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moondirti · 3 days

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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whatswrongwithblue · 2 days

Text

Girl Talk

Part Two of my Imagines with Angel Dust.

“So Alastor, he’s like all . . .” Angel Dust made strange gestures with his hands above his head, his thumbs pressed to his hair and fingers splayed out, and you were fairly certain he was trying to mimic antlers growing. “. . . murder-y and shit right? Even if he’s at the hotel, you can’t expect us to believe he’s stopped doing all that.”

It was late at night and you and Angel were at the bar, keeping Husk company, and nursing a couple of cocktails.

Alastor had disappeared hours ago, which wasn’t unusual, but it was getting late. You weren’t letting yourself be worried just yet, he was the Radio Demon after all, and could certainly take care of himself. But you couldn’t help being a little on edge. Alastor always came home but still. He could give you an idea of where he had gone off to and what he was doing when he took off like this.

“Why, are you going to tattle to Charlie if I say he is?” you said, a little too defensively.

“Hey, I ain’t no rat,” Angel said, also defensive. “I’m just trying to figure the guy out.”

“He’s still the Radio Demon,” you respond vaguely.

“Oh well that tells me everything.” Angel rolled his eyes.

Husk chuckled, wiping a glass dry.

“He’s a serial killer and a cannibal. The day that guy stops doing all that is the day I’ll stop drinking and gambling.”

You scowl over the rim of your cocktail.

“You make him sound like a monster when you say it like that.”

Husk raised an eyebrow at you.

“Excuse me if I ain’t your boytoy’s number one fan. ‘Sides, not like anything I said wasn’t true.”

“Hey, he’s not out their killing all willy nilly, right?” Angel offered. “I mean, I pissed him off the other day and he let me go. Val woulda done way worse. So that means he’s got a type, I’m assuming? Like a uh . . . a demographic . . . of people he kills. If you ain’t that, he’ll still be creepy and fucking weird, but you’re probably safe.”

“Probably,” you smirk.

“Whatever,” Husk said with a grumble, and threw his towel over his shoulder, turning his back on the two of you.

“So, about those tentacles-“

“No,” you snapped, cutting off Angel’s sentence before it could be finished.

“Oh come on! You can’t leave me hanging like that!”

You just rolled your eyes and sighed, taking another sip of your drink.

“Oh . . . hanging, now there’s a thought,” Angel pressed on. “So suspensory play, huh? I bet those are really fun for that. Just how talented is the guy with those things? Because I bet with some practice, you could even use them for some interesting kind of Shibari. Or is he unimaginative and just shoves them right up your-“

“Angel, seriously, did you not learn your lesson last time?”

“Oh I learned my lesson all right. I learned how hot it is. So c’mon, admit it,” he teased, leaning closer to you, “you guys are into bondage.”

You laughed, unable to hide the sly smile on your face, but said nothing.

“I guess it makes sense,” Angel continued, “the guy does own souls. He’s probably gotta have that type of control in the bedroom.”

“You just go ahead and let your imagination run wild, my friend,” you said with a giggle.

“Baby, my imagination can run marathons,” Angel bragged. Then suddenly, he turned serious and looked over at you. “Wait, does he own your soul?”

Husk turned around and both men were now looking at you. Knowing both of their predicaments, you almost felt bad for your answer.

“No,” you said quietly.

“NO?!” Angel yelled, slapping his hand down on the bar counter.

‘No,” you repeated.

“But . . . but, that’s what he does. I mean, he even owns Niffty’s soul. So why are you with him-“

“Angel,” you interrupted, putting your hand on his arm. “I’m with him because I love him. Because I choose to be.” You said your words firmly, making sure your point was crystal clear. “And anyway, Alastor’s not the type to sleep with a soul he owns. It’s hard to explain his twisted moral code but he would think that was rude . . . or abusive . . . or just trashy. No offense.”

You knew about Angel’s forced and strained deal with Valentino and felt awkward, exposing the stark differences between your relationship and theirs.

“If I was making him sound like a monster, you’re making him sound like a fucking angel,” Husk said.

“Fair,” you agreed. “So, he’s complicated. But so am I.”

“So you really are into monster fucking. Got it,” Angel said, sounding deadly serious but when you looked at him, you saw the hint of a smile beginning to spread across his face.

“Wellllll,” you said, drawing out the word and giving Angel a side eye, “sometimes he has to blow off some steam. And those antlers are great for holding onto for balance.”

Angel choked on the drink he was taking a sip from.

“Now we’re talking,” Angel replied, eagerly leaning towards you again.

You held up a finger, stopping Angel from invading your space anymore. “That’s more than enough information for now.”

“Let me get this straight. He’s got the tentacles, he’s got the antlers,” Angel listed, holding up a finger for each item on his list. He held up a third finger, looking at you and tilting his head expectantly. “Say, you ever have a threesome with his shadow?”

You felt your face heating up, desperately trying to keep your composure and think of a witty response that wouldn’t give anything more away than your expression was, when thankfully you were saved by the front doors of the hotel slamming open.

Alastor walked in, his usual confident walk more of an exhausted shuffle, and he was covered head to toe in blood and the occasional clump or string of viscera.

“Holy shit buddy,” Angel exclaimed, “looks like you bit off more than you can chew.”

“I’m fine,” Alastor huffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Splendid, really. Just need some cleaning up.”

“Do you need any help?” you asked, sounding more flirty than concerned.

“Down girl,” Alastor replied and tapped you on the head with his microphone as he strode past you. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”

He evaporated into shadow as he reached the staircase.

“If he could just do that, then why’d he have to make a show of walking through the front doors?” Angel complained, “He left bloody footprints all over the lobby!”

“That’s Al’ for you,” Husk said, “Always gotta be dramatic.”

You sat in silence, ignoring the two men’s banter and you gripped the glass of your cocktail, staring at it as if it had your entire focus.

A few moments went by where no one said anything and the lull in conversation became awkward.

“You don’t have to stay down here, you know,” Angel offered. “I can tell you want to go sexually attack him.”

You nodded. “I need to go lick every inch of that man clean,” you said and headed upstairs.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #angel dust #hazbin angel dust #angel dust x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel fic #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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reylinalloro · 2 days

Text

Yandere Cannibal x Reader

warning: this post contains mentions of cannibalism, stalking, murder, kidnapping

Since you were little, you were particularly fond of horror and the abnormal. It’s one of the main reasons why you got into writing, there were just so many things that you wanted to create and get more people into this fantastical genre.

And you actually became quite popular in your late twenties, so popular in fact, that you even could host book signings at different libraries. It filled you with joy that so many people praised your work and creativity. Remembering bitterly about your childhood and how every single one that you told about your interests being disgusted or worried about your mental health.

