu- Rebzyyx: Remus vibes

[cowsareonsaturn]

Bananas are 4011. If there's anything I’ve learned from a grocery store, It’s that Navel oranges are 4012. It’s that we talk about football and Mr. Smith has got his money on the eagles, because Jalen Hurts needs a win. It’s that little girls will hand you all the cash they have for a pack of bubble gum, and their mothers teach them to apologize and drop quarters, snatching back change. Sometimes when I have to pick up carts from outside, there's a rainbow. Once it was night, there was a clap of thunder followed by a big downpour of rain. All I could do was laugh. Grief pulls ladies through an express lane with her buggy full of groceries, I take them anyway. Her son is dead, I explained to my manager, she said she thought she saw him in the chip aisle. I once guessed an apple number: 3243, Gala. Old ladies will blush if you compliment their outfits. They’ll tell you that this yellow knit sweater is older than you, darling. They’ll pat you on the hand when you hand them the receipt.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from a grocery store, It’s that love permeates all. When the families come in for their Sunday chicken, we speak about missing eggs and Wholefoods, who surely would have a better supply. About how our months are going, Lord knows they only move too fast or too slow. Never a happy medium. I picked up Wednesdays and met the worn-down crowd. Scrub donning women, and the abrasive orange of construction workers. Dirty money passed down and out: how would you like that $20 back? The holiday rush. The southern woman who told me near tears, she would rather answer to God than her elderly mama. The engagements, the apology flowers. Fumbling teenage boys who leave their cards in the machines, so quick to move on to the next thing, the next person, next place. The god awful music! The chocolate bars and pamphlets on christianity I get from old men. The ache in my soles, my cracked hands. It’s all romantic in a sense. A convergence of humanity in its purest form. United sweetly through raw meat and bread. Through standing in queues, commenting on cake and 3 for $12 flowers out of boredom. Through the exhale of seeing familiar faces, little crowds forming by the pharmacy--enthralled with the sudden clashing of separated lives. It’s all quite beautiful, really. For me though. Sweet potatoes are 4091. I’m just here to witness it all. Beep! How are you? Beep! Your total is, Beep! I love you, I’ll never see you again.

[luthifer]

obsessed w the idea that everyone around harry constantly watch as he changes an entire outfit in 10 seconds flat before talking to someone, and then immediately after; changing again into some other weird ass fit

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

The Seed of Human Kindness (The Ghoul/F!OC)

CHAPTER ONE/TWO/THREE/FOUR/FIVE/SIX

Summary: The Ghoul stumbles upon a piece of walkin' talkin' meat out in the Boneyard. Instead of eating her, he takes her on as his personal traveling chef. Only this chef is a smoothskin vaultie looking for the seed of human kindness, which is exactly what it sounds like, though comin' from a Vault of all women, she's gonna take some convincing on where to find it.Tags: Cannibalism, Sadism, Body Horror, Misandry, Dehumanization, Vault Experiments, Vault Dweller, Cunnilingus, Cum Play, Rough Sex, Power Dynamics, Breeding Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Voyeurism, Non-consensual Exhibitionism, Sexual Awakening, Canon-Typical Violence, POV Male Character

A/N: This is nasty. Please heed all the tags for your fair warning before reading.

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The Los Angeles Census Bureau looks about as inviting as it did in the seventies: a delightful courtyard of bones and failed dreams bordered by brutalist cement beds spilling with dead flowers. As he and his spurs jingle-jangle up the pavilion, a decayed hand staked between two dead bushes catches his eye. A blooming stalk of bleached bone, phalanges bent into a middle finger like some 'fuck you' posey straight out of the afterlife. Call him a presentist, but just the fuckin' sight of it makes his lip curl. 

'Fuck the establishment, indeed.'

The Ghoul's been following this endless trail for a while now; turning over these little slices of American bureaucracy is just another dot on the map, but a barbeque on the wind has urged his heels into a proper trot. Hungry as he is. Savory, smokey… mouthwatering, bringing to mind Saturday cook-outs with Barb and Janey, that ol' good boy Roosevelt at his heels, waiting for burnt hotdog tails and the stray charred burger as the martinis pile up. Those good times were lived by another man playing a good old American boy role. Those bygone memories come like a miasma: toxic. It's delicious in its own right, and he's just lucky the aroma seems to be coming from this building right here. A 'kill two birds with one stone' scenario, it would seem. 

He can hear the muffled commotion of chaos inside and the clatter of something heavy. Judging by the reverb, a bullet snaps concrete. It must've hit wiring too because the sign above those broken doors flickers—time-yellowed plastic covering a photon tubing of loops and flourishes. 

'The American dream…'

A broken, clipped shriek presses out the thin crack of busted glass and splinted wood ahead of him. 

'Oh, if life ain't grand.' 

What once were crying mothers standing in the breadline are mothers on the breadline, he thinks, some of that ol' Cooper Howard making a show again. He pushes that moralistic nuisance down and surveys the exterior once more, and… judging by the crude bullseye bloodstains on a single Brahmin skull, used creatively to keep the doors ajar (not to mention the smell)… they're cookin' folks on a spit inside. Fiends, most like…

Still, two hundred years later, the LACB is where folks get eaten alive every day.

Quiet-like, The Ghoul enters Feind territory, The Gun heavy front and center.

The aroma of fatty meat, both freshly shorn and sour, curls under his nasal ridge, drawing him through the decayed lobby. He steps carefully, spurs quite over toppled queue barriers, avoiding broken glass and crunchy piles of clothes. There's a burnt stroller with tiny bones and floral blankets he chooses to ignore, giving them and its mother's remnants a wide berth, focusing intently on the triangle of flickering firelight cutting from the ajar breakroom door. 

Silent as a corpse, The Ghoul leans into the doorway, The Gun raised, and takes in the gruesome scene he's seen a hundred times, both worse and better but never benign. Eventually, someday, he won't feel sick at the sight of such horrors. Who's to say whether that'll be a good day or not?

There's five of them, counting a naked woman hanging from a crude bleeding rail, 'cept she ain't being bled out, just cut down slow and sweet, as if the fear and pain is the finest marinade. Her body jolts, and another wail rattles his eardrums as a rail-thin Fiend saws off another strip of thigh meat from her bucking body, tits bouncing with delicate pockets of curvy fat jiggling deliciously. 

The Ghoul's stomach growls, and something else further south twitches, but his empty belly is more worried about being without food for much longer. Nothing but vials and rainwater means he's more inclined to find human flesh aromatic. Thankfully, the pretty rotisserie's screams are so fucking loud it makes his unceremonious entrance nigh fuckin' soundless. There's no reason to announce himself anyway—no reason to keep any of 'em alive for questioning since he's sure none of these boneheads have worked a computer system before, let alone know how to read logs.

The first slug blasts a hole into the back-head of the closest one: a suit-wearing twitchy son of a bitch sitting by the fire. Their brains spray across their friend's face, who yips as some chunky bits catch with a hiss in the fire. With the second one blinded by brain matter, The Ghoul turns at the hip and blows off the arm of a ratty-headed man still beating his own meat to dinner being sliced and spitted. A shot from his rotating revolver beneath the jawline into the brain puts that one down, even though chems seemed to have ruined it already. 

That leaves two left. 

The blind bastard's still swiping grey slop, blood, and skull chips from his eyes as his buddy rushes on The Ghoul's left with a sticky knife, leaving the girl to sway on her ropes, panting and cursing the Lord's name. This one's mean, sadistic… having enjoyed eating that smoothie alive. He's got janky teeth bared like an ape, poised and ready to take The Ghoul to his grave… again. 'Course, a quick backhand of The Gun stock puts him to the ground with a yelp, and two .357s to the chest keep him there. 

'Three down. One to go,' he muses, cracking his neck with a grunt as the last one curses and snarls. Still blind but jet-fueled, his eyes open and swimming in red offal, the remnants of his hit still smoking out his mouth. He stands like some western cowboy at a sunset showdown. The man even looks the part with two bandoliers and some sweet cowboy boots. Cooper Howard smiles with his straight white chompers as the Fiend tries to unholster a gun that ain't there, spewing nonsense through his teeth, but Coop's dead and gone. 

"Ugghh—fuggin'ghoul, ruin'dinna!"

The Ghoul's grin turns ugly and strong. He's the gunslinger—the outlaw—death personified by time and decay—somethin' outta Hollywood again, just not the good guy. 

With a snap, aim, and trigger pull, the last little Fiend's no more than maggot-meal slumped over The Ghoul's first empty-headed victim. Their dinner has been officially ruined, well… more like taken over. With the barrel still hot, The Ghoul turns to the naked smoothie with a careful eyeful of flesh, ignoring the way her gaze squints in fear before surveying his efforts with frenzied understanding. She's either gonna die or she ain't, and it's clear which one she thinks is 'bout to happen.

"P-please… please. I-I can… I can-"

"Hush those tears now, sweetheart," The Ghoul cuts her off, wetting his lips for a dry whistle before holstering The Gun, "I ain't here to eat ya." Though he turns to the fire, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and sustenance—the promise of a full belly and a level head for a time… it'd just take a half-pound of juicy, tender-

'No… not yet.' 

It takes a heaping spoonful of willpower to turn away, to look back at her without seeing a hanging steak, begging him to sink his fangs in, tear apart, and swallow hole. But The Ghoul manages, somehow. With a Cheshire grin, he thumbs his hat up, brim lifted to show off his radiated smile—proof he means no harm. And when her breath slows and her eyes shine over his chops, he's only slightly surprised to find her more curious than afraid.

"Welp, it seems your dinner guest's got a little too careless, leavin' the door open like that an' all. Could be anyone come walking through those doors."

He takes a step closer, daring her to scrunch her nose in disgust, though she just blinks… some old tears falling off her lashes. Minus some missing meat, a bloodied face, one shiner, and… maybe two weeks of constant immune system shock, she's too healthy lookin' to be anything but a Vaultie. A pretty little thing that only good food, shelter, and generational-bred naivety could create. The Ghoul already don't care much for her.