There was this particular guy that stood out to you. He never tried to talk to you or to anybody, but you saw him at every book signing and noticed him leaving a 5 star review on every single one of your books, even the ones that flopped.

Last time you saw him, you finally decided to strike a conversation with him.

"I noticed you always coming to my book signings, you love my books that much ?" I said handing it back to him.

"You have no idea, I would kill for your you if it was necessary"

"Dark humour, I love to see it !"

And just like that, he went off. You assumed you would never see him again, since you announced to your manager that you wanted to take a break from your public life and spend more time to yourself and reconnect with your family. But oh boy were you wrong about everything. So so wrong…

When you returned home, you followed the exact same routine that you followed every time: you took a shower, you dressed in your pyjamas, made yourself a quick dinner and then drifted to sleep. If you knew that it would never be like this, you would have probably given a call to your mum and dad.

You woke up the next day, packed your bags and headed to the country side where your parents lived. It was a long journey, and you got exhausted by the end of it, but seeing your childhood home made me instantly feel at ease.

You entered and called out to your parents, but neither of them answered. Instead, you saw a man with a face mask dressed in a uniform heading towards you.

"Hello miss, you must be the daughter of the Y/S’s I presume ?"

"Yeah…You are the the new butler right ?"

"Yes ! Your parents aren’t home yet, you can get comfortable while I finish preparing dinner"

You nodded and let him continue what he was doing. It was unusual for your parents to stay out so late, but you figured since it was the weekend you couldn’t really blame them. You took a quick shower and changed into some more comfortable clothes. Your parents were still not home. You were begging to worry.

You walked down to the dining room and the butler was down there, with the dinner already on the table. You took a seat and began eating the meat. It tasted weird on your tongue and didn’t ressemble anything that you’ve tested before.

"What kind of meat is this ?"

"Hm… If I remember correctly… this one is your father"

At first you thought that you didn’t hear quite correctly. You looked at the butler, begging with my eyes to tell what kind. He still answered the same.

Your whole body began shaking and my vision suddenly blurred. I didn’t know what to do. This man, this monster got into my home and cooked my family. Did he take this position just to eat them. Was he waiting for me and do the same to me ? Did he seriously kill my parents to who I just talked yesterday ?

I saw him from the corner of my eye take of his mask and I stopped breathing for a second. It was the fan that I talked to yesterday.

"Are you glad to see me ? Are you happy that I kept my promise ?"

Suddenly, your body got a rush of adrenaline and you ran towards the door. You were this close to freedom when I felt him pulling my hair towards him. I felt something hard against my skull before everything went dark.

You woke up the next day, tied to a wooden chair. Your whole body began shaking, you were scared for your life. You didn’t understand why would someone would want to harm you. What did you do for him to such lengths as to kill your parents ?

You then heard the door creaking, signalling that he was coming in. You lifted up my head to find him smiling down at you, like he had accomplished something extraordinary.

"Hi darling~ I hope you slept well. Does your leg hurt ?"

You didn't understand what he meant, so you looked down to check. You screamed in horror to what I say. That bastard laughed at your reacion, finding amusement in your misery.

"Silly me, how can something hurt if it's been amputated. Well, to be more precise, eaten"

#tw yandere #tw yancore #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling #yancore #yanderecore #yandere male #male yandere #yandere cannibal x reader

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doodleferp · 2 days

Text

So I got my mom into The Walking Dead and I thought I’d post about her journey so far

Her favorite character is Judith hands down

She cried when Amy died

She screamed as much as Lori did when Judith was born

She was VERY interested in Daryl holding Judith

We got a scream when Patricia got mobbed, and an “oh, no…” when we learned what happened to Duane

Merle and Andrea were her least favorite characters until they both died. She was also terrified of Shane

She cried a LOT when Maggie was talking to Hershel while he was in his little leg coma because she lost her dad and it was hitting really hard

As of today we have

A shout when The Governor killed Martinez

A very loud gasp when The Governer killed Hershel

A full-body “OH, MY GOD!!!” when The Governor put down Meghan

Actually screaming at Rick to kill The Governor while they were fistfighting

A very loud “OH, NO” when she believed Judith was dead

She kept asking if Rick was dead while he was passed out in the house

We had a very interesting discussion about who was living in the house where Carl got the pudding

A brief intermission so she could do work and the entire time she kept asking me about the prison bus that was supposed to have Glenn on it and she was REALLY upset that something might’ve happened to Judith

When we picked up at like 8 PM she was ELATED to discover that Judith was okay. Then she started yelling at Tyreese for leaving the kids alone to go help someone

She’s terrified that Lizzie is gonna hurt Judith because “that girl has issues”

Side note, when Daryl and Beth found that massacre and she saw the kid’s show she was like “ARE THOSE THE KIDS??? ARE THOSE ALL THE KIDS?!?!” Despite the walkers and corpses being grown adults

She just saw the bus she wanted to see so bad and she even didn’t realize that it was the same bus

This woman turned 53 yesterday and her TWD journey is just beginning. She is already distrustful of Terminus but I can’t wait to see how she reacts to them being cannibals

EDIT: Mom enjoyed the middle finger house fire 🖕

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salty-ironstrange-shipper · 20 hours

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Hi. I saw this post asking for a fic that changed one's brain chemistry. Now there are a lot of fics I like; over 2000 bookmarked on ao3. And a lot of fics I love; I have 400+ of those fics tagged 'fave'. Of those 400, there are only around two dozen I would say legitimately changed me as a person. 1% changed the way I saw relationships and the world, changed the way I read and write. And I couldn't narrow it down to one - or ten - and didn't want to dump in OP's tags. So have this list of fics that permanently changed who I am as a person.

Warning: I love long fics, and some of these are the same specific tropes that I love or that really affect me personally (ex. arranged marriage). Expect angst, and especially angst with a happy ending. That said these fics are all objectively amazing.

(sorry to people who don't like long fics, but we are simply not the same. and that's OK.)

listed in order of fandom, then length.

Banshee In A Well - 43k, complete, DC, Tim Drake. Childhood trauma, childhood trauma, came back wrong/can't stop coming back! Tim is a little FREAK and I luv him.

straight on 'til morning - 102k, complete, DC, timkon/Kon-El. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly.

variations on a theme - 5k, complete, MCU, ironstrange. This is one of the fics that made me truly love ironstrange. Stephen sees through millions of possibilities and in doing so, falls in love with Tony. Evocative, beautiful, succinct.

The Art of Losing - 33k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. This fic made me cry. This fic BROKE MY HEART. And I WENT BACK TO IT. Multiple times! This is a breakup fic that breaks you down then puts you back together. You will come out different, and only you can say if it's for the worse or the better.

With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest) - 65k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. There are so many firstprince fics that essentially translate the events of the book into a different setting. And I love all of them. (My own fic, then fucking have me, also does this, self plug self plug self plug). I had to narrow this selection down to just one, and this is probably my absolute favorite.