"You from one of those Vaults." He doesn't ask, all ambivalence and peckish know-how. His survival instincts lure him from her to the spit over the fire again, where it looks like some of her thigh meat is slow roasting. She's lookin' real fuckin' tender over the licking flames…

"S-seven," she pants, shock and pain makin' her sound small, "V-v-vault seven…"

The Ghoul makes a sound of understanding, though he couldn't give two shits these days about which of the Big Four's Vaults she came from, even less which fucked up experiment they ran down there. For some reason, her being a Vaultie makes him even hungrier…

He glances back at her over his shoulder and smirks, all crude oil and a lil' starvation there, too, no doubt. It's been weeks since he's eaten, and before that, it was expired cram and a soggy snack cake, and she seems to know it. The smoothie can see it—notes the look in his eyes and deduces quickly what he's thinking. At first, she yanks on the rope, choosing to struggle against her bonds, though that works as well for her as before he showed up… 'cept it gives him another free show of the goods usually hidden from his eyes. Her tits are perfect.

That southbound lurch kicks up his belly, threatening to confuse his ache for food for something else, so The Ghoul snaps his teeth and points a leather-bound finger her way.

READ THE REST OVER on AO3 HERE

[heldflesh]

TALES OF SABRY — FAIRUZ IBRAHIM.

──  (  tamino.  genderqueer,  he / they.  )  recently  seen  trapezing  across  a  lone  stage,  spotlights  dancing  off  beaded  sweat  –  audience  a  crowd  of  one,  half - asleep  or  otherwise  dead,  spirit  rising  from  still  body  in  a  chant;  encore,  encore!  bravo!  at  verve:  enter  FAIRUZ  IBRAHIM  SABRY.  twenty  six  years  old  &  a  scorpio,  usually  observed  in  tits  out;  slivers  of  chainmail  barely  concealing  loving  shark - bites  alongside  rib,  fishnet  your  only  true,  loyal  companion  –  starfish  spurs  against  heeled  boots;  aquamarine  could  never  ;  fairuz  is  a  devotion  visitor  known  within  their  circle  as  MADCAP  +  GRANDIOSE,  a  perpetual  hum  of  knife  prty  by  deftones  on  salted  mouth.  something  of  the  HUBRISTIC  +  CAVALIER  follows,  regardless  …  something  to  do  with  an  incessant  need  to  entertain  and  please,  for  oneself  and  for  others,  one  complete  theatrical  act  ,  perhaps  ?  strange,  what  a  SIREN  can  get  up  to.  they’ve  been  heard  waxing  lyrical  about  a  dream  they  had  recently,  a  strange  tale  of  lightning  against  stark  red  sea;  no  tell  of  morning  from  night  –  only  fools  dare  to  cross  the  threshold;  scaled  body  wrapped  around  splintering  wood,  ichor  flowing  from  lip  and  chest  –  harpoon  a  stake  upon  self  .  pay  no  mind  to  fanciful  star  -  gazing,  though:  rather,  mind  the  tangible.  focus  on  defense  being  a  performance  in  itself,  accusatory  points  towards  a  faceless  jury  and  judge  in  the  checkout  line  of  a  mini  mart  –  i'm  innocent,  your  honor!  hear  my  pleas,  hark  my  –  cue  one  dragged  away  by  smoothed  heels,  threats  brimming  lips  /  insatiable  hunger  and  the  habit  of  playing  with  ones  food  –  thoughts  bubbling  mid - air,  tom  and  jerry  sequence  of  cat  and  mouse,  mallet  to  head  –  cuckoos  circling;  almost  as  satisfying  as  the  kill  /  and  bone  an  accessory  –  so  sustainable  chic!  –  fish  spine  piercing  cartilage,  ribs  lining  lobe  –  cuffs  of  mysterious  vertebrae,  drilled  and  filed  and  –  .

... mentioning themes of IMPLIED MAN - EATING, SLIGHT BODY HORROR, INJURY, DEATH, and RESURRECTION. proceed with care.

with palms held out.

full name — fairuz ibrahim sabry.

nickname(s) — ruse, in a poor attempt to give himself a nickname ( did not stick ); pretty boy; puck ( perked up chee– ); narcissus, after method acting too hard– austin butler who?; others yet to be seen.

date of birth & age — october 29th, 19xx, physically twenty6.

gender / pronouns — genderqueer; he / him & they / them preferred, all welcomed.

sexuality — bisexual.

typing — siren, slut of the sea ( affectionate ).

occupation — unfortunate thespian; one man act; professional ( ? ) clown; cashier at oracle & oddysey.

astrology — scorpio sun, aries moon, leo ascending.

interests — cheap thrills. spotlight - induced sweat. anything that gleams or sheens, skin included. red meat & red wine & red lipstick in a very real, very french way. fishnet for more reasons than none. garnering attention. burlesque clowns. being a burlesque clown. six seas, don't bring up the seventh.

aversions — "deep" feelings. "deep" conversations. forced intellectualism, you can be pretentious and stupid! skeptics & nonbelievers. taxes. tax collectors. attention seekers, there can only be one ( it's them ).

next in queue — girls on film, mindless self indulgence; pain, boy harsher; slow, depeche mode; talking in your sleep, the romantics.

notable features — what's not to notice? knife - like teeth and an old scar where they nip into bottom lip every too - wide grin & lazy clown make - up; a triangle beneath every eye ( only two, for now ).

general disposition — too grand and generally delusional, but they wear it very well.

last known location — lifting himself back onto the rocks in a siren - dwelled cave like a baywatch wannabe, only to slip upon the surface and back into the water. hasn't emerged since out of hurt ego and deeply hitting embarrassment.

scrying mirror & kindred — mercutio ( romeo & juliet ), dorian gray ( the picture of dorian gray ), oberyn martell ( game of thrones ), theodore laurence ( little women ), emma woodhouse ( emma ).

what lurks in the past...

time is trivial beneath the ocean's surface; light no longer refracting, only vast blue encasing the young. first memory - first consciousness, an array of bubbles; thrashing and struggling, god mother's serpentine body wrapping around and around until all is still once more, until only bone is left to drift further down the depths.

their behavior is pack - like, school of sirens circling coasts like sharks, symbiotic and one; homes made of shipwrecks and reefs, underground caves and trenches, close to docks and ports and harbors, convenience - store runs for sailors and captains. it's rare that they break surface, walk among humans - entertainment best between selves and their food; happy meals best accompanied by toys.

fairuz is both alike and unalike them; a penchant for the finer, rawer things in life, metallic tang behind each sharp tooth, and a growing boredom, tree - like in their sternum. branching, rooting - blooming dissatisfaction with each coast they distance from. the sea felt stagnant, while every breach of ripple upon surface revealed new buildings - years meaningless to them, but everything to land dwellers.

curiosity, was all it was; curiosity all that killed them. separating from pack, intrigued by talks of a circus near - shore, a different sort of spectacle than drama between sister sirens ( they gave a mermaid's purse to you? but they gave one to me! you slu - ); fairuz became enthralled with the faeries who spun from silk, the witches who swallowed fire only to shoot fireworks from tongue - the ringleader whose smile pierced through every one of fairuz' hearts.

their visits upon land became more frequent, trailing the traveling troupe whenever able; need an incessant itch beneath their scales, a match against their ever - growing hunger. quick snacks became one, then two - doubling with each town or city swam across.

fairuz never heed the warnings of a red sky, human paranoia no toll upon their body; still broke surface, that fateful day, lightning serving them well - ship an oyster cracked wide, ready for taking. their hunger barely satiated when a whistle sung from behind; not a warning, but the sound of air tearing as a harpoon spit from its gun and ripped into their scaled flesh.

the sky was no longer red; no longer anything, the ocean's pressure luring them into their endless slumber; reminiscent of their youth, when they welcomed the sea's warm embrace like their own mother's. comfortable. warm. safe. do you wish to live, siren?

voice clear as day; like a whisper into their ear, soft and urging. you can live forever, if you please. if their consciousness was still awake - fairuz would've found the humor in being siren - called; instead, their spirit stirred inside them, hands pressed upon their former living shell. let us save you. let us free you. just say yes.

sirenkin, their family: the choice to leave was no one's but fairuz', one of their few regrets in life; visiting sirens of devo, do you know this fucker?

righteous fishermen with penchants for revenge: slow your rolls - fairuz' is just a little guy, a little fella! and they should be dead! right? ... right?

...comes to light in present...

five years resurrected, five years given to delphinium's traveling, theatrical circus troupe and one would've never guessed; a puzzle piece fitting just right against an entirely wrong picture, the epitome of a live, laugh, love sign hung crooked against a contemporary farmhouse kitchen wall - fairuz dazzles all. or pisses them off - either, or - all of the above; attention is attention, and fairuz craves it almost as much as they crave fle-

they awake the same everyday; a life - rattling exhale of breath, gasping and hoarse like the first time they reopened their eyes; almost comedic, hand trailing to the star - like scar upon their chest - a tale better left unsaid, in accordance to delphinium. they know best - better than fairuz, at least; knows what secrets are best kept, while fairuz spills open at any given moment, at any curious glance.

he's all emotion; nothing cool, nothing collected - only extravagant, demanding; eyes on them at all times. dramatics started at the blink of a single one of those eyes - constantly performing for an unknown audience, never caring if others are swept up by his current. takes good intentions and swallows them for his own benefit; you wouldn't trust a god, would you?

the circus settled in devotion just short of a few months ago; no signs of leaving yet - performances weekly, each and every weekend and occasionally wednesdays, if audience demands then who are they to gatekeep? fairuz lurks beneath the sea's rippling surface some days - sleeps behind the counter of oracle & oddsyey's other days; a siren needs a little spending money, after all; especially him, pockets usually barren and closets overflowing. otherwise can be found wherever there's a crowd.

traveling circus troupe [ menacing voice from behind, hey sis- ]: fairuz' found family. faeries and witches and humans and sirens and nymphs alike, all welcomed as long as they harness talent. don't ask why fairuz' is there; only delphinium knows.

a horde of angry lovers: a necessity in every town, devotion no different. fairuz is more wrong than right, would rather end up in a second grave than admit it.