You Don't Have To (Say Yes) - 192k, complete, Star Trek, spirk/Jim Kirk. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, again).

THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS - 262k, complete, Star Trek, spirk. Star Trek arranged marriage epistolary fic. I read this 4 years ago, and I STILL think of a line from this fic constantly (we're aligned, we're aligned, we're aligned). If you don't read anything else for the rest of your life, read this.

DON'T THE WAVES PULL THE SAND? DON'T THE MOON PULL THE TIDES? - 58k, complete, Star Wars, finnpoe. I don't even go here. And yet. And yet. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, AGAIN).

Not Part of the Plan - SERIES, 8 works, 337k, complete. Supernatural, destiel. This is an arranged marriage fic au series, that started with a oneshot pwp, and somehow grew into a sprawling, world and character building EPIC. And that to me is always a marker of quality. You KNOW it's good if the author couldn't stop themselves.

wander your own land - 379k, incomplete, Yellowjackets, shaunajackie and others. I told you I like long fics. Girl survival situationships, cannibalism, jealousy, cabin fever, hallucinations, trying to keep a fucking baby alive in some of the worst possible circumstances.

Infinite Variations of a Summer Day - 76k, complete, X-Men, Pietro Maximoff. I love Pietro, he is one of my favorite characters of all time, and this is such a great character fic. See Pietro slowly driven insane in a time loop that examines his relationships with himself, his team, his family, and his powers.

drop your own recs in the notes. and if you have any suggestions for griddlehark/the locked tomb, pLEA- *gunshots*

#fandom #fanfiction #fic recs #incorrect-ironstrange #tim drake #timkon #kon el #conner kent #ironstrange #firstprince #spirk #finnpoe #destiel #yellowjackets #shaunajackie #pietro maximoff

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thoscheienjoyer · 2 days

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'One hiker suggests cannibalism WAY too soon ' but it's with The Deca when they were going up that mountain together that one time

Theta: Okay I think we took a wrong turn on the fork here but it's fine, I think if we just sort of cut back we should be able to hit the top of the mountain

Millennia: It's getting dark, I'm just a little worried that we might lose the trail at night

Theta: It's okay, there's a sign right here

Rallon: How much water do we have?

Ushas: I have like half of my flask

Theta: I have some but I'm not going to sugarcoat it, we're still like 10 miles out

Koschei: 10 miles? I'm starving

Theta: I think I have a granola bar maybe?

Koschei: I don't like granola

Millennia: I have some fruit loops

Koschei: No thank you, anything else?

Theta: I have some mints?

Koschei: I don't like mint

Ushas: You must not be that hungry then.

Koschei: I'm fucking starving

Theta: Okay we have to start walking

Koschei: Can I ask you a question? Am I your friend or not?

Theta: You're one of my oldest and best friends

Koschei: It's just like.. I'm really fucking hungry and I know you're my best friend and everything but I think I'm going to have to eat your hand at least

Theta: Excuse me-?

#the deca #doctor who #koschei #theta sigma #ushas #the rani #the doctor #the master #doctor who incorrect quotes #thoschei #academy era thoschei #doctor who academy era #the master doctor who #doctor x master #doctor who master #master doctor who

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crilbyte · 3 days

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💚🎙️Hunted🎙️💚

~Reader x Human!Alastor🪓

Part 1 𖦹 Part 2 𖦹 Part 3 𖦹 Part 4 𖦹 Part 5 𖦹 Part 6

Summary: Alastor begins picking off Members of the Tully family one by one. Everything is going perfectly until one night when you can't sleep...

Warnings/Promises: 16+, slow burn, abusive relationship, murder, violence, torture, cannibalism.

The look of joy on your face as you eat his cooking makes Alastor want to sing. He did at the dining room table, chin resting in one propped up hand while the other drums little rhythms into the wood. His grin can only be described as whimsical as he watches you eat. Every bite you take makes your eyes sparkle, your smile bigger. Eh barely stand it, the pleased noises you make at the flavor.

It made him positively *ravenous.*

It was curious. He'd only ever felt this way during a hunt before now. He reveled in the fact that you could bring him this feeling. He feels a very long and impactful partnership cementing.

“Am I to assume you are enjoying the gumbo, my dear?” He asks, tilting his head with a grin.

“Oh, *god* yes,” you respond with a moan. “Alastor, you've always been a good cook but this is positively *delicious*. What's the secret?”

*He can feel the life draining from his kill as the blood drains out of its neck and down his arm.*

“It's my mother's recipe,” he says, waving you off.

*The gurgling of final breaths delighting him as fingers grope uselessly at his chest.*

“It's more than that. You've made me gumbo before. This is… different.”

*The pleads for freedom sounding like a familiar tune, one he could hum in his sleep. The way they try to touch on his humanity, as though he'd ever had that to begin with.*

“You're really going to make me reveal my secrets?” He asks, playfully.

*The look in their eyes when they realize they're already dead, that there's still minutes left but they're already past the point of no return. That sudden loss of any hope.*

“If I can,” you giggle. “This is way too good. Whatever it is, you need to do it more often. I swear, I'll get fat.”

*The feeling of a freshly sharpened knife slicing through hot muscle, choosing only the finest cuts for his pot.*

“It's fresh meat,” he answers. “From my last hunt.”

*He licks his blade clean. Only the best for your supper.*

“Can I have seconds?” You ask, batting your eyelashes sweetly.

*The finest revenge.*

“Of course, my dear.” Alastor stands, taking your bowl to the kitchen and ladling out another portion for you. He brings it back, setting it on the table and watching gleefully as you begin to happily dig in.

They had attempted to destroy you. Destroy your life…

It was only fair that now they should help sustain it…

The first two weeks Alastor went out every night. He did research, reconnaissance, and a fair bit of stalking. On the 13th day, ironically enough, Alastor found himself the perfect opportunity. He had been following Reggie, learning his routine. He wasn't a Tully, but he had dared to disclose your location to their filthy sights, so he'd have to go too.

It wasn't even difficult. He caught him on the way out of another speakeasy. The idiot was so blotto that he didn't even have to knock him out to get him back to his cabin. He dragged the sad sap into the woods and into the confines of his shed, the last four walls he would ever see, and tied him down. He’d wanted to take his time with him but it had been so long since he'd last gone hunting that he couldn't seem to hold himself back.

He had made a wonderful jambalaya. His meat lasted a good few weeks.

His next victim had been your darling sister in law. She was especially fun. He'd happened upon her walking home from the shops in the rain. Being the gentleman he was, he offered her a ride. She begged quite a bit, but she stopped after he inquired just how many times you had asked for her help? And what her answer had been? From them on she only screamed and cried. Still a pleasant serenade.