...and carries into the future.

how long can a corpse walk for, before their magic runs out? before they've stolen all the energy left inside, until blood is shed once more - theirs and others, and others and theirs. prophecies tell of moon falling back into sea and never - rising once more, fallen on unwilling ears - fairuz' mostly, forever pig - headed, too busy gazing upon reflections.

how many enemies, can one make? scorned lovers of lovers, scorned friends betrayed for the slightest whim, abandoned on impulse. scorned family - sick of antics, of fairuz' thoughts that only revolve around himself.

fairuz never worries of the future. but perhaps they should.

prophecy - spewing nymphs: they heed not their warnings, demise be damned - you'd think fairuz would know better by now.

friends to enemies: a eventual happening, slow at first, but like all fire - the more it grows, the farther it spreads.

[ravenrose18]

Shadows of Destiny

Chapter 11

In an abandoned meat-packing facility, Alex slapped Raven's cheeks as the demon behind her finished tying the ropes around her wrists behind a chair. "Wake up, sweetheart!" He feigned his best Dean Winchester accent. "I said, Wake up!" He buried his knife into her thigh, just above her knee, to jolt her awake.

Raven jumps awake, screaming, and hears him say what Dean calls her, and she growls and looks up at him. "You son of a bitch what the hell do you want with me?! I should've fucking killed you! If I'm not going to kill you, the Winchester brothers will!" She screams, she feels nothing but anger in her chest, she feels something happening within he, but she doesn't know what it is yet

Dean slammed his fist down on Bobby's desk, not even able to look his guilty-looking brother in the eyes, "What part of 'she's being followed' got lost in that giant brain, huh?! You didn't think to say 'Raven, maybe I should go with you' or 'Raven...I think that's a bad idea?!" Sam flinched, not saying a word as he shook his head, "She said she wanted to be alone, Dean..." "Right. Because that's exactly what she needs right now. I'm going to get in my car. I'm going to go and find her because there is no world where she's still out there...without being in trouble." "I'll go with..." "No. You stay here in case she comes back. And you do your best not to burn the house down because one told you not to." Dean scolded him before stomping to the door and out to the Impala.

Back at the warehouse, Alex smiled widely at Raven's reaction. He placed one finger on the end of the knife handle and wiggled it back and forth with a hiss. "And how I would love to rip Dean Winchester's throat out with my own bare hands...or the big one, whichever one decides to test me. Unlike the others, I'm not afraid of the angels. I know that HE is coming to save us all..."

Raven looks at him confused "What the fuck are you talking about!? You are fucking crazy let me the fuck go! You don't want to mess with me and my boys, Alex! You will get fucked up if you hurt me more!" She yells as she feels the knife in her thigh. She grips her fist tightly, trying to breathe through the pain and not pass out from blood loss. "You'll find out what I mean, trust me. Those boys will fail to save them. They will fail, and the seals will be broken...and then he is coming. And he will be happy to see you, his perfect little creation." Alex sneered at her, tapping the knife with the palm of his hand to drive it further into her leg, before stepping back and clapping his hands. "What do you wanna do, hmm? Should we play games? Chase? Pin cushion? Pray to the angels?" He teased, as one of the demons in a dark corner quickly exited the building as if running toward something. The quiet rumbling of the Impala could be heard as Dean passed the building while looking for Raven.

Raven looks at him in horror as she screams in pain and hears him say something about the perfect little creation. "What the hell are you talking about? Perfect little creation?" She says afraid to know what he's talking about, she struggles in her binding, and she clearly can't get out of it. Raven hears the rumbling of the Impala as tears come to her eyes knowing Dean is near trying to find her she simply smirks at him through the pain "You're so dead You're fucked, Alex!" She yells

Dean rolled his window down, trying to listen for any sound that might be out of place in the sleepy downtown area. It was getting late, so most sounds should carry. As if in the queue, Dean heard a high-pitched scream that he couldn't place. He whipped the car around and drove a bit slower, pulling up to a curb. He shut the car off and stepped out, sliding Ruby's knife from his belt. "You have no idea what you are, do you? Maybe we need to bring it out! How do we bring it out?!" Alex cackled as the lights flickered above him, only making him laugh louder. "How do we...turn it on?" Just as he finished his words, a scuffle broke out by the door, and Alex's eyes shot up toward it. He quickly ran around behind Raven, seeing the flashing of one of his guards dying and Dean Winchester's silhouette standing there. "And we didn't invite you!" Alex yelled. Dean said nothing, simply walking across the room at a slow and deliberate pace right as Alex managed to untie the last knot. He yanked Raven from the chair, knife still in her thigh, and held her to his chest with his hand around her throat. "Stay there. I will snap her neck."