He found great joy in reporting on the string of strange disappearances happening in their quaint quarters of New Orleans. Giving false leads and wild tales of each victim and how they may have gone. It was the best ratings he'd ever gotten. Win-Win.

This song and dance went on for some time, he would pick off once of the Tully's, slowly climbing the tree until he would reach your dear sweet brother in law. He would bring them back to his shed and torture them a bit, making sure they knew just who it was they had wronged, he would wait until they begged for forgiveness and gleefully tell them, “*No.*” Before killing them and butchering their meat for the coming weeks and reporting their disappearance on his show.

Some lasted longer than others, your mother in law lasting almost a month and a half, cow that she was. But it wasn't until he had caught one of your nephews that he ran into any real trouble.

Alastor chuckles as he enters the shed, the smell of blood and sweat immediately filling his nostrils, mingling in a delicious mixture. His eyes fall on the boy, squirming on a makeshift table, his skin pale and bruised, a living mass of pain; he squirms languidly, his legs already gone and harvested. Alastor steps closer, his grin widening as he sees the fear in the boy's eyes, the trembling of his body. He leans down, letting his breath tickle the boy's neck. His fingers slowly play with a piece of a rope that bound him tightly.

"Anything to say for yourself...?" he asks, pulling the gag from his lips.

"Why are you doing this...?" he asks weakly.

Alastor chuckles softly, his breath brushing against the boy's cheek, his voice oozing with a strange sense of charm mixed with danger, intrigue and... affection?

"My dear boy... Why do you think?"

"It's her... it's her fault..." he says with venom, referring to you.

Alastor's facial expression changes, an almost imperceptible flicker of anger in his gaze. His grip on the rope tightens.

"Her?" he asks coldly, slowly leaning closer to the boy. Every word is heavy and deliberate: "What do you know of her pain..."

"She deserved what she got," he spits. "She killed my uncle!"

Alastor's eyes narrow, and she could almost swear they glinted dangerously. His voice takes on an icy edge.

"You dare speak of her as if she were the monster? She defended herself. I'm sorry he didn't suffer more... suffer like you will..." Alastor says, shoving the gag back into his mouth.

The boy pulls at his restraints as you make to carve off more edible cuts of meat from him. Alastor pauses in amusement at the sight of the boy struggling against his restraints, "You're not going anywhere," Alastor says in a matter-of-fact tone, before he continues carving more meat, this time from the boy's arm.

Between the rain and the muffled cries from the boy, Alastor is too engulfed in his work to hear your approach. It isn't until he sees the new source of light in the room that he turns to see you standing there in your nightgown, dripping wet. You hold a lantern in your hand and a mortified look on your face.

"A... Alastor...?" You say in a small voice.

Alastor blinks, surprised by your sudden presence, dropping the knife on the floor with a clatter. He quickly stands up and walks towards you, wiping his blood-stained hands on his apron, trying—and failing—to put on a reassuring smile.

"Ah, you startled me,” he says in an attempt at a light-hearted tone.

Your eyes flash between him and the boy on his table behind him, your hands quivering.

"W-what is this...?" You squeak out. "Who..." You begin to ask before he sees the recognition in your eyes. "Jonny?" You say the boy's name and his heart drops.

Alastor's eyes widen as he realizes that you recognize the boy on the table, his smile faltering. He tries to think of an excuse, but words fail him, his mind faltering at the sight of the fear in your eyes. He moves closer to you, trying to shield your line of vision from Jonny, his body language a protective one.

"No, no," he murmurs softly, shaking his head gently. "I can explain everything."

"Where are his legs!?" you demand, the loudest you’ve been yet.

He can hear the desperation in your voice, see it in you as you tear your gaze away from the horror behind him and look into his eyes. He can see that you're begging him for an excuse, for anything.

Alastor feels a chill run down his spine. He takes a deep breath and places a hand on your shoulder, trying to steady you as he speaks, his mind racing for a believable answer, but can't seem to come up with one.

You look down to the knife he'd just been holding before scanning the shed, seeing all the preserved meat. He watches as the gears turn in your head, as you put two and two together and your eyes widen impossibly further. Alastor can see the realization dawning in your eyes, and he braces himself for your reaction. He tightens his grip on your shoulder, trying to keep you grounded.

"Please, just listen to me," he repeats, his voice softer now.

You look back up at him, your breath coming quicker as you start to hyperventilate. Alastor's eyes widen as he sees the fear in your face, feeling a pang of guilt for putting you in this situation.

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this," he says, his voice almost a whisper. He tries to pull you into a hug, hoping that it will help calm you down, but you flinch away, tripping backwards and falling to the ground.

"You- you were dressing a deer! You-no-you- o-our stock of meat...!?" He watches you look around the room once more before your hand raises to cover your mouth. He quickly moves to your side, trying to help you up.

"Please, let me explain," he says, his voice wavering.

You quickly turn away from him, vomiting up every last ounce of what was in your stomach. As it slows, you look down to see your dinner from that night, partially digested brisket.

Brisket?

The realization makes you vomit once more, but with nothing left to come up you find yourself just heaving. Alastor's stomach churns at the sight of you vomiting. He feels a deep sense of guilt and shame, knowing that he is responsible for your reaction.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, over and over again. He reaches up with a rag to try and wipe your mouth, to help.

You look down and see the blood soaked rag and pull away, quickly scuttling back and away.

“P-please,” you beg. "Don't hurt me..."

Alastor's heart breaks at your words, the fear and desperation in your voice tearing him apart.

"No, no, I would never hurt you!" he cries out, moving closer to you with his hands raised in a peaceful gesture. "Please, trust me. I love you."

It's the first time he's ever said the words; that either of you has, and it hits you like a freight train. Large tears form in your eyes, rolling silently down your cheeks as you stare at Alastor. His heart races as he sees the tears in your eyes. He moves closer to you, trying to reach out and take your hands in his.

"I love you," he repeats, whispering it this time. He wants to comfort you, to hold you and never let go. "Please..."

You turn quickly, scrambling to your feet before you dart for the door. You slam into it with your whole body and dash towards the woods. Alastor's heart sinks as he sees you go. He knows he has made a mistake. His obsession and possessiveness have taken over and now you’re scared of him.

"Wait!" he shouts after you, rising and giving chase.

Your bare feet are numb from the cold of the night. You don't even notice as they're scraped by the rough forest floor. The tree branches reach out and snag at your skin and nightclothes, making little cuts on your face and arms, little rips in the cloth, but you keep running.

Alastor's breath comes in ragged gasps as he follows you into the woods. He knows he has made a mistake, that his actions have frightened you. He can see as you stumble, tripping over felled branches as you run, desperate to escape him and it tears at his heart. Luckily you don't know these woods as well as he does, having grown up in them, and he quickly closes the distance between you.

Alastor watches in horror as you trip painfully, scraping up the palms of your hands as you try to catch yourself. Heartbroken and full of regret, he quickly closes the distance between you. You look behind to see him only feet away and begin to scramble in an attempt to get away.

"No!" You yell as you crawl along the ground. Alastor's movements are a blur as he launches himself forward, pinning you beneath his body.

"Please..." he begs, holding your wrists down with one hand while the other reaches out to tenderly cup your cheek. "Just listen!"

"No!" You cry out, thrashing in an attempt to escape.

This position isn't unfamiliar to him, Alastor had held prey he'd hunted before like this, the comparison is upsetting to him, not wanting to think of you like that. It's devastating, and he can feel a surge of guilt rising in him.

"Please!" You scream, "Please don't!"

"No, no... I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you." His heart shatters, your cries of distress and fear piercing him like a knife. He releases your wrists, instead grabbing your shoulders and pulling you into an embrace in a desperate attempt to comfort you, as well as keep himself from causing you further harm. "Stop... please..."

You fight him, trying to break his vice like hold, but it's no use. He keeps you held tight to him until your breathing turns to sobs and you grow too tired to fight.

Alastor clings to you as tight as he can, as if trying to absorb the pain and fear emanating from your sobs. Each breath shakes him with guilt, his body trembling.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean for you to see... Please forgive me..."

Your sobs become wails as you cry into his chest, eventually hugging Alastor back, clinging desperately to him as though he was the only thing left holding you onto the earth.

Alastor lets out a sigh of relief, his body sagging as he feels you beginning to cling to him.

"Shh... It's okay... I've got you." He murmurs comforting words into your ear, rubbing your back soothingly, trying to ease your pain.

You both stay like this, for how long, you're unsure, but eventually you begin to still; sniffles taking the place of your sobs as you begin to calm down. Alastor kisses the top of your head as he continues to hold you close, his fingers slowly working through your hair.

"I've got you, I've got you." He repeats the words, hoping to reassure you as he feels your body relax against his.

"Why..." You finally push out, your face still pressed to his chest.

Alastor's breath hitches as he hears your broken question, his hand freezing on your hair for a moment before he continues to run his fingers through it. His free hand moves to rest on the back of your head, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

"Because they deserve it," he answers.

"What...?" You look up at him.

Alastor's gaze darkens as he meets your reddened eyes, his thumb still gently brushing your cheek.

"They hurt you." He whispers, his voice deep and low. "They condemned you to that monster of a man. They deserve to feel the pain you felt."

You look back and forth between his eyes trying to register if he's telling the truth. Alastor's gaze remains steady, his hand shifting to tilt your chin up so that you're forced to meet his eyes.

"I would never lie to you." He murmurs, the intensity in his voice barely restrained. "You are the most important thing to me now."

You close your eyes and hold him tightly again, seemingly deciding to believe him. Alastor wraps his arms around you, pulling you in closer as he feels the tension in your body ease. He rests his face on top of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"I promise, I will always protect you."

The two of you stay like this for another long while before you finally speak.

"You can't..." You say quietly, your voice hoarse from crying. "You have to stop..."

Alastor stiffens at your words, his arms tightening around you momentarily before loosening. He pulls back slightly, enough to meet your eyes again.

"What do you mean?" He asks, his voice strained.

You look deeply into his eyes. "You have to stop hunting them down. Please... for me..." You beg.

Alastor's expression shifts from shock to a deep sadness. He looks away, unable to hold your gaze as he whispers,

“Don't." The air feels heavy with disappointment and despair as he continues, "Don't try to save them. Don't defend them."

"No!" You shout. "No, that's not..." You hit your forehead onto his chest for a moment before looking back to his face. "You can't do this anymore... please..."

Alastor's eyes soften at your words. He brings his hand up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear.

"Then why..." He asks, genuinely wanting to understand.

"You have to stop because..." You breath hitches, "if you get caught... I'II... I'll be..." Your lip quivers.

You'll be all alone again, he realizes. Alastor's hand freezes, gripping your shoulder tightly.

"Don't say that." He whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He pulls you in close, wrapping his arms around you as he rests his chin on top of your head.

"Please... please..." You beg as you cling to him. "I can't lose you, please..."

Alastor's heart aches as he feels your trembling body against his. He tightens his hold on you, whispering soothing words as he promises, "I won't leave you. I promise." He takes a deep breath, knowing that things must change. "I'll stop."

"Thank you..." You quietly sob into his chest. "Thank you..."

Alastor's heart swells as he feels your body relax against him. He gently strokes your hair as he whispers comforting words, promising to always be by your side. In that moment, he realizes that his love for you is more important than anything else.

You curl up into his lap, trembling and not letting go of him. Alastor holds you close, his heart aching at the sight of you trembling in his arms. He gently runs his fingers through your hair and whispers sweet words, promising to never let anything harm you again.

"I've got you, my dear." Alastor stands up, cradling you gently in his arms as he carries you back to the cabin. He walks with slow, steady steps, determined to keep you safe and secure. His heart beats faster as he approaches the door, eager to lay you down on a comfortable bed and hold you close.

He carries you as though you're made of glass, like you might turn on him at any moment, but you don't. You never let go of him, your arms wrapped around his neck, face buried in its crook.

Alastor's heart swells with emotion as he carries you inside and to your room, his mind filled with thoughts of your perfect, vulnerable form in his arms. You don't loosen your hold on you as he sets you into bed, your arms still around him.

“Please, don't go," you whisper. "Don't leave me."

Alastor's heart races as he sets you down, his mind reeling with thoughts of you and your desperate plea. He gently removes your arms from around his neck and sits down next to you, pulling you close.

"I don't plan on going anywhere, but I do need to go take care of..." he pauses, looking out the window, unsure if mentioning it again will upset you more. "Our little problem."

You look up at him and nod. "But you'll come back after?" You ask.

Alastor looks down at you and smiles, his eyes soft with affection.

"Yes, I'll come back as soon as I can. I promise." He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before standing up from the bed and heading towards the door. "And, don't worry, I'll not be too..."

"Cruel to him?" You ask, attempting to finish his sentence.

Alastor pauses at the door, his hand on the doorknob, and turns back to look you in the eye. "Yes. That..." he sighs.

"Don't..." You say, looking down, your hair covering your face as your fists clench the sheets.

Alastor's expression softens as he watches your reaction.

"What... Do you mean?" He takes a step towards you and kneels down beside the bed, reaching out to gently tuck your hair behind your ear.

“Don't.” You let go of your death grip on the blanket and instead hold his wrist, looking up at him with hollow eyes. "Be cruel."

His grip tightens around your wrist, and he leans closer, his face inches from yours.

"I won't. I promise to be kind," he whispers, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on desperation.