Raven looks at Alex, looks at him in horror,r glares growls, groans in pain, and limps as he yanks her out of the chair and whimpers in pain from putting pressure on the leg that has the knife in it. "Dean. I love you." She says weakly as she closes her eyes, feeling Alex has her by her throat. If anything happens to Dean she is going to get pissed and Alex might kill her this time not unless what he was saying earlier about her being a perfect creature and turning it on like bringing it out of her she needs to figure it out before anything else bad happens. "I'm not gonna come any closer, but..." Dean started the cocky tone of his voice oozing with confidence as he flicked blood from the end of Ruby's knife and came into the light, a small trickle of blood trailing from his nose. "But wouldn't you rather be the demon who killed Dean Winchester? Why don't you fight me like a man, eh?" "Oh, you know that's tempting." Alex teased, but Dean simply shrugged with a smirk. "I ain't gettin' any younger and we got nothin' but time. Come on. Drop the girl, and let me have it." Dean coaxed Alex. After a few deep breaths of excitement, Alex tossed Raven to the side and rushed Dean, taking him off his feet with a grunt. As Dean's back hit the ground, Ruby's knife slid away from him, and Alex headbutted Dean in the forehead.

Raven looks at him, shaking her head, "Dean, no!" She falls to the ground and groans in pain, still having the knife in her thigh. She sees what's happening to Dean, she groans as she puts her hand on the ground trying to stabilize herself, but she falls to the ground again in pain. She starts to get pissed as she puts both her hand flat on the ground she sits up on her knees as she starts to feel something inside her ignite. Her eyes start to glow purple, her angel wing tattoo on her back starts to glow purple as well her hands start to form a glow of purple. She looks down at her hands, glowing purple, she looks up at Alex slowly with a smirk.

Dean landed a single heavy blow to Alex's face, but being a demon, Alex shook it off and began punching Dean, settling with his knees on either side of Dean's hips. Dean twisted, rolling onto his stomach and desperately crawling toward Ruby's knife. As his fingers brushed it, he saw the light from Raven glow on the walls around them, and he furrowed his brow, looking up toward the ceiling, half expecting Castiel to be there. Raven continues to smirk, and the purple light that comes off of her shines brighter than the light that explodes from her body as her black angel wings come out of her back. "Get away from him now!" She yells as she stands up, now she doesn't have the knife in her thigh anymore, she healed the wounds that she sustained from Alex during her torture.

Dean covered his eyes as the familiar blast of light from an angel lit up the room. He clutched Ruby's knife to his chest and curled up to protect his face. Alex turned around, his eyes burning as he stood and laughed. "I was right!" He cried out in agony, fear, and excitement. Dean realized his eyes weren't burning if he lowered his arms. So he stood on the ground, stepped up behind Alex, and drove the knife up through his ribs, causing him to flash and scream. "He's coming!" Dean frowned at the words of the demon, as he dropped him to the ground and gasped for air, standing with the bloody knife clutched in his hand so tight his knuckles were white. He didn't look up, but kept his eyes on the floor, staring at the ground in front of Raven's feet.

Raven stood there breathing heavily realizing what she was she closed her eyes shaking her head having the purple light fade away from her hands and eyes, she fell to her knees as her wings dissipated she looked down putting her hand on the ground in front of her she couldn't even look at Dean she realizes that she one of the monsters that they have been hunting all their lives. She wanted to question Alex about who created her and who was coming. She still doesn't know exactly what she is.

Dean didn't know what to say as he stood there, but slowly, he raised his eyes to look at the top of Raven's head. He loosened his grip on the knife, bringing it up to wipe it on his shirt, and then placed it back in his belt with a sigh. He tried to find the words, something to try and break the ice that had formed in the room. It was still Raven, right? "Raven?" He whispered, stepping over Alex's body and carefully approaching her. Raven's tears ran down her cheeks as she started to get overwhelmed in her mind by everything she ever questioned. The dream she always had was her falling from the sky, it wasn't a dream, it was a memory. "I'm a monster... I have been a monster this whole time... I don't know what I am..." She says softly, sobbing as she keeps her head down, can't look at De, and she doesn't want to see how he looks at her now, knowing what just happened.

Dean wanted to shake his head, but he wasn't sure what he was feeling. He didn't know what she was or what part of her could be dangerous. At the same time, he could barely remember a time when he didn't know her. He knew her. She would never hurt him."I'm...um. You're not a monster, Raven. I don't know what you are, but you could never be a monster. Not you." He cooed to her as he squatted in front of her, reaching a shaky hand out toward her hair.

Raven looks up at him, slightly seeing and feeling his shaky hand.nd "But you're afraid of me, you're shaking. Dean, I'm not dangerous to you or anyone I love I would never hurt anybody. I just found out bout me not being fully human.n you think I hurt you? I wouldn't hurt you in any way, but I'm still a monster, I'm the thing we were taught how to hunt our whole lives." She says she holds herself tightly, "I know you would never hurt me. I'm...I'm shaking because it's a bit of an um...a shock to the system, you know? And I would be lying if I said it's not a bit scary. But I'm not afraid of you." Dean explained to her, flexing his shaky hand before leaning down a little more to where he was almost lying down near her. He tried to find her eyes as he did so. "This seems to be different from what we have hunted...like the angels."