"No," you grip his wrist tighter. "You misunderstand." You look deeply into his eyes. "Don't be kind. Don't let him go quietly. Be. Cruel."

Alastor's eyes widen slightly, his grip on you loosening. He pulls back, searching your face for any indication of a joke. When he finds none, he narrows his eyes, and his voice takes on a dangerous edge, the corners of his mouth threatening a smirk.

"You want me to be cruel... To him."

You nod. "Make it hurt." You squeeze just a little tighter.

Alastor's eyes flash with a darkness that sends a shiver down your spine. He takes your hand and slowly guides it to his chest.

"You understand, don't you?" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is what you want? What you need?"

"I didn't ask you to stop because I didn't think they deserve this..." when you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, threatening tears. "I asked because... if you get caught, I'll lose you."

Alastor stillness intensifies, his eyes never leaving yours; that is, until he watches the first tears fall. His thumb moves to gently catch the droplet, brushing it away from your flushed cheek. He lets out a breath he'd been holding but never brings his gaze away from yours.

"You will never lose me," he whispers softly, his thumb caressing your skin. "But you are right. I cannot risk getting caught."

You nod, leaning into him and finding comfort in his embrace. Alastor pulls you even closer. He gently runs his fingers through your hair, and when he sees you sniffle, he pulls out a handkerchief. Alastor carefully dabs your tears away, his worry for you evident in his gaze.

"Ok. Go ahead," you say, trying to calm yourself. "And don't let him go easy... please..."

For a moment, Alastor's eyes flash. He leans in close, his hand cupping your cheek and his breath tickling your ear as he whispers, "Very well. I will make him suffer."

You shiver, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean your head into his touch.

"Thank you..."

Alastor's grip tightens around you. "You don't have to thank me. I would do anything for you." He leans down and presses his lips against your forehead, leaving them there for a moment longer before pulling away and giving you a small, reassuring smile. "You need only ask."

You smile back as he steps away, settling your head on the pillow and quickly drifting off to sleep. Alastor watches you, his fingers lingering at your jaw before he pulls back. He takes one last look at you before turning away and slipping out of the room, a determined look on his face as he moves to carry out your request.

Goils... We got a ways to go... And it's gonna get worse before it gets better.

Art by: @tae_hee_love on twitter

Taglist: @shadowqueen1318 @liveontelevision @honestlyshamelesskid @bad-and-drawn-that-way @lonelynmisunderstood @shcrou-sei @l0liamk @tasha-1994 @cosmiccandydreamer @twizzie-lairs @alastorssugar @cosmiccandydreamer @memoire-du-ciel @looking1016

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poppy-metal · 3 hours

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i wanna have a messy ass break up with college patrick, like be so off and on and off and on, and one day after your latest break up that got particularly loud and messy you get so sick of him you just want to hurt him. so you track down art in the cafeteria. you pull him away from his friends and say into his ear “me and patrick are over, for real this time. let’s go to your dorm and you can fuck me right now.” whether you’re really over or not, art couldn’t care less. he nods gormlessly and you drag him by his wrist up to his the dorm he shares with patrick and you fuck the everloving shit out of art all over their room. you’re so aggressive with everything but he fucking eats it up, matches your energy and doubles it until it looks more like cannibalism than intercourse. you kiss with teeth, you throat his dick so far you make yourself splutter and choke and then you go back in for more, he eats your pussy so nasty that he has to use all his upper body strength to keep you from twitching away from from him. you tell him “hurt me,” words you never said to patrick. you take a secret pleasure in giving art privileges in one day that patrick never got over the months you were together. you give them to art so freely because he would never ask, would never think to hurt you, which makes you want it all the more. but maybe the pleasure isn’t so secret, because art knows everything about your sex life with patrick. everything. he knows you were never so wild with patrick. so he takes secret pleasure in defiling you in ways patrick could only wank about. you fuck until the room stinks and the duvet cover has come off and the sheets pinged off the corner of the bed and your hair is a birds nest and you leave with a limp because he fucked you so good. he wanted it for so long and the second you gave it to him he didn’t know how to act, didn’t know what the word restraint even meant. patrick’s gonna be pissed. who gives a fuck

oh shit.

i imagine you only dig the knife this deep because patrick said some truly unforgivable shit - provoked by your own nasty remarks but still, he knew about your insecurities, knew it and still said "you think you have anything i cant get from some other tight pussied freshman?" he'd said it to wound and it had. cut so deep, deeper than anything he'd ever said before, the need to lash out, to hurt the way he'd hurt you was too strong.

its not like his dynamic with art isn't easy to prey on either. you've seen the way art looks at you. you've talked about it with patrick, even giggled about it, used it in foreplay with him - because unlike you, the thrill of a little competition got him hard as a fucking rock. but he would never be okay with you actually doing it, of art one upping him without his say so or input. and art was practically dying for an excuse to betray patrick. to stab him in the back and knock him down a peg. his resentment towards patrick was obvious to you - as prominent as his desire for you was.

so yeah, its easy to seduce him. and the thing is, art knows hes being used. he knows you know how he feels about you - and he knows you're doing this for revenge. he knows somehow, in a fucked up way, hes still not your first chocie, patrick is. so he fucks you like he hates you - and he lavishes in how that makes your pussy strangle his cock. he takes what he can get and he makes the most of it, hes going to imprint himself into your memory. going to dig his nails into your skin and leave marks, bite so hard the imprint of his teeth lingers, reshape your cunt to the mold of his dick - his name spilling from your lips. his cum dripping from your well used cunt. "tell me you love this. tell me you want me to cum inside you - tell me."

you tell him all sorts of things. its easy to get you babbling with a cock inside you, is the thing. you tell him you've always wanted him, you tell him you'll be with him after this, that you want him, more than patrick, and maybe you mean some of it, maybe you dont. its hard to tell. you leave him when he falls asleep.

you dont stay around to watch the fallout happen. you leave with the satisfaction of a good fuck, a life altering one, and the bitter sting of knowing you cant come back from this. that the hatred you've sewn from this act will be too deep, that art and patrick will never be the same, and neither will you.

you dont know if you want patrick to confront you. you dont know if you want him to hate you and get in your face for this or if you wanted this to sever any and all ties with him, finally. and you dont know if you feel bad for lying to art, feeding him lies so he'd fuck you harder, painting a pretty picture for him - maybe you wanted to hurt him too, as an extension of patrick. maybe you just got a little too drunk on power. on the notion you were important enough to ruin a lifelong friendship.

patrick could fuck whoever he wanted, but he'd never find a girl who'd fuck up his life like you had. and that made you smile.

#ask #frens <3 #SUPPORTS WOMENS WRONGS ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

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hellinistical · 8 hours

Text

Minors dni. Reblogs highly appreciated.

Tw: cannibalism, fingering, oral (fem receiving), non-con, sub-reader, afab reader, stalking, kidnapping, blood, descriptive body horror, unprotected sex,

gojo, sukuna, childe, rafayel, xavier, knives.

Wc: 2.8k

He didn't mean to stalk you.

He didn't intend for it to go this far.

But he definitely didn't want to stop.

Behind the bushes in front of your window, he watched.

Watched you clean. Watched you eat. Watched you sleep.

What a pretty thing.

His fingers curled around the Japanese knife in his hand, but he took a deep breath, goosebumps rising on his skin as he imagined it all: First, the knife in his hands would glide through the skin on your cheeks, right by your lips. He'd give you a kiss and a permanent smile, digging his thumbs into the raw dermis. He'd take the two pieces and taste them. Would it be warm and savory? Maybe a bit tangy? The blood would surely be. Maybe he'd take a strip from your thighs next. The fatty areas would surely be delicious. But no, he wanted this to last longer, see where it went.

⁛⁛⁛

He saw you again- at the Walgreens this time.

He knew when you went to pick up your prescription- the one for the migraines. The anxiety. So he grabbed a job. Just as a cashier, nothing big, nothing special. Just enough to make small talk.

Though you'd usually only come for your medication, sometimes you'd grab yourself a treat. Press ons, the ones with the French tips. Maybe just for a day, for a party. Chocolate, the one with the hazelnuts. Never minded which brand it was, so long as it satiated that sweet tooth.

He remembered the thought he had that first day, when he imagined you. Bare, splayed out in the table, his hands in your blood, a toothpick in his mouth.

He wondered if you'd be as sweet as the chocolate you bought.

⁛⁛⁛

When you spoke to him the first time, it was with a sympathizing tone. Did he make up a sob story for the masses? Was it highly unlikely? Yeah, but he was just a stranger, so who cared? You gave him the benefit of doubt, and he bathed his mind in it.

You leaned in closer, only to read his name tag really, but he made his move anyways, pulling you into a little dip, as if he were wanting a dance. And he did. But the way his name rolled off your tongue, he needed it.

That was what he got this job for.

So he quit the very next day.

⁛⁛⁛

You asked him out. A small date, just to the movies. He found out you liked horror.

He remembered it.

⁛⁛⁛

You've been feeling…off lately. Like you were being watched, even in the bathroom. Your anxiety rose, and so did your stress.

So did your migraines.

⁛⁛⁛

You were running. Just a morning jog, something to clear your mind. But your adrenaline was pumping. You couldn't think straight.

The feeling- that stupid feeling that you were being watched! It crawled up your legs, your chest, gripling your heart before it got to your brain.

Then it was dark.

⁛⁛⁛

How did you get here, with your fingertips begging for clearance on the edges of the protruding, crumbling brick wall? With stale air, heavy with a metallic scent?

His breath was hot on your skin, trailing up your neck to your jaw to your ear. His right hand rested under your breast, the left on your hip, holding your backside against his pelvis.

"Pretty thing, what do you want?"

His voice was teasing, the hand on your hip now playing with your waistband, his cold fingers threatening to dip past the fabric, to graze your probably more-than-warm skin.

Your grip falters, but before your chin can scrape against the brick, his hand is on your throat. He catches you lightly, the pads of his thumb, index, and middle squeezing your skin gently.

A dry chuckle leaves his lips, the hand under your breast moving to your ass.

"Little love,"

You know to stay quiet, that if you were to even swallow hard his grip would tighten.

Goosebumps litter your skin, and you feel an odd thrill from it all; the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you still your body, your vision hazy but the knife on the table is still very much within his reach.

His hair is soft as it brushes against your shoulder when he leans over. Lips pressed to your skin, they whisper silent promises, not threats. A hand pulls on the waistband of your underwear, and it’s promptly pulled down, a harsh smack landing on your ass. You bite back a yelp, humiliation stinging as tears prick at your eyes. He chuckles, groping the fatty flesh for a moment before resting his hand on your waist, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

“And to think you tried to run- although I suppose praise is in order…you managed to surprise me.”

You feel something. Something cool and wet and gliding down your backside; spit. It goes down the curve of your butt, but he takes his hand, smearing it down to your folds, his thumb pushing past for a mere second before pulling away. He licked his thumb, and an airy laugh left his lips. His thumbs move down to your hips, pressing into the dips as he leans onto you, pushing your stomach into the bricks even more. It hurts, your chin is probably scratched, and you're cold, but damn it, you don't feel shame as you feel your knees shake in anticipation.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to actually believe that I was the pizza guy. Then again, I suppose having the prop did help. But still, you didn’t even question why the box wasn’t warm. Say…”

His voice trailed off as he pulled you away from the wall. Turning you over onto your back, he grabbed your chin softly, a faux kind smile on his face.

“You seem pretty flushed out, Y/n. You got goosebumps all over you.”

Taking your wrists with one hand, he guided you to the table, sliding the knife carelessly off of it as he laid you down on it.

"I wonder- and you can speak this time baby, I won't do anything, promise… I wonder if you're actually enjoying my touch. Maybe not the situation- I'd hope not the situation cause then you'd be a little fucked up- but maybe the touches." He giggles again, and you feel your stomach churn.

"I'm not fucked up."

"Oh? So you like my touches then?"

"I didn't say that."

It's like he can't stop laughing, and it seems mocking as he gets onto the table halfway, hovering over you.

He leans close to your face, close enough that you can see all the small blemishes on his cheeks.

"You didn't need to. I can feel it."

As if to prove a point, his hand goes to your thighs, sliding to your labia. Your legs instantly close around his wrist, thighs clamping down. He disregards it though, instead just pressing a kiss to your lips swiftly as he pushes two fingers into you to the knuckle. He swallows your gasp, the hand that was supporting his weight sneaking behind your neck, pushing you deeper into the kiss, the two fingers in you making a scissor motion widely, slowly.

Your eyes couldn't get any wider, truly. It was comical, how he managed to do just what he imagined: get you splayed out, bare and ready.

Though his appetite was gone, another one was readily introduced, and he gladly welcomed it.

He leans to kiss you again and you turn your head away, but he chases your lips anyways taking one, two, three kisses from you. He pulls his fingers out of you, disregarding the involuntary whine that left you as he licked his hand clean again.

You try to clamp your legs shut for good this time, but he forces them open, cupping your heat, pushing his palm where your clit was.

You all but hiss, back arching off the table before he pressed his free hand into your stomach, pushing you back down into the wood.

Your skin was ridiculously soft, and he thought about just how truly thin the layers of the skin were…. Why if he could just-

No, he couldn't. He needed to save this.

Instead, he nips at your neck, exhaling slowly.

"You know, I've been watching you- you probably knew that, right? You're a smart girl. I know; I've seen you study. You work hard, it's admirable. A shame there won't be any more of that."