Raven looks into his eyes and takes a deep breath in relief that Dean wasn't afraid of her. "It's not just angels Dean it's also demons whoever HE is Alex said I was 'his perfect little creation' meaning I may have angel wings but I'm also something else and both angels and demons know bout me some way and Castiel knows be wouldn't say what I was back at the house. We need to find out what I am." She says as she calms down, she slowly and gently puts her hand on his cheek. "I'm so glad you came to save me. I'm sorry I left and put myself in this situation." She says softly, feeling guilty for doing what she did, but she is just glad Aleisas is dead and dealt with; now they have a bigger problem to deal with. Who is 'HE'?

Chapter 12

[trickstarbrave]

Why would an ethics committee not approve of it even if you had their full consent?

oh jeez

context: this is about tags i left on a post where it was like "if you could 100% be certain human flesh was ethically sources, full consent of the person, and they were in no pain and you wouldnt get sick, would you eat it"

in college we asked this very question, but took it a step further--most accounts we have of people who have well, eaten other people we done far less ethically or for survival. like, starving to death and all your companions are dead so you have to eat them, or serial killers who decide to cook and eat victims. all knowledge is based on that which we cannot entirely prove, there is no 100% true objectivity, blah blah, but we can all agree these ppl are like. less objective than the average person right. serial killers and murderers can and will lie or have smth seriously fucked up with them, ppl who are starving will prob think anything is fine enough, you get the picture

so, hypothetically, "what if we tried to be more objective about it to get less biased interpretations of how human meat would taste without having to like, murder someone or scavenge someone without their consent?" bc there are ppl who would be down to help. there are ppl who are into being eaten, even. we have the technology to make sure it is as painless as possible like with sedated surgery, or after they pass from unrelated means.

we were then told by our professor "no actual reputable ethics committee (which you have to go through as part of scientific study validation like, before you can even do the experiment) would approve that". queue 20 out of 35 anthropology undergrads being actually distraught by this trying to argue it. we even asked "well what if we did it with our own flesh? what if we got a part of our own body surgically removed and cooked and ate it, would they stop us then?"

the reasons why no ethics committee would approve it is because their job is primarily harm reduction. if you have looked into basically any social experiments, you'll know just what nightmares they could be before we had ethics committees, no informed consent (or consent at all), outright lying to ppl involved, putting them in direct harms way, leading to their deaths... you get the picture. consent is only ONE part of harm reduction.

"but shouldnt people be allowed to consent to things that might 'harm' them? we all do stuff that can potentially blow up in our faces. should we ban sky diving because you might die during it?" i do agree people have the right to consent to things that might harm them, like tattoos hurt, BDSM can hurt, you can die sky diving or storm chasing... part of our freedom as ppl is we can choose to do it. the issue isn't that people are too stupid to consent to stuff, its just scientific institutions shouldn't be incentivizing research that puts people in harms way. doing so can lead to more and more wildly careless experiments being conducted just for the thrill of more publicity and exposure, putting more and more people at risk. including if that risk is to researcher wanting to do it. even if you have the full consent of everyone involved "lets just do this wildly fucked up, risky, and uncommon thing just to see what fucking happens" is not a mindset you wanna breed in scientific circles. we saw what that line of thinking has done in the past, and it was awful

because like, eating a person while easy as an abstract hypothetical, involves a lot of risk. human to human transmission of diseases are high. there could be complications we dont even know of yet bc most people dont commit cannibalism for good reason evolutionary. someone has to handle it properly, cook it basically contaminating a bunch of cooking equipment, and instead of it being a guarantee you just have to hop you dont get sick. and if its with someone else there is like, the question of "how can you PROVE someone consented to this" because while there was a case of some guy "consenting" to being killed and eaten the story was actually twisted and the man hadn't consented to dying and having his whole body eaten. most ppl who say theyre into it would probably chicken out at the actual process, which like, no shame in that.

tl;dr: an ethics committee's job is to stop fucked up shit from happening in a way that is scientifically validated and incentivized to prevent future atrocities from taking place, they arent gonna approve your fucked up experiment to eat human meat just bc you wanna fuck around and find out. as much as we all kinda wish they would just a little. if you can find the people who really want to and can make it happen on your own time i guess sure why not but good luck with that and not getting arrested

[deficd]

@vuulpecula sent “Where she stops...” || Bruises

First there is the pain, and it is so clean and white-hot that Vera thinks she is new-forged in it, as if the violence was a kiln and she’d been poured into a brittle, charred mold.

A warm-blooded memory of the sight from underneath, the ceiling fan carving the air into slices, Fox’s arm under her head, her own hair sticky and matted to her neck like the breath of a fever. But then the next moment, Fox’s voice— wet with sleep, lisping on the heavy sounds of her name— Vera, hey. The world crumbles into color and ache. She stands just outside the generator’s circle of light, shaking so hard it feels like the bones in her arms will rattle loose.

The wind smells of honeysuckle and gas. She is not crying, not yet, just trying to keep all the words in her head from spilling out in the wrong direction, because that happens sometimes, when she is afraid— her thoughts split, fork and tangle and congeal, running down her tongue in acid, in milk, in salt. Even now she feels the words queue up sharp and frantic behind her tongue, all smothered by the red-raw understanding of how near she came.

Her knuckles drum the door once, twice. Neutral, she hopes, impersonal, nothing-says-emergency-here. Then she lifts her right hand to the glimmering porchlight and studies the split skin, the puffy blue-black of her wrist, the fine latticework of bruises blooming fast as lichen. She can nearly hear her father's voice, sleeved in calm: Have you ever loved a dead thing?

Or worse, her mother’s: You’re a chalice, Vera. For giving or taking, but either way, empty in the end.

A blink, a door opening, and Fox’s mouth is moving, but Vera’s not sure the words are meant for her, or for the moonless sky, or for the memory of what she was before the last five minutes of a bleached date night, before the hand and the fist and the man with teeth like chipped piano keys. The man didn’t want her, not really— only the shape of her— no, the way it might sound if he could crack it open.

Vera’s shirt is ripped at the hem, the little daises torn into grimacing smiles. She can’t look at the scrapes, the artery-red track of skin where she’d hit the fence, or the soft and swelling meat of her cheek, already blooming into the ugly yellow and purple that means she’ll have to tell someone a convincing lie about how she fell.

And Fox is staring at her, owl-eyed, and suddenly Vera can’t do it, can’t be the story, just the body, just the ruins and the torn crust of what used to be her. She speaks her name so small it isn’t even a name anymore, just the vapor off a river, a nothing-sound that she hopes Fox catches anyway.

“Fox—”

[glimblogus]

hello

obligatory outdated pinned post. go to my strawpage for info

my mostly-art blog/main blog here: glimborgus

you can expect me to post about stupid bullshit here. nothing of value. this is where i reblog to hell amd back. no queue we spam like men

tws on this blog for fake/illustrated blood and occasionally suggestive content. scopophobia aswell. maybe rants

i reblog aggressively and carelessly here. beware.

my primary interests are as follows:

captain lazerhawk: a blood dragon remix

project zomboid

decaying winter

the walking dead (tv and early telltale games)

ultrakill

madness combat

pretty blood

clowns

call of duty i guess

beastars

body horror and sci-fi

i love my wife

blinkies and stamps credit below :))

men's tits one

biohazard

MEAT

rainbow and hot pink

fat is beautiful

all madcom stamps

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 7 EPISODE 08 || TURNING POINTS||

#83daysofoutlander☆

“HAMBURGER,” I SAID under my breath, but not far enough under. He raised an eyebrow at me.“Chopped meat,” I elaborated, and the eyebrow fell.“Oh, aye, it is. Stopped a sword stroke wi’ my hand. Too bad I didna have a targe; I could have turned the stroke, easy.”“Right.” I swallowed. It wasn’t the worst injury I’d seen, by a long shot, but it still made me slightly sick. The tip of his fourth finger had been sheared off cleanly, at an angle just below the nail. The stroke had sliced a strip of flesh from the inside of the finger and ripped down between the third and fourth fingers.“You must have caught it near the hilt,” I said, trying for calm. “Or it would have taken off the outside half of your hand.”“Mmphm.” The hand didn’t move as I prodded and poked, but there was sweat on his upper lip, and he couldn’t keep back a brief grunt of pain.“Sorry,” I murmured automatically.“It’s all right,” he said, just as automatically. He closed his eyes, then opened them.“Take it off,” he said suddenly.“What?” I drew back and looked at him, startled.He nodded at his hand.“The finger. Take it off, Sassenach.”“I can’t do that!” Even as I spoke, though, I knew that he was right. Aside from the injuries to the finger itself, the tendon was badly damaged; the chances of his ever being able to move the finger, let alone move it without pain, were infinitesimal.“It’s done me little good in the last twenty years,” he said, looking at the mangled stump dispassionately, “and likely to do no better now. I’ve broken the damned thing half a dozen times, from its sticking out like it does. If ye take it off, it willna trouble me anymore, at least.”I wanted to argue, but there was no time; wounded men were beginning to drift up the slope toward the wagon. The men were militia, not regular army; if there was a regiment near, there might be a surgeon with them, but I was closer.“Once a frigging hero, always a frigging hero,” I muttered under my breath. I thrust a wad of lint into Jamie’s bloody palm and wrapped a linen bandage swiftly around the hand. “Yes, I’ll have to take it off, but later. Hold still.”“Ouch,” he said mildly. “I did say I wasna a hero.”“If you aren’t, it isn’t for lack of trying,” I said, yanking the linen knot tight with my teeth. “There, that will have to do for now; I’ll see to it when I have time.” I grabbed the wrapped hand and plunged it into the small basin of alcohol and water.He went white as the alcohol seeped through the cloth and struck raw flesh. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, but didn’t say anything more. I pointed peremptorily at the blanket I had spread on the ground, and he lay back obediently, curling up under the shelter of the wagon, bandaged fist cradled against his breast.I rose from my knees, but hesitated for a moment. Then I knelt again and hastily kissed the back of his neck, brushing aside the queue of his hair, matted with half-dried mud and dead leaves. I could just see the curve of his cheek; it tightened briefly as he smiled and then relaxed.

62 ONE JUST MAN ~An Echo in the Bone