His pinky and thumb separate your lips, and he pressed his index and middle finger in, not waiting for a response.

You didn't notice it till now: his skin was oddly cool, a stark contrast from your hot skin.

Mouth falling open, you inhale sharply, refusing to cry, to give him a sense of what you think would give him satisfaction.

His fingers go at a leisurely pace again, curling occasionally, searching, searching…ah, there it was. That spot.

He grins into the crook of your neck as he feels you tense up.

"That easy, huh?"

He doesn't allow you to talk, too busy abusing your cunt. Feeling the drool slide down the corner of your mouth to his cheek, he giggles again- that damned giggle.

You reach for any purchase, anything but him. Wincing as splinters dig into the skin of your hands, you don't ignore the pain, wanting the distraction from the man above you. Your heart beats faster, and he hears it, taking it as an opportunity to have the hand on your cunt move to rub up and down your slit.

Your lips part, your eyebrows try to meet. It was too many sensations; the fear of what was happening, the pain from the wood digging into your skin, the pleasure from the unwanted persistence of him. And that smile he wore.

There was something unnatural about it.

But whether you were more scared of him or the fact that you were enjoying this…that was what terrified you. Maybe you were fucked up.

But something surprising happened.

He stopped. You stopped.

"If you want me to stop, all ya gotta do is say so."

His hand almost retreats before you protest.

⁛⁛⁛

It's the first good look he has at your cunt. It's glistening, and pretty, and that feeling of hunger rises again. He salivated.

Swallowing thickly, he pushes himself off the table, opting to wrap his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge, bringing your legs to his shoulders. He bites your thigh, pressing his nose into it. The smell is dizzying. Sweat, arousal, and something else he can't quite name. But he loves it all the same.

His attention goes back to your pussy, and he levels with it, hot breath fanning over your folds.

Again you pull back, and again you're pulled back.

A low moan vibrates through him, almost muffled as he presses his tongue flat, licking a long stripe between your folds to your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves. You try your best to be quiet, small whimpers and pleas escaping every now and then. It spurs him on, his tongue curious, messy as spit and juices mix, the sounds coming from the combination disgustingly hot. Your walls clamped down onto his tongue, and his eyes rolled back.

He knew to save you.

His mouth wraps around your more than puffy clit, and as if he were making out with it, he sucks it hard before releasing it with a delightful pop, only to grab it with his teeth, biting gently. And again he brings his fingers, burying them again into you. A chuckle escapes him as you spew obscenities. He pulls back for a breath.

"I watched, you know. Your fingers… they weren't cutting it. You need this. You need me…you do. You really do…"

The pads of his fingers are rough, you can feel the callouses against your walls, but you can't seem to care.

A knot was forming in your stomach, and when he pressed his hand down right below your naval you choked on your breath, releasing.

With a content sigh, he drank you, a sheen of what was left resting on his chin when he rose up.

Tired, nearly overstimulated, you push yourself up, wary.

"Enough, you, I won't tell, I swe-"

"Shh, shh, shhh." He pressed a finger to your lips. You can taste yourself.

Rising back to his feet, he stands, unbuttoned his pants. Your eyes widened and you backed up, only for him to grab your ankle hard. It would bruise, his grip stronger than you expected.

"I'm not done. Stay still."

His tone briefly reminds you of the knife on the floor.

Your mind is still reeling, your legs still twitching from the abrupt orgasm. But he ignores it all, slipping himself out of his briefs. It's too fast, all of this. Too much, when his grip on your ankle hurts. Too much, when he twists it hard, no doubt spraining it as he holds it high to his shoulder, your other leg around his hip. Too much, when he swallows your scream with a kiss, pressing the head of his cock into you.

He shudders, the first sensation of your walls around him euphoric. He felt a high, and he had half a mind to just taste more of you right there.

The knife was on the floor though, and he was too engrossed to be bothered to grab it. Instead, he bit into your calf, his cuspids breaking the skin. Oh, how he loved that look on your face. The bleach eyes, the tears, the snot cause you can't stop crying…it was beautiful to him. All of it.

Warmth flooded his mouth the same as it engulfed his cock, but he wanted more. So again he bit, tearing the bite in your calf a little wider, the piece he managed to rip off resting on his tongue. It was like veal, or pork. Sweet, savory, firm. He moaned at the taste, swallowing slowly, savoring the remnants of the flavor that rested on his tongue. You mewled, terrified, excited, tired as his hips began to move.

It was awful, yet amazing. Contradictions and hypocritical all at the same time. It didn't matter to either of you, not when he pushed into you further, his shaft dipping in and out as you spread for him. Your clenched tightly, almost too much so before he tells you to relax, as if he hadn't just taken a bite from you. But you try. You really try. But it's not until he gets to the hilt that you release the tension. He grins, teeth faintly red from your blood. You can see a part of your skin in his mouth, but you don't have time to think, not when he thrusts in, and out, in, and out again and again.

He looks at your face, your slack expression making him giddy, more so than he's been the entire night. Something tugs at the back of his mind, telling him to take what he wants.

So he does.

He takes, and takes, and takes till your convulsing, eyes nearly rolled to the back of your sockets, bloody and drained, ready to meet your maker. But he's not satisfied yet.

Close, but not yet.

You look at him, pleading for him to let go, but it's impossible to, not when you look so pretty like this.

Hands on your hips with a bruising grip, your ankle is swollen, medical attention disregarded as it rests on the edge of the table, your leg off his shoulder. Your fine leg is still on his hip, your heel digging into the end of his back, right above his ass. You arch your back, becoming desperate to finish this already, but you know that's not your purpose right now.

"Can't…" He starts between skipped breaths, the adrenaline finally catching up to him, "can't believe no one's had the thought… they're all blind. All of them- you... you're perfect. Pretty, delicious. Sustainable. The rest... They're animals."

You didn't get it, too busy chasing a high you might not get.

He moans, leaning down into you, his arms on either side of you, his face pressed into your stomach. He'd surely go crazy from you. He was close, you both knew it. The way his movements became uncoordinated and sloppy, it was all telltale signs.

"When I'm done- I'm coming back, and don't you forget it. 'Kay?"

You nod yes. Of course you do.

And even if you didn't, he'd take it as one.

His balls tightened, and he felt it, the familiar sensation of release. Except instead of being on pictures of you, it was in you. He bit into your stomach, his arms slipping underneath you, pulling you closer as he came deep into you. You gasped, your palms digging into his shoulders, attempting to push him away, but he would not let up.

He laughs, loud, rambunctious, victorious.

And bile builds up in your throat. You swallow it back, demanding yourself not to throw up.

Salty tears stream down your face, but he ignores it. Soft, he pulls out. Happy.

And before you can get up, the knife is in his hands.

